Clearing My Garden

My garden hasn't been abundantly productive this year.

 Okay, that isn't completely accurate.   My Anna loved picking fresh blueberries throughout the early part of summer.

The lone bell pepper plant that survived the last winter continues to show us that it has purpose. The two bell pepper plants next to that old timer are just starting to imitate their elder.  

Four of our six tomato vines yielded a few tomatoes each.  

The little "hot" pepper bush may have taken it's sweet time growing, but the peppers that I'm getting from it now have been worth the wait. 

 As usual, I have way more basil than I could ever use.

I wish that I could say that about my zucchini. This picture doesn't do the plant justice.  The leaves are huge and are a gorgeous shade of green.  It would be the shining jewel of my entire garden if not for one little problem...it won't produce!

Everything started off fine.  When the flowers bloomed, the pollinators got busy and did their thing.  Soon there were beautiful, tiny zucchini growing.  Then, just before they were big enough for me to pick, the ends got soft, yellow and just plain gross.
The horror has a name.  It is called bloom rot.
Bloom rot is caused by a lack of calcium, so I powdered egg shells (courtesy of our hens) and added it to the soil.  That worked long enough for us to harvest exactly one zucchini from the plant.
I sliced, battered and fried that precious green squash.  The first bite prompted me to declare it the best zucchini in the world.
Oh my goodness...just the memory of that amazing perfection makes my mouth water.
Sadly, it was gone too soon and the plant wasn't in a rush to give another.

Another dose of powdered eggshells didn't help.  Oh, the leaves kept flourishing, but I'm not growing the plant for its leaves!  Worse, it's size is becoming an issue.  I can no longer access the area behind the plant which means that the weeds are taking over that spot.  So now I have to decide: do I try nurturing it again, or do I pull it up, put it in the compost pile and get that part of my garden ready for a fall crop?    

The answer may be in a passage from the Bible.  

Jesus spoke this parable: "A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he came out looking for fruit on it but did not find any.  He said to the gardener, 'Look here, for three years now I have come in search of fruit on this fig tree and found none.  Cut it down. Why should it clutter up the ground?  In answer the man said, 'Sir, leave it another year while I tend the ground and fertilize it; then perhaps it will bear fruit.  If not, it shall be cut down.' "  Luke 13:6-9

Okay, I'll give it one more chance.  If another round of extra care will help it produce results, then it can stay until the season ends.  If not, then it's time to move on.

How do I apply this to the rest of my life?  What other areas have I been tending without receiving results?  Where am I wasting my energy?
I think it's time that I clear my "garden." 

Clean

Most of my dreams fade away as soon as they are over, but every now and again one will stick around for a bit after I wake, giving me a chance to wonder what the heck my subconscious is trying to tell me.  This morning was one of those mornings.

I'm not going to share every little thing that happened in the crazy, mix-matched dream I had - mostly because some parts are unrelated to the scene that I will write about here, but also because certain parts were just too personal.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  Those are the parts you want to read about.  Well, sorry, but it's not happening.  The only thing I'm sharing today is poo.

Seriously.  Poo.  Also know as feces, excrement,defecation and sh...shhhhhhh.  Nope, can't write it.

There was a baby in my dream who was covered in it.  Fellow moms and dads may know what I mean when I use the term "poo explosion."  This poor baby apparently had a MAJOR explosion.  Like an "up to his neck" explosion.  He was on the floor, lying on his tummy, covered in his own excrement, as his mom sat on a nearby bench chatting with a friend.  I stopped, smiled at the mom, and then call her attention to the baby.  Ya know, just in case she somehow hadn't noticed.

She knew.

She was not happy that I dared point it out.

Who was I to judge her?!

Her anger should have unnerved me but I had a goal.  That poor baby needed to be cleaned.

"I'm offering help.  Are there wipes and a clean diaper that I can use?  I don't mind doing this for you."

The mom's friend pushed a couple of wipes and a diaper toward me.  I scooped up the poopy baby and went into a tiny restroom.  It did not have a changing table.  For some odd reason, dream me thought that it would be okay to put the baby on the sink edge to change him. Naturally baby keep trying to flip over and off the sink so eventually I gave up and put him on the icky ground while rinsing the two wipes over and over to use again and again.  The cleansing was difficult, but I knew that it was something that had to be done.

That's it.

The dream scene shifted at that point.  I'd like to assume that I was able to not only get the baby fresh and clean but maybe even give him a sense that someone in world was caring for him.  Since he was only a dream baby, I guess it doesn't really matter.

So what does matter?  Why did I dream about a soiled baby and a mom who was more concerned that she was being judged than she was about her own child? What was the lesson that I was supposed to be learning?

None of us likes the idea of being judged, do we?  After all, if we are judged, we might have to face the fact that we may be doing something wrong.  If we are wrong, then it's possible that we'll feel compelled to change.
Change takes effort.
Who has time for that?
Isn't it easier to just throw an incomplete, out of context Bible verse (Judge not!) at people?  That way we can sit back comfortably in our own arrogance while ignoring the innocence that lies covered in filth.
I don't know about the rest of you, but something about that really stinks to me.

Facing judgments can be difficult, but maybe it's also necessary.  How else are we to grow?  It's said that we learn by making mistakes, but unless we recognize those mistakes for what they are, we have no incentive to learn from them.

So go ahead - judge me.  Point out those fault that I should fix.  Highlight my mendable flaws.

Help me clean myself.

The Fight Inside

It doesn't take much.  I open to door to the cabinet and the faint scent meets me.  No more is needed.  A single whiff can bring the tease of a taste memory on my tongue.  

Longing takes control.
 

I don’t just want it – I need it.

My brain tries to caution me, but reason won’t work.  Far too quickly, I’m too far gone.  The reward easily seems worth the possible costs.

Before I know it, I’m in the kitchen, placing a filter, and pouring the water.  A scoop of chocolate cream is spooned into a cup.  Coconut milk is warmed along with a half teaspoon of organic sugar before a splash of coconut extract is added.  Next comes that magical moment when I break the seal of the jar that holds my aromatic treasure.  The grounds are measured and put in the machine.  In place of the pot, my prepared cup sits on the warming plate waiting for the stream of coffee to fill it. 

The first sip is divine.  A sensuous awakening spreads throughout my body.  Once again, I understand why this bean nectar is loved by so many.  

It doesn't last.  

Today, I remember why coffee is wrong for me.  Today my head weeps in agony.   The punishment is almost too much to bear.  Pain scours away at the memory of the pleasure until it fades away.  The world has become heavy and dull.  Love has sharpened into hate. 

The only way to prevent this torture from visiting again is to purge coffee from my life.  
I'm going to do it this time!  Today, I will rid my home of those hurtful grounds.  

There is only one problem.  
I know that as soon as I open the cabinet where the coffee is stored, the aroma will take over again.  

  

The Most Important Accessory

My children wanted to go swimming.  In Louisiana, August should mean really warm water, but since our nighttime temps were dipping into the 60's, I worried that the pool might be just a bit too cool for me.  To understand why, it's explain in I'm Blue.  Part of me wanted to brave the water, but I decided that it would be better to let the sun roast me a bit before plunging in.  Pulling weeds and trimming plants would warm me up even faster than just lying in the sun, so addition to my swim suit, I threw on my beach wrap to protect my legs from any creepy crawlies and went to work.

I was busy with my iris' when my sister-in-law came down the driveway.  She gave me a funny look and asked "Why are you pulling weeds in an evening gown?"

The laughter that bubbled up inside of me won't be forgotten soon.  Now every time I look at my little flower bed, I can picture a colorful courtyard fit for a King's Ball.

It's funny how just the idea of wearing an evening gown can inspire a feeling of confidence.  Maybe that's because most people tend to feel better when they think that they look better.  Of course, we don't have to get all dolled up to feel great.  I can be happy through and through while in a pair of comfortable jeans, a soft t-shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks...as long as I'm also wearing the most important accessory.  

If you are over 30 and from southeast Louisiana, you probably remember the words that Buckskin Bill used to close his show.  The Boylan Sisters sang it in "Annie."

"You're never fully dressed without a smile."

Sometimes it's difficult to smile, but often those are the time when we need most to do so.  Not long ago, a wonderful, brave woman told me about a difficult challenge she was facing.  It was the kind of news that brings tears, not smiles - but she smiled anyway.   That smile was like a sparkling evening gown.  Her optimism felt brighter than the Queen's jewels.

Underneath her bravery, I imagine that there must be tears, fears and pain, but for now I want to focus on the positive - for her and for everyone facing struggle.

Today I will pray.
Today I will wear a pretty pink ribbon.
Today I will give, to all those who may need it...a smile.

Alphabet Book

Last year my students made their own Alphabet Books.  Each time we had a new "Letter of the Week," they put together a new page with glue, coloring, glitter and paint.  Nearly all of the letters were inspired from other sites, but I'm afraid that I don't remember any specific website or blog because it was over a year ago that I first put these together.  I'm posting the pictures here for anyone who would like to use the ideas as inspiration to create their own alphabet book with their little one.  

Alligator starts with A

Bumblebee starts with B

Caterpillar starts with C

Dragon starts with D

 Elephant starts with E

Feathers start with F

Glitter starts with G (grass was my other option)

Halloween starts with H (this letter falls right at the end of October, so it fits well.)

Island starts with I

Jewels start with J

Kites start with K

Leaves start with L

Mouse starts with M

Numbers start with N (have dot numbers for child to trace)

Owl starts with O

Purple starts with P

Quilt starts with Q

Rainbow starts with R

Stars start with S

Tractor starts with T

Umbrella starts with U

Vegetables start with V

Watermelon starts with W

X-ray starts with X

Yellow Yarn starts with Y

Zebra starts with Z

For the Ladies...Part Two

It's just us gals in here, right?  Maybe not.  In that case, I'll just jump right in where I left off.

I found a lump.

Yep, that did it.  The menfolk are gone again.  At least they should be.  Just in case there are any stragglers, let me state clearly here that I'm not going into any detail about how I found the lump.  Sorry, but that's none of your business. What I will talk about is how I reacted to the discovery.

The initial shock morphed, almost immediately, into denial. I don't mean that I pretended that the lump didn't exist.  My imagination isn't quite that good. What I mean is that I quickly convinced myself that it didn't matter. Supper needed to be cooked, bills needed to be paid, the house needed to be cleaned, the children were going to be home from school soon...Who had time for a silly lump?

But it was there anyway, just under the surface - both figuratively and literally.  In everything I did, it was there.

Finally I gave up trying to ignore it and did the next best thing.  I turned to the internet.  The first site I read had a calming tone, probably meant to quell panic. It told me that there was no need to drive straight to the doctor. At least I think that's what it said. Or maybe that's what i wanted it to say. I was certainly in no rush to face my GYN less than a year after throwing a fit over (I mean, politely questioning) too many mammograms, only to admit that there might have been a reason for concern.  I searched further.

Breast cysts tend to be smooth and round.  Check!

Breast cysts are most often found in women who are nearing menopause.  Check again!

Breast cysts are slightly squishy - like a grape or water balloon. Umm...not so much.

Breast cysts can change in size and move around.  So far, my lump seemed to remain consistent and stationary.

Still, it had to be a cyst.  There really was no other option. Anything else might mean thinking about things that I didn't want to think about.   Obviously Google wasn't being helpful.  It was time to make the phone call.  Before dialing, I mentally went over the message that I was going leave for my GYN's nurse.   Shockingly, I didn't get to leave my message because I wasn't sent to voice mail.  The nurse actually answered the phone.  That never happens!!!  After resisting the very strong urge to hang up, I quickly explained the situation.  I assumed that she was going to transfer me to the reception desk so that I could make an appointment for some future date.  Wrong again.   Instead, she told me that since my GYN was booked for the day, I would be seeing the nurse practitioner.  Could I be there by 1:30? 

At the appointment, I carefully disrobed.  Ladies, you know the routine.  First, you take off your top and remove your bra.  Then you carefully fold your bra into your shirt, place the combination carefully on the chair and cover it completely with your coat.  It doesn't matter that you are about to expose your boobs to a stranger.   Heaven forbid that anyone see your BRA!

It disturbed me slightly when the practitioner came in and started examining the wrong side.  Just as I was about to point out her error, her facial expression changed a bit and she asked, while pressing into me, "So is THAT what you found?"   Umm...wait...what?  No, it's on the other side.  After that she was impossible to read.  She found the lump easily and then told me that they were going to set up a couple of appointments for me.  Within the week I was going to have a diagnostic mammogram - on both sides, then an ultrasound.  After that, I would have to see a surgeon.  Was there any particular surgeon I preferred?

Surgeon?

I didn't think that I knew any surgeons.  She began rattling off names.  One caught my attention.  I knew that name.  Okay, that was the doctor that I would see.  I was still uncertain about WHY I had to see a surgeon, but I convinced myself that it was probably just standard procedure.  Overall, I left that appointment feeling with more worry on my mind than I did walking into it.

By the morning of the mammogram/ultrasound, I was more than a little nervous.  Then something very cool happened.  Just before my daughter (who was blissfully unaware of any of this) got onto the bus, she picked up a tiny rock and gave it to me, proclaiming it a "lucky pebble."  I don't know how I didn't burst into tears right then and there.  Instead I smiled, thanked her and put the pebble in my coat pocket.  Instantly my mood lightened.

The appointment started off just as expected.  I disrobed, got squished, then pulled the paper cover back over me while I waited for the tech to come back and ask me to get dressed and go to ultrasound...where I got to take off my top again.   With the lucky pebble still in my coat pocket, I sent up a silent prayer as the tech squeezed warm goo onto the side that did NOT have the lump - at least not the lump that I was worried about.  After a few minutes, she turned the monitor toward me and pointed out how differently "regular" breast tissue looked compared to "dense" tissue.  Okay, that's was educational.  Now can we get to the lump please?  Oh...you didn't know that we were supposed to be checking that side too?  Yes, I'll wait while you find out for sure.

Apart from that teeny tiny mix-up, the tech was wonderfully sweet and once she got confirmation, she went right to the troublesome spot, took a couple of measurements and then explained that the black spot on the screen was most likely a fluid filled cyst.

Relief filled me.  Of course, I still had the appointment with the surgeon to get through.  For a fourth time in a two week period, I was in a room where I was expect to take off my top.  Sheesh, at this point, I was starting to expect Mardi Gras beads to be thrown at me!  The "films" from the previous ultrasound were up on a screen...showing the wrong side.  I think that I might have actually groaned out loud at that point.  After a few clicks, the right image came up.  Then the doctor performed his own ultrasound and decided that it would be a good idea to aspirate the cyst.  The nurse handed him the needle and tube that he would use.  He looked at it and requested a longer needle.

:::gulp:::

Then she asked him if he wanted the lidocaine.  He declined.  Why jab me with a needle before jabbing me with a needle?  Some might have a problem with not being numbed first, but his reasoning made perfect sense to me.  I won't lie and say that I didn't feel a thing, but it wasn't horrible.  To be honest the absolutely worst part was what happened just before that needle went in.

There I was, feeling vulnerable...exposed...and suddenly I blurted out "You look just like your son." I hurriedly corrected that with "I mean he looks just like you." 

Perhaps I shouldn't have picked a surgeon based on the fact that I taught his children.

So there it is ladies.   The Saga of the Lump is complete.  Well, almost.  We're still waiting for lab results of the fluid that the doc removed, but he was pretty confident that it would be just fine.

I think this is where I'm supposed to remind you all to get yourselves checked.  What are you waiting for?   Go get squished!

For the Ladies...

Seriously...guys, you don't want to waste your time reading this one.  It's about boobs.

Wait.

That's not really going to stop you from reading this is it?  How about this...it's about mammograms, hospitals, doctors and big ole needles. 

There.  The men are gone.  They are such wimps when it comes to medical stuff.   Now we can talk about boobs - and all that other stuff.

When I was 35, it was recommended that women who are 35 get a baseline mammogram.  So I did.  Naturally I was a bit nervous about the whole process.  Some women claim that mammograms are no big deal, but others say that they are terribly painful.  The idea of having my breasts squished flat as a pancake was kinda scary, but thankfully the machine didn't press me quite that thinly.  I was happy to join the crew of "it's no big deal."  Afterward I put mammograms out of my mind complete.

Until I turned 40.  That's when my GYN informed me that it was time to start getting them annually.   That was fine with me.  My maternal grandmother and maternal aunt are both breast cancer survivors, so I easily accepted that following the official guideline was probably the best course of action.   Of course, there was also this part of me that just KNEW that mammo's were a waste of time for me.  After all, I had read often enough that pregnancy and breastfeeding both reduced the risk of breast cancer.  Since I've been pregnant four time and have a cumulative total of seven YEARS of breastfeeding under my belt, I figured that the odds of staying breast cancer free were in my favor.  Sure enough, my mammo came back "clean" that year.

Then something weird happened the next year.  When the nurse called to give me my results, she told me that I had to go back for a more detailed mammogram.   It had to be a mistake of course, but I followed the advice and went back for another round of squishing.  This time, the tech warned me that the machine would be compressing me more than it did before.  I was supposed to tell her when the pressure became unbearable.  I kept my mouth shut.  Okay, that hurt a bit, but I figure that it was worth the discomfort to get the best shot.   After the machine did it's thing, the tech left for a bit.  When she came back, she informed me that there was an area of concern.  I went straight from mammo to ultrasound.  There it was pronounced that I had "dense tissue."   Whew.  Umm...okay...whatever.

Another year passed, another mammogram was taken and another stress inducing phone call followed.  I went through a repeat of the same steps once again with the same results.  The only change was that I was informed that I was being put on a six months schedule..."just to be sure."

I was quickly moving from the "It's no big deal" to the "I hate mammograms" group.

Six month later, it happened all over again.  And then again six months after that.  And six months after that.  The only thing they ever found was "dense tissue."  I started to wonder if all that radiation wasn't just making things worse.  Google searches both confirmed and refuted that idea.  Then I found out that I was having thyroid issues.  Once again I supplemented the information that I was getting from my doctor with whatever I could find via Google.  The mere suggestion that radiation from mammograms might play a role in thyroid problems was enough to push me over the edge.   I decided to put my foot down at my next GYN visit.   I intended to DEMAND that the nonsense stop.

Well, that's not exactly how it went, but I did bring up my concerns and asked, politely of course, if I could be put back on an annual schedule.   Thankfully, he agreed.

That was less than a year ago.  I wasn't supposed to have another mammogram until March of 2013.

Then fate laughed at me.

I found a lump.

To be continued...

Elf Antics

Christmas is a very merry time of year for many. I'm not usually among them. For me, Christmas means cold weather, shopping, and crowds. I'm not fond of any of those things. 
I'm especially not fond of all of them happening at the time. 

Of course there are some rather nice parts of the Christmas season too. This blog entry is about one of those wonderful parts. 

My Anna is at an age where she knows that Santa isn’t “real,” but isn't 100% sure that she really knows what she thinks she knows.  We had an interesting conversation about that very subject one day while walking through Hobby Lobby (yeah, I just said that I don't like shopping, but Hobby Lobby trips are different.  Hobby Lobby is a wonderland.) 

It all started over an elf. Y Last year, we had visits from an official “Elf on the Shelf."  This year Anna decided that she wanted a GIRL elf. She found one at Hobby Lobby and wondered if the doll could somehow become a real elf. She caught the words just after they came out of her mouth and quickly reminded me that she was quite sure that there was no such thing as a real elf...but just in case there was...well, maybe there was a way for Santa (who, she pointed out, is also not real) to somehow make the girl elf... that she found on the shelf) just as magical as the creepy official elf. 

At that point, my confusion took over and I asked her why it mattered? She patiently educated me. You see, it doesn’t matter if Santa or elves are real. It’s just fun to pretend that they are. 

Our "From the Store Shelf" elf was dubbed Petunia and it was decided that she would become a true Santa Elf, with full elf powers beginning on the Sunday after Thanksgiving and remain so until Christmas Eve.

Petunia wasn't nearly as naughty as certain other elves that I've seen pictures of, but she did have a few adventures.  

On her very first night, she fueled up for fun.  Then she took things easy for a while, hanging paper chain loop decorations and candy canes from various odd places.

 

She colored a picture and left a blank one for Anna.

Here it may look as though her artistic skills increased...and maybe that is what she told her little monkey pal (that Anna gave her) but we weren't fooled.  The artist that painted that particular scene is my oldest daughter.

 

 

Marshmallow snowmen races!

What do you do with leftover marshmallows?   Roast them over a campfire of course.  Since she choose to build her "fire" on my stove, I was unable to cook that day.  Yes, it was a terrible hardship. 

Anna found Petunia reading to monkey and nutcracker.

Oh no!  The night after Anna was dx'd with the flu, monkey apparently caught it too.  Luckily Petunia knew just what to do!

On the night before Christmas Eve, Petunia built a graham cracker house and then put another together for Anna to decorate.

And here is Anna's finished graham cracker church. She told me that she wanted to turn it into a church so that Santa would see that she remembered that it was Jesus' birthday.

Little Boy Lost

Everyone has a story.  Do you ever find yourself wondering about the chronicles of people around you?   As busy as we are with our own lives, we enjoy finding the time to go to the movies, turn on the television or sit back with a good book.  It’s easy enough to find entertainment in a story that won’t disrupt our own.   Taking an active role in the story of stranger – well, that might get complicated.   

Oct 12^th was National Gumbo Day.  This year, my husband and I celebrated by enjoying a bowl of gumbo at our local Gumbo Festival.  The kids scarfed down cheese-covered fries and then waited patiently for their dad and I to finish our meals.  By patiently, I mean that they said, “Hurry up and finish eating already!” less than a thousand times.    You see, they didn’t care that it was National Gumbo Day.  They didn’t go to the Gumbo festival for gumbo.  They were there for the rides.

After eating, we split into groups.  My husband and son went off to the “big rides” while I watched our youngest enjoy the tamer attractions.   The Fun House was one of her favorites.  She waded through balls, climbed up, slid down, and then got back in line to do it over and over again. 

That’s what she was doing when I saw him.

Two dirty streaks ran down his cheeks, but he wasn’t crying.  The tears that left the tracks had dried. He mouthed silent words, talking to no one in particular, except perhaps himself.  His left hand was near his chest, making repeated motions in the air that didn’t appear to be ASL to my (admittedly untrained) eye.  He couldn’t have been more than five years old.  He was alone.  My mommy sense soared to red alert status as I scanned the crowd, searching for someone, anyone that might be looking for him.  Another mom met my eyes.  She had noticed him too.  “Is he okay?” she worried.   I fought back the instinct to reach down with a comforting touch to his shoulder, because something told me that physical contact from a stranger might be overwhelming for this child.  Instead, I lowered myself to his height and asked, “Are you lost?”  He didn’t look at me as he shook his head.  I pressed further.  “Who is with you?”  His raised his arm and pointed to the empty space between the The Fun House and the ride next to it.  Then, before I could question him again, he began to walk toward the spot.  When we reached the in-between point, he gestured again.  Behind The Fun House was an RV.  It was inside the fence bordering the fairgrounds, not in the parking lot.  I wondered if his family traveled with the carnival attractions.   Perhaps the rides were as familiar to him as the swing set in my yard is to my own children.  Still, he just seemed much too young to be walking around in a crowd of strangers by himself.

At that moment, a police officer passed near enough to us that I was able to get his attention and explain the situation.  While he began talking to the little boy, my daughter exited the ride and ran up to me.  She was ready to move on.  I watched for a moment as the police officer walk toward the RV with the little boy then took my daughter’s hand and went off to a different part of the fair.

I didn’t see that tiny, tear-stained face again the rest of the evening, but questions hung around my mind.   Why was he alone?  Why had he been crying?  Did someone hurt him?  Was he hungry?  Did his family know that he was walking around on his own?  Were they worried?  If he was part of a “carny” family, perhaps there was an agreement among the attraction operators to keep an eye on him.  I wondered if he had a permanent home, or if he lived “on the road?”  What is life like for a child, any child, who travels from one carnival spot to another?  Maybe it’s a wonderful life, full of adventure and amazing experiences.  Maybe it isn’t.  I don’t know because I’m not a part of his life - not a part of his story.

Should I be?  

Was it too easy for me to walk away?     

Art Party

A few weeks ago, my niece turned five with a colorful art party.   There are more than a few us of who believe that her mom should become a professional party planner.   Here are a few photos of her creativity!

Those cute "crayons" are candy coated pretzel sticks.

The guest filled these goody bags with an assortment of art supplies and treats.

Temporary

I saw a former love today.

He was every bit as adorable as I remembered him.  His smile lit up my heart in less than a nano second.

Then I realized that it wasn't for me.

He was there to see another woman.  I'd been replaced.  We exchanged a few polite words before I left to search for the one he really wanted to visit.  She was in the another part of the building, helping to get things ready for the new school year.

"Mrs. Jeanne, you have a visitor," I informed her.  "It's my Jackson...I mean, YOUR Jackson."

:::sigh:::

He used to be mine.  He climbed into my heart each time that he climbed onto my lap.  For the first few weeks of school, he'd arrive with tears brimming in his eyes.  I don't let my babies cry alone unless they want to.  He didn't want to.  The rest of the class quickly grew accustomed to seeing me holding Jackson.  Every now and again, another child wanted their turn in my arms, but none of them clung to me nearly as long as he did.  As the weeks flew by, the arrival time tears were replaced by a playful smile.  I watched him grow more and more confidant, and as he did, I grew more assured in my own ability to help build foundations for my little ones.

By the year's end, I knew he would never again be my cuddle bug.  He didn't need my arms anymore.  He was ready to move on.

In a way, I moved on too.  I left my classroom that year, but I couldn't quite leave the vocation completely.   This year, I am returning to my role as Preschool Teacher.  In a few weeks, I'll meet a new group of three year olds.  Some of them will come into the room ready to learn, explore and meet new friends.  Some of them will hang back, worried about what to expect and missing their parents.  I'll do my best to engage the ones who are ready to jump right into absorbing everything that they can, and to offer comfort those who  need to feel safe before showing off their awesome three year old skills.  I'll do those things knowing that, two years from now, many of them will barely remember my name.  And that's okay.  My role in their lives is temporary.  That's all it's supposed to be. 

Desire

It begins.
It begins as softly as a sigh.

You push it aside.
Life is busy.

It waits.

It waits for you to find a moment alone.
The moment doesn't belong to you.
You belong to it.
In it is the longing.
The craving.
The desire.

It threatens to consume you.
You let it.
You are aware that there is no way to assuage the hunger.
That knowledge isn't enough to stop you from slipping into it's grasp.
This isn't a candy bar craving.
You can't quell this need with a run to your favorite junk food.
There is no way to indulge the want.
The yearning is for the smile that you won't find forming.
It's for the embrace that can no longer comfort you.

Not here.

Not now.

The sweet remembrance that lured you into this state leads you further away.
Desire turns into despair as you long to return to conversations that can't be changed.
Reality beckons.

Life pulls at you.

You feel the cycle winding down.
You carefully pack away the bittersweet memories.
You turn your focus to the life before you.
There is more to learn.
More to experience.
More to feel.

You aren't leaving your desire behind.
You are growing toward it.

Father's Day 2012

"You smell like vacation."


"What?"


"Vacation.  You know...that place where people go to rest, relax and recharge? That's what you are to me."

Two of our children were within earshot when that exchange occurred.  Naturally, they groaned.  I just smiled.

When my husband gets home from work, we almost always greet each other with a quick kiss and hug.  I believe that it is very important for our children to see signs of affection between their parents.  For one thing, it grosses them out - and that's always fun!  More importantly, it models a healthy relationship for them.  As parents we can talk and talk and talk all we went, but children sometimes learn more from what they witness than they do from what they are told. 

My children are blessed to have a father who shows them, on a daily basis, that husbands are to treat their wives with love and respect.  My hope for my daughters is that they each find someone just like their dad.  My hope for my son is that he grows up to be the same kind of man his father is.

As for me, well, what more could I hope for?  I already get a vacation with every hug!

A Baking Party

 My youngest child is now eight years old.  Where has the time gone?  Of my four children, Anna is the most "social."  She lives for parties and :::shudder::: shopping.  I have no idea of where she came from because there is no way that she got those genes from me.  The thing is...I kinda adore that kid, so when she started talking about how amazing her birthday party was going to be, I wanted to help make it just that.  Since I'm rather clueless about how to throw a decent party, I turned to Pintrest.  After browsing through a few party ideas, Anna made a decision.  She wanted her birthday party to be a baking party.

We both agreed that we very much wanted to give little aprons to the party guests.  The problem was that I don't own a sewing machine.  Thankfully my mom came to the rescue!  After mom whipped the basic ingredients together, Anna and I added the decorations - ricrack and felt cupcakes.  Well, to be honest, Anna only helped with one button "cherry" on one of the cupcakes.  But hey, that's helping!  Besides, sewing isn't exactly as fun as shopping ya know.

Shopping is (unfortunately) what I had to do for our next step in the party prep.  The original plan was to find little toy whisks to put on top of baking tins filled with goodies, but while searching for the whisks, I found these adorable baking tools at Growing Cooks.

Yay, shopping made easy!  Is there anything that the internet can't do?

When it came to getting the house ready for the festivities, cupcake liners ruled the decorations!  I like the look so much that I've decided to leave them up for a while.  No, no, no.  It has nothing (much) to do with laziness.  I just think that it's cute!  Besides Anna  agreed to go on pretending that it's her birthday until Christmas.   If I take it all down now, it may break her heart!

Anna wanted a birthday cake that was "three layers with pink, yellow and blue inside."  Once again, I turned to the internet for inspiration.  The image that caught my eye had cupcake for the top layer.  Perfect!  Of course, my attempt didn't turn out nearly as cute as the one online, but it wasn't too terrible.  Actually it was kinda fun to put together.  Once I figured out how to get it to stop crumbling, the candy clay behaved pretty much like modeling clay. 

  

  

For party activities, the girls started off by decorating their own pastry chef hats.  Before the party began,  I cut strips of poster board for the headbands and attached pieces of the paper window blinds/shades that we had leftover from back when we first moved in our home.  The pleats in the blinds worked perfectly for the tall toques.

Once the girls were finished with their hats, they moved on to the cupcakes.  That's when the real fun began.  

Although they had a blast with the icing and sprinkles, none of the girls could bring themselves to eat their own creations.  That was probably a good thing because we had plenty enough sugar rushing going on from all of the other goodies.

All in all, I am happy to report that my Anna's Baking Birthday party was a sweet success!

Don't Write That!

Remember me? Yeah, it's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry. That's my fault. You see I did something rather silly and the result was that a gag order was placed on me.  It's a not a very broad repression.  In fact, it's quite narrow.  There is only one particular subject that I am no longer allowed to record.   Unfortunately, the tale that I really want to share with you today is the very one that I've been forbidden to write. Restriction is ruling my life! There is a prohibition in place here!

Technically, I probably shouldn't even be writing an explanation about what I'm not allowed to write about, but I feel an obligation to let you all know the reason for my silence.  Besides...none of you are going to repeat any of this to anyone, right? This will be our secret! Shhhhhhh....

Are you wondering who could have placed such a censorship on me?  It was done by a child of mine.  Yes,  my child.  I went through a whole five hours of labor and this is how he repays me?!?  Wait, that's sounds silly.  Five hours of excruciation pain shouldn't be used that way.  It really should be saved for something good.  Like as a bargaining tool for the last bag of chips.

Some of you might remember that I began homeschooling my son this school year. He is enrolled in a public school, but it is a virtual school (as opposed to the brick and mortar type) and while he has real teachers (the highly qualified and certified kind) the actually day to day, lesson to lesson teaching is my job. That means that a very big portion of my weekdays are spent with him. That's a good thing. Seriously! It's has been a wonderful experience. It's also very time consuming. By the time his lessons are over for the day, I have only a short period to clean (HA!) and start supper before walking to the road to get my youngest off of the bus. After that, I change out of my teacher/housewife/mommy outfit, don a taxi uniform and travel back and forth from one extra curricular activity to another.  Every now and again I have to toss in a grocery shopping trip as well because, for some odd reason, my family actually expects me to provide meals. Go figure.

Since the biggest part of each week day is spent with my son, and since my son can be quite funny at times, you would think that I'd have lots of great blog material. Unfortunately, that's where the "forbidden" part comes in. You see, a while back I made a horrible mistake. We were starting a math lesson and as he opened his work book, he said "O long division, I hate thee." Naturally I just had to put that on Facebook. Come on, I'm only human. I HAD to post it!

He was not pleased. It was terribly wrong for me to share his words like that. I apologized, but that wasn't enough. I also had to promise that I would no longer write about the things that he says or does.

:::sigh::: It's been stifling. Why is it that when something is taboo, it suddenly becomes even more compelling than it was before? Instead of embracing events that I can write about, I boude' (for all you non-cajuns, that means to pout or sulk) about what I can't.

Then suddenly it hit me - I haven't promised to never write fiction!

Okay, let's start this blog over. 

Hi everyone!  I'd like to tell you a story about something that may or may not have happened to a totally made up mom while she was browsing through posts in an educational group on a social network. (FTR, there are lots of social networks out there. Just because one happens to be more popular than many others doesn't mean that you should automatically assumed that I am referring that particular site.) Well, this mom came across an entry about Mr. Slim Goodbody and right there on the screen was this picture.


Turning to her child (who was either male of female... and of general childhood age) she exclaimed, "Wow, look at that! You can see his insides!"
The child looked at the photo and then looked at his (or her) mother and, in the most bored tone you can possibly imagine, replied, "I'm just glad that I can't see his outsides."

DISCLAIMER: All characters in the above story are fictional. Any resemblance to any person is purely coincidental. The fact that I will let my son have an extra half hour of play time on his 3DS has absolutely nothing to do with me feeling the slightest bit guilty about anything whatsoever.

Umm..I should probably also mention that I could not bring myself to actually post any of this without my son's approval, which he adamantly refused to give...until he read the part about getting extra 3DS time.

Chocolate, Peanut Butter, Apple Slices

Welcome to my newest favorite obsession, um, I mean energy snack.  First let me write out a disclaimer:
 If you are allergic to peanuts, chocolate, apples or messy things, don't bother with this recipe.

If you are not actually ALLERGIC to messy things - but simply don't like them - get over it.  Come on...you'll be the safety of your own kitchen.  There is a sink in there, right?  This won't be anything that a little soap and water (okay, maybe a lot of water) can't get off.  Trust me, the results are worth the "ewwww."

First gather your ingredients.  Use whatever peanut butter brand you like.  The chocolate is up to you as well, but if you want to pretend (I mean, feel confident) that these are super healthy, stick with DARK chocolate.  I prefer Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate but the store was out.  :(
As for the apples, again, you are free to use what you like but I have to caution you.  Red Delicious isn't going to hold up well.  You want a crisp apple.  I first made this recipe with Braeburn - but a friend suggested that I try Fugi and OHMYGOSH that's even better.  Rome and Gala apples would probably be a good fit as well.

Now, melt the chocolate.  If you have a double boiler, great!  Pour the chips in the top, heat your water and stir.  If you do not have a double boiler, you can use a microwave.  According to the rules of chocolate melting, you are supposed to it run the microwave at 50% power for one minute per one ounce of chocolate.  If you are like me, you just froze and said to yourself "that's MATH!!!" but calm down.  It's really easy.  Pour the chips in a microwave safe bowl and turn the microwave on. Even if you can't figure out how to run your microwave at 50% it's okay.  :::note - I'm not saying that I can't figure that out.  If I ever actually read the manual, I'm quite sure that I could manage to make that contraption run at 50%.  I just choose to use full power because I'm a rebel.  Yeah.  That's it.:::  Just stop it every 30 second and stir.  You'll see when it's getting to that just right, smooth consistency.   It's not rocket science.  It's chocolate.  Chocolate is much better than rocket science anyway.  Who needs rockets when we have chocolate? 

Oh -if you are a novice at melting chocolate, you need to learn the golden rule: do not allow water anywhere near your chocolate.  If even a drop gets in, all that yummy, smooth chocolate can "seize."  Trust me, you don't want that.  It's not pretty.  If you love chocolate as much as I do and it seizes, you may cry.  Crying is watery - which is bad for melting chocolate.  See... it's a vicious cycle.

 Next, slice the apple to a thickness of approximately a 1/4 inch.  If you have an apple corer, then keeping the slices round might be fun because then they'll sort of look like cookies.  Cookies are good.   My kitchen is lacking a proper apple corer :::sigh::: so I compensate by cutting the round slices in half and then using a teaspoon to cut out the core.   Once your apple slices are ready, it's time to get a little messy.  Coat half of each slice in chocolate and place the slices on a piece of wax or parchment paper.  When they are all nicely coated (remember, just one side for now) put them in the freezer.  Then go do something else - something that can be done very quickly, because you don't want the slices to actually freeze.  You just want the chocolate to set.  That should only take a few minutes.  Fold some towels.  Wipe the counter down.  Whatever you do, don't even THINK about checking Facebook - or worse, Pintrest.  Those sites will suck you in and the next thing you know, your apples will be frozen solid.

Okay, so the chocolate has set.  Take the apples out and flip them over.  Now get ready for some real mess!  Spread each slice with peanut butter.  If you have a decent icing tip that can handle peanut butter, use that.  Otherwise just spread it on with a butter knife.  Or a spatula.  Or whatever.  It doesn't really matter how the peanut butter gets on the apples.  Just get it on there!  Once the apples are all slathered with peanut butter, they get another chocolate dunk.  Didn't I warn you about this getting messy?
No...don't lick your fingers!  Unless you know that you will be eating all of these apple slices yourself, it's just rude.  And unsanitary.  Stop it!!!

Put the chocolate coated apple slices back into the freezer if you want them to set quickly (and really, at this point, you will want them to set quickly so that you can hurry up and eat them) or in the refrigerator if you aren't in a rush (oh please - who has that kind of will power???)

Once the chocolate sets, you are ready for the last step - which is - take a bite.  Uh huh.  Good, right?  You don't have to thank me.  Just enjoy!  :)

A Slasher Story

Don't be afraid.

The ferocious creature in the picture above is our Ke-Kat. My daughter named him Cookies and Cream, but I don't dare call him that. Seriously, would YOU call that beast Cookies???

To his face???

Let me tell you a bit about how merciless our feline can be. Frogs fear him. I have lost count of the number of headless and nearly headless rodents that Ke-kat has left at our doorstep. Lizards who are brave enough to show their faces here usually leave tail-less, assuming they are fast enough to leave at all. Earlier this afternoon, while I was weeding, a cricket jumped out to scold me for disturbing the grass. That was the last mistake that silly insect ever made.

Ke-kat's fury isn't limited to things that move. Sometimes, he takes pleasure in destroying perfectly innocent items. For example......this used to be our door seal.

I was less than amused when I discovered it slashed. My middle daughter (the future vet) claimed that she could stop him from attacking our door seal by spraying it with vinegar. That seems to work fairly well, but of course the vinegar wears away after a while so we usually keep a spray bottle of it in the cabinet near the door.

Not long ago, we heard Ke-kat ripping at the door seal again. My youngest jumped up and said that she would spray it. Later that afternoon, he was at it again...and once again my youngest said that she'd take care of it. The third time I heard him attacking the door, I reached for the bottle myself wondering whether my little girl was spraying in the right spot.

Uggg.

It was slimy.

At that moment, she walked into the kitchen. I held out the bottle and asked, "What happened to this?"

She shrugged her little shoulders and explained, "We ran out of vinegar so I used cooking oil instead."

:::sigh::: I guess we can count this one as a science lesson right? After all, we discovered that cooking oil isn't a very good cat repellant.

"

I'm Blue

Raynaud’s Phenomenon can be a pain.

Sorry. Maybe I should explain a little bit about what Raynaud’s Phenomenon is before going any further. According to the U.S. National Library of Medicine, Raynaud’s Phenomenon is: “A condition in which cold temperatures or strong emotions cause blood vessel spasms that block blood flow to the fingers, toes, ears and nose.”

No blood flow = pain.

To be honest, until very recently, this condition was more of a discomfort to me than an actual pain. Long before I was told that I had Raynaund's, I knew that I was somehow "different" than almost everyone else around me.
When co-workers complained about the heat, I was sometimes still a little chilly. When they were comfortable, I was pulling on a jacket.
For years I knew that it was weird for me to always NEED socks and tennis shoes on when other girls were showing off pretty pedicured toes in cute sandals. I didn't really understand why - I just knew that when I wore sandals, I was uncomfortable.
Ask most folks what the worst part about living without power after a hurricane is and you'll probably hear a lot about how hot it gets without air conditioning. That didn't really bother me much at all...but not having hot water??? THAT was a serious hardship!

Living with Raynaud's means that something as simple as walking through produce, meat or dairy departments at the grocery store can be a challenge. Mixing spices into ground meat (because I'm cajun and there must be spice in burgers!!!) will bring tears to my eyes. Food gloves help a little bit but not as much as the super warm soapy water in my sink that I use to re-warm my hands during the process. And let's not even mention trying to move things around to find a particular item in a freezer :::shudder:::

Now that I understand a bit more about how my body reacts to cold, it's no longer a mystery why I hurt so much in colder temperatures. When I feel tension creeping in, I can might look up and realize that my ability to tolerate the ceiling fan has reached it's limit. Instead of feeling guilty about "hiding out" in my little office, I am thankful for the warmth here (thanks to the heat that pours from the computer into this little room.)

There is still more for me to learn. I haven't yet had any tests run to determine if I have what is considered Primary or Secondary Raynaud's. If it's Secondary...then it's possible that I may be dealing with another underlying disorder like Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis, Atherosclerosis, Scleroderma, or Sjögren's syndrome. None of those sound like much fun.

Why am I sharing this with you? It's Raynaud's Awareness Week. We have a ribbon and everything!
The three colors represent the color changes that can occur during an "attack." Typically the skin blanches when the blood flow is initially disrupted due to vessel constriction. I don't usually see that step. Well, I don't see it occur on MY body. I have seen it happen to my husband. Yes, he has Raynaud's as well, but in his case there is a known cause (trauma from an accident while he was serving our country) and his symptoms are confined to one hand. What I've never seen in him is the red. That's the part that I see in my own hands the most often. From just above my knuckles down to my finger tips, my hands flush - and sometimes swell.

The blue (ummm... that part of the ribbon looks purplish to me, but let's pretend that it's blue, okay) is new for me. This winter marks the first time that I've noticed it, but now I can practically predict when it will occur. When I get to the point where I feel cold through and through, I'll fill the tub with hot water and ease into it. The heat does something to help my veins relax enough that blood can begin flowing again. That's when it happens. I turn blue. First it was just parts of my feet. Now I see it happening in my hands as well.

Blue is not my favorite color.

Kermit the Frog once sang a song about how tough it is to be green. Well, Kermit, be thankful that you aren't blue...

Feelings

Forgive me please. I know that it's been a long while. Shall I make a New Year's resolution to write more frequently? Maybe. Maybe not. I don't like making promises - even to myself - that I'm pretty sure I won't be able to keep. All I'm comfortable pledging at this point, is the sincere desire to TRY.

In the meantime, allow me a share a mysterious event. Before I begin, I'm going to have to toss in another apology because the set up for this is going to be overwhelming sticky sweet. Ordinarily, I wouldn't share this type of thing at all because, well, nobody wants to see it. I'm sorry. Just bear with me...and try not to puke or anything.

The above is a note that I placed on my hubby's side of bathroom counter-top a few months ago. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get over it. The fact that I sometimes do gushy things like that really isn't the point. The interesting stuff is what happened to the note. You see it just stayed on the counter for a long while. I suppose that my sweet hubby couldn't bring himself to just throw it away. Or maybe he just never got around to tossing it.
Certainly I wasn't about to get rid of it!
So it just stayed there.
Oh, I'd move it around when I wiped the counter down, but otherwise, it remained in place. Earlier this week, I noticed a slight change in the note.

A slight modification...

Now, I should point out here (for those who are unaware) that my husband's name is NOT Ama. In fact, there isn't anyone by the name of Ama living in this house (that I know of anyway.) There IS a certain 7 year old named Anna in our family. It also just so happens that our Anna loves finding new and creative ways of expressing her feelings, but when I showed her the note, she refused to take credit for the alteration.

So now I'm puzzled. Who is Ama and why is she/he mad? I guess this is just one of those mysteries in life that will never be answered.