Toteleeding

Unsupervised

2012-01-15T14:36:00.000-08:00

This is what I came downstairs to find the other day. Apparently, no one else remembered to keep an eye on the babies.

Gus figured out how to open the cupboard door in the front room.

Floyd

and Henry

got in on the action, too.

Fortunately, this was cheap, store bought yarn and we got to the scene of the crime before Elmer discovered what was going on or we could have had a real disaster. Elmer has a thing for "twing" and would have downed a hunk of this in the blink of an eye.

Don't ask me how I know this.

Gus was pleased as punch with his prize - it was hard to take it away from him.

Everyone who was supposed to be watching the baby got a good talking to from yours truly. After all folks, this kind of lax supervision leads to tragedies.

Ahem.

Handmade Holidays Part 2 (Belated)

2012-01-11T11:58:00.000-08:00

I have a thing for snowmen.

Sarah painted this adorable snow family for me - I love them!

After a winter virtually sans snow, we may finally get a dusting this evening... but not enough for snowmen.

Melissa crocheted and felted this incredible basket for me - it's huge! She spun the yarn, designed the basket, crocheted and felted the whole thing - all without me having a clue what she was up to. It was a great surprise. Unfortunately, we haven't been able to get a picture that does it justice.

We also haven't been able to figure out how to get good photos of the jewelry Sarah makes. Here are some of the earrings she gave me for Christmas:

Aren't they beautiful?

And then there are these guys...

Sarah whipped up these cute, primitive, scruffy owls - they now sit on my window ledge, ever alert for squirrels and robins.

Last, but not least, Melissa crocheted these gauntlets for Sarah...

and for Michael.

I love being surrounded by my girls' creativity. They are always working on something - spinning, sewing, drawing, even sometimes baking.

They are truly an inspiration.

Old Man

2012-01-04T13:52:00.000-08:00

Wally and Henry

This is Wally, our really old dog.
He's either 12 or 13, we aren't really sure.
We know we adopted him on Dec. 31 from the Animal Rescue League of Iowa, but no one can remember if it was in 1999 or 2000.
It's hard to believe Wally has been part of our lives for so long. My youngest daughter, almost 15, doesn't remember life without Wally. She and I used to sit in our big rocker/recliner and read after the "big kids" went to school - and Wally was always draped across our laps.
He's always been a goofy dog. When he was a puppy, he loved to steal the kids' toys - Legos, stuffed animals, what have you - and dash away with them. He loved those games of chase.
He first injured his shoulder by climbing up the steps to the slide and sliding down, over and over again. That shoulder injury has stayed with him, often requiring medication for pain and inflammation. I think, however, Wally would say it was worth it.
In the early days of his puppyhood, my husband would walk him up to 5 miles a day, and I still thought I'd go insane trying to handle his boundless energy. I finally had to tie his leash to my belt in order to house train him! He was exhausting.
These days, Wally's just pretty much exhausted. Like most old men, he takes a fair amount of medication. A couple of weeks ago we discovered he and my mom both take Tramadol, the generic version, though I imagine they're made in slightly different facilities.

Wally has difficulty breathing, so his beloved walks have been shortened to a slow-go around the block once a day, if the weather isn't too hot or humid or too cold. Last winter we bought him a jacket for when it dips below freezing.
His medications make him hungrier than this hungriest of beasts has ever been, so he gets a can of salt-free green beans three times a day to help fill him up. He remains a master thief, ever on the lookout for a stray box of cereal or loaf of bread not properly secured. Just last week he ate a whole stick of butter left on the counter to warm, wrapper and all, of course. And yesterday he grabbed my son's piece of pizza in the blink of an eye.
His medications also make him extra grumpy. A gentle nudge or accidental bump can cause a major growling reaction. He's now too old to board at the kennel. Too much stress.
This silly old dog wants nothing to do with our puppy. We've had Gus for nearly a year now and Wally has only just begun to sniff at him, disdainfully, when he comes home from daycare. Gus, of course, is overjoyed at this hint of recognition.
Cats have always kind of creeped Wally out. If a cat was asleep on his bed, Wally would refuse to lie there. But lately, he's developed a liking for one of our cats; one and a half year old Floyd. He loves to play with Floyd, dancing around him and doing, um, somewhat indelicate things. Floyd doesn't seem to mind.
Our newest baby, Henry, may be finding a place in Wally's heart as well. Though Henry often jumps without looking, startling Wally out of a restless sleep, they did sleep together the other day on the same piece of furniture. A major concession on Wally's part, though it is possible he just was too tired and sore to move.

Wally's hind legs are quite arthritic and we've noticed he can be somewhat unsteady at times. He rarely jumps up on the bed with me anymore, instead curling up on his extra-cushy dog bed in front of the radiator.
Despite it all, his favorite time of the day is still "mail" time. We've had lots of mail carriers over the years, and more than one of them seems to have taken delivering our mail without alerting Wally as a challenge. We've noticed our current mail carrier creep up the steps to our porch, tiptoe to the mail slot, and try to slide the mail in as quietly as possible. Every now and then he succeeds. But most of the time his ascent to the porch is met with Cujo-like Wally jumping at the front window and barking wildly.
We know we're likely on borrowed time with Wally. Despite his flaws, of which there are quite a few, I'd have to give him the title of "Best Dog Ever" for no one has loved my children with such intensity, entertained my family with such alacrity, nor been such a troublesome sweetheart as he.
I cherish each and every day we have with him.
Wally will always hold a special place in my heart.

Dark Days, Yes Indeed

2012-01-02T11:01:00.000-08:00

So, I can honestly say I'm not at all sorry to bid 2011 farewell.

This year has not been kind to myself and my family - at all.

January found myself and three of my children diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome Hypermobility Type, a genetic deformity in collagen formation. While this diagnosis explains so much, my years of pain and fatigue, my son's gastrointestinal issues and upper back pain, pain and fatigue my daughters suffer, foot and ankle issues we all have, etc., it takes a bit of getting used to "having" a genetic disease.

In 2011 we saw a geneticist, podiatrist, orthopedist, physical therapist and neurologist. On tap for 2012 are rheumatology appointments, more physical therapy, massage therapy, etc.

I am tired of doctors, tired of hurting, tired of being tired, and worried about my children.

As if this wasn't enough, my family has a long-term history of anxiety disorders and depression. Apparently determined not to be left out, these decided to rear their ugly heads again this year with a vengeance. There is nothing quite so terrible as watching one's child being swallowed by the black hole of major depression, except perhaps watching another child fighting extreme and unrepentant anxiety. Wait, wait - maybe it's watching another child succumb to both at the same time!

Helpless?

Oh yeah.

I feel helpless.

Overwhelmed?

You bet.

Psychiatrists, therapists, hypnosis, medication, more medication, different medication, trips to specialists... and still they suffer.

In the midst of all this, life goes on.

My own depressive tendencies have fortunately stayed in hiding, leaving a nice big vacancy for anxiety to move in.

But I'm doing okay.

Not paralyzed, just tired.

Really, really tired.

So I've decided I need to keep outside responsibilities to a minimum, which includes the Dark Days Eat Local Challenge. What should just be fun has instead become a chore - and an anxiety-producing chore at that.

We will still eat mostly local a good share of the time - gosh, it really is so easy to do once you find your sources. But I'm no longer officially participating in the challenge. Instead, I'll occasionally post photos of our wintertime local meals, such as the one you see here.

We had taco salads and everything - including the chips (!) - was local, except for the beans.

I tend to find solace in cooking, and since we're also trying to stick to a pretty strict budget, it's fortunate that I do.

So, here's to 2012

It's got to better than 2011.

Doesn't it?

Our Handmade Holidays, Part 1

2011-12-31T12:05:00.000-08:00

This Christmas was brimming over with handmade giving.

My youngest daughter, Melissa, crocheted this huge, gorgeous afghan for me. What a wonderful surprise!

Heavy and warm, I'm wrapped in its coziness right now as I write this.

My older daughter, Sarah, hand crafted several of these fabric covered books for her brothers and sister.

Each is filled with colorful art papers.

I think they would make great altered art journals. I have placed an order for myself!

Speaking of altered books, Melissa created these funky books using old games boards for covers.

The pages are include various sized art papers, old receipts, old book pages, and all kinds of unusual items.

I have to show these two throws again - I'm completely in love with them!

I gave this one to Melissa.

And this one to Sarah.

I'll try to get the other homemade goodies photographed tomorrow for part 2.

Bread and Jam

2011-12-29T12:14:00.000-08:00

There are many days when I feel as though I just haven't accomplished much. There's always animal care, of course, and a certain amount of people care that goes into each and every day. Nonetheless, sometimes it seems as if all I've done is read a few chapters in a book, run some laundry through, or crochet a little.

But there's one thing that always makes me feel successful: bread. If I end the day with a loaf or two of homemade, whole grain bread, then no matter how long the naps, how messy the house, or how many episodes of Medium or Desperate Housewives I've watched with my daughters, I feel successful.

Maybe this is what the saying "Bread is the staff of life" truly means.

Not only does bread nourish the body, but the soul as well.

Snuggle

2011-12-28T12:17:00.000-08:00

We all need a good cuddle sometimes.

Wreaths

2011-12-24T12:21:00.000-08:00

I am the embodiment of the laws of physics.

Despite the fact that I actually dropped high school physics, a few of the rudimentary ideas still rattle around in my brain.

For example, take inertia.

I seem to remember that an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted upon by another force.

I am inertia.

My daughters are definitely the outside force acting upon me.

My tendency is to want to sit, or sit and wait, or simply wait. I don't take risks, try new things, or step out of my comfort zone without a strong and motivated nudge.

My girls have always been fearless when it comes to crafting; something I admire greatly. Because of them and their gentle, yet insistent, nudging, I've gotten to make some pretty cool things.

Take, for example, these gorgeous wreaths.

Melissa saw the idea in a magazine and, with some persistence, we took off in search of supplies. We had vintage lace and home spun yarn, but needed wool to wrap around the wreath forms. We tried several resale/thrift shops, but couldn't really find what we were looking for.

A quick trip to the fabric store and we found exactly what we wanted.

The wreaths were amazingly easy to make and provided a fun and creative afternoon.

Each time we finish a project, I vow to be less inertial the next time around, yet always seem to need that push to get going.

I'm so glad my girls are here to urge me along.

Squashed

2011-12-21T12:36:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I made a trip to a local apple orchard to stock up on cider. Ten gallons made their way happily into the freezer.

I also stocked up on apples, which were on sale for 20% off. Half a bushel of Ida Red's later, I have applesauce in the freezer, too. Oh, and a peck of eating apples reside (temporarily) in the fridge.

But perhaps best of all was the free squash I scored - butternut and Lacota. It took very little time to roast and puree them for pies, breads, and other pumpkiny treats in the coming months. We've already had pumpkin pancakes, bread, and scones this week alone.

With Michael's help, all this took took just over 2 hours. Not bad a bad investment at all.

Mother's Little Helper

2011-12-17T11:20:00.000-08:00

Or "How to Cook with a Tiger in the Kitchen."

Our new little addition is quite the aspiring cook. Nary a day goes by that I don't have lots of help in the kitchen.

Henry isn't declawed and won't ever be.

I used to declaw my cats; in fact, the oldest three are front paw declawed. But after reading about the procedure and watching Fannie suffer with infections we decided declawing was not for us.

Trimming a cat's claws can be quite an adventure, however, requiring adult sons, fireplace gloves, and lots of resolve. Henry's claw-trimming events have been less than successful; imagine trying to put lipstick on a greased pig and you will only have an inkling of the difficulty involved.

Over the past couple of years and many hopelessly-stained shirts I've taken to wearing aprons. Full aprons like Grandma used to wear. This is where Henry comes in. He simply cannot resist the apron strings, whether dangling or fully tied, he spies those flaps of fabric and comes running.

Only, like any good wildcat, he charges silently, attacking his prey with shocking ferocity and skill.

These days my cooking is punctuated by frequent screams and cries for help.

It's not easy to free oneself from a rear attack. And man, do those little claws hurt!

Ho, Ho, Ho

2011-12-15T14:00:00.000-08:00

Lately everyone has been sequestered in their rooms busily crafting homemade Christmas gifts.

Sarah whipped up this ho-ho-host of Santas in an hour or so.

Aren't they darling?

Floydicus Rex

2011-12-14T13:07:00.000-08:00

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful

Holiday Hues

2011-12-12T13:30:00.000-08:00

I love decorating for the holidays

The winter whites, reds and greens

The handmade and homespun

With a little sparkle thrown in for good measure

Yum

2011-12-12T09:41:00.000-08:00

One of the best things about winter is hot chocolate.

It's even better when served in gorgeous handcrafted mugs made by Rebecca Brandow of Willow Avenue Pottery.

Nothing goes better with hot chocolate than ginger creams.

Sit down and rest a spell.

Christmas Craftiness

2011-12-12T07:06:00.000-08:00

My daughters constantly amaze me with their artistic abilities and fearless crafting.

Melissa made these gift tags, turning plain manilla tags into miniature works of art.

No two are the same.

Yet each and every one is beautiful.

I can't wait to use these amazing, handmade gift tags.

Thanks, honey.

Dark Days Eat Local Week Two

2011-12-11T14:38:00.000-08:00

It's wonderful to be able to buy decent local tomatoes nearly year-round - here in central Iowa, no less. Graddy's in Carroll grows greenhouse tomatoes for delivery throughout most of the fall and winter.
As any true tomato-lover knows, nothing can compare with a fresh-picked tomato right out of the garden, but these tomatoes are the closest I've found so far and definitely world's better than imported tomatoes.

Sliced tomatoes were the perfect accompaniment to this week's main course, a spinach and feta frittata. Everything in this dish was grown and made here in central Iowa; fresh spinach and garlic sauteed in soy oil, fresh eggs, and feta.

When I spotted locally grown zucchini at my food co-op I couldn't resist making some off-season zucchini bread. The flours (white and whole wheat), zucchini, eggs, and oil were the only local ingredients in this dessert.
The chocolate chips, not so much.

The Dark Days eat local challenge is sponsored by Not Dabbling in Normal.

Handmade Holidays

2011-12-11T14:02:00.001-08:00

Some lucky duck will be receiving this gorgeous handmade throw for Christmas, crocheted by yours truly.

Not only is it made locally, but the yarn was from local animals (sheep. llamas, goats, I believe), dyed and spun by a remarkable local craftswoman, Maggie Howe of Prairieland Herbs.

What? Doesn't everyone have exposed pipes in their living room?
I'm making another throw for a second special someone made with custom-ordered yarn from Maggie. I requested mostly non-wool fibers in blues and grays with some maroon thrown in. She was able to spin up about 1200 yards of this yarn in less than a week. That's some serious spinning, folks.

Completion of the second throw has been delayed due to...

umm...

technical difficulties.

Urban Jungle

2011-12-08T13:24:00.000-08:00

We've gotten used to lots of things since we've moved to the inner city.
Gun shots next door, gang graffiti, liquor bottles lining the curbs on a Saturday morning

We've had our fair share of dangerous and creepy animal encounters here in the urban jungle as well - a raccoon shut in our van overnight caused more than $5oo of damage, a rabid raccoon in the yard had to be captured and removed by animal control, a nest of garter snakes hatched in a hole near the foundation of our house, and cicada killer wasps set up house last summer by the patio. We even had to evict a colony of bats from our attic.
Then of course there are all the dogs allowed to run free - German Shepherds, Pit Bulls, and just plain scary curs.

But I never expected to encounter wild cats lurking in the treetops, making a nice relaxing bath a thing of the past.

Floyd, the big orange guy, has a thing for water.
He loves it!
Every morning I waken to find him sleeping in the bathtub.
If I forget to check the shower before turning on the water, out saunters a damp and bedraggled Floyd, wet but not at all upset about it.

He likes to tiptoe around the edge of the tub while I'm bathing. If I'm not careful, he'll end up precariously balancing on my knees; a truly frightening experience as Floyd is not declawed.

Henry apparently shares Floyd's love of water, but with an added dash of kitten adventure thrown in.

Henry is a spitfire who doesn't take kindly to anyone flouting his desires.

He has claws and teeth and he's not afraid to use them!

There's nothing quite like trying to safely remove a sodden four-pound whirling dervish of teeth and claws after a splash-down.
I suppose I could just close the bathroom door, but then, where's the adventure in that?
Besides, then everyone sits outside the door and cries.
And I have the same reaction to cat's crying as I do to babies.
Let's just say it's not at all relaxing.

Irresistible

2011-12-05T12:54:00.000-08:00

Meet Henry, the newest addition to the menagerie.
I had no intention of adding another baby to our household but I was placed in a completely unfair position.
It's not my fault.
Really.
I couldn't help myself.

You see, this fall Melissa talked me into volunteering with her at the Animal Rescue League of Iowa. She wanted to work with the cats and kittens and isn't allowed to be there without an adult - I guess that's supposed to be me - with her.
Reluctantly I went through orientation and training with her, worried about my weakness, yet buoyed by the fact that I really wasn't feeling that "need."
You know the one I mean; that urgency for a baby that, since my husband said four children were enough, has been transferred quite handily to cats and dogs (and rabbits, guinea pigs, mice, rats, etc., through the years).

But then it happened.
One cold and rainy day Melissa and I walked into the cat room at the rescue league and there he was. This itty bitty ball of fur, all scraggly and dirty, staring out at me through the bars of his cage.
Usually we avoid the kittens, knowing they will all get adopted, and instead spend our volunteer hours with the adult cats. We sit in one of the large cat rooms and immediately the cats are all over us, on our laps, playing, begging to be brushed. Desperate for love.
But this day, oh, this day, I made the mistake of taking this little furry wad out of the cage to fancy him up with a little brushing. As soon as I touched him he veritably vibrated with purring.

I was hooked.
There was no way I could leave that day without this tiny, rumbling fur ball in my arms.
And, the rest is history.
Henry has been a part of our family for more than a month now. He has shown himself to be a kitten with 'tude, and is often seen strutting down the hallway growling to himself. He and our other kitten, Floyd, who is just a little over a year old, have a high old time together.
All the old cats are a little incredulous that I brought home another one, but they've mostly forgiven me.
And they mostly ignore Henry, which seems to be just fine with him.

Dark Days Challenge

2011-12-05T11:34:00.000-08:00

It's been a couple of years since I participated in the Dark Days Eat Local Challenge and a lot has changed for me since then. Learning I have a physically-limiting condition forced me to cut back on gardening and the past two summers I didn't can, freeze, or dry anything.
Wow, seeing that in writing is a bit of a shock.
Without my usual storehouse of home-preserved local fare, this eat local challenge will be much more difficult.
Fortunately, there are many sources of local foods here in the Des Moines area, the newest of which is Tallgrass Grocery Co-op in West Des Moines. I went there without a clear menu in mind and came home with enough local foods, from cheeses and other dairy products, to fresh veggies and meats, for several mostly local meals.
This first meal is quite simple since I didn't want to spend much time in the kitchen yesterday.

I had a butternut squash, given to me several weeks ago when buying local apples. I discovered several years ago that I much prefer the flavor of roasted butternut squash to that of pie pumpkins in baked goods. A quick 40 minutes to roast, a whir in the food processor, and I had more than enough puree to make squash buns, a family favorite. I was able to use locally produced butter and milk in the buns as well.
While the buns were rising I started making a simple vegetable beef soup, in which all the ingredients (beef bones, tomatoes, zucchini, potatoes, and onion) were all grown locally. The soup bubbled in the crock pot all day, though I did have to cook it down a bit on the stove before serving.

The coop also had a lovely salad greens and sprouts available. We noticed right away how much more flavorful these locally-grown greens were than supermarket lettuce.
I always save room for dessert and yesterday was the perfect day, cold and gray, to make baked apples. The apples and a drizzle of cream before serving were the only local ingredients in this dessert.
I'm already planning several more locally-sourced meals and I'm sure I'll be heading to Tallgrass Grocery Co-op often.

Contentment

2011-12-03T14:12:00.000-08:00

Today the girls and I ventured out into the wilds of pre-holiday shopping.
It was a hard decision to leave the comforts of home and head into the not-so-cold but oh-so-gray rainy-ness that is today.
Truth be told, I had a couple of coupons that I had to use today. These weren't just any old coupons, either, but for substantial savings at two stores, Michael's and Target, and both were good only today.
We're deep into our Christmas-crafting here and the trip to Michael's for supplies (only our fourth or fifth in the last 10 days!) was essential to keep the ball rolling. Michael's can be a horror this time of year, but so far our experiences have been good. The store has been well-staffed, not too crowded, and the lines have moved quickly. When my cashier ran into a snafu with all my discounts and coupons, a supervisor came right over and offered to re-ring my purchase, separating it into two smaller purchases for maximum savings.
How great was that?
Instead of saving only about $40, we saved nearly $56.
The whole thing could have been a debacle, but it was accomplished with cheerfulness on all parts.
My Target trip, in which I stocked up on t.p. and Kleenex, netted me a free $10 gift card. A coupon for free cat litter added another $10 savings. I used a free $10 gift card to Walgreen's and got 3 gallons of milk for under $2.
Not bad for a yucky day.
Now I'm home in front of the well-stoked fire with a cat on my lap, my crocheting lying next to me. The dogs are anticipating suppertime (only another 1/2 hour to go guys). Michael should be home from a Saturday at work in a couple of hours.
I don't jet off to London or shop at fancy stores. My wine is usually fairly cheap and from a box, my dinners homemade but unpretentious. I don't own much jewelry, and what I do have is either precious and meaningful (my wedding and engagement ring, which has my grandmother's diamond) or gorgeously crafted for me by my daughter.
Sitting here in the late afternoon glow of the Christmas tree, I am thankful for this life. My life.
I guess it isn't for everyone, but it's just the right size for me.

The Hibernator

2011-12-01T14:26:00.000-08:00

Apparently, I have more in common with bears than I thought.
Of course, there's the fact that since shorts weather faded away, my legs see the sharp side of a razor less and less often.
There's also the fact that as winter slowly descends, my appetite gradually increases.
But these similarities only scratch the surface.
My daughters started to notice in early November that as the days shortened, my desire to stay home - just stay home - increased.
As it gets colder and colder, darker and greyer, my desire to venture out into the world tapers off.
Apparently, I hibernate.
From November until late March, depending on the weather, I am most content to remain at home, day-in and day-out. I like to sit by the fire, reading, crocheting, sipping hot chocolate or coffee, and am perfectly content never to venture too far from the back door. In fact, I'm happiest when someone else is home to take the dogs out and bring in the firewood - then I don't have to leave at all!
This tendency can be quite frustrating to those who don't share it - especially if those people are dependent on said hibernator for transportation. So I try, really I do, to accommodate some of their desires to run to the mall, the library, the bookstore (really, Mom, take us anywhere, please!!!) but I'm afraid there is a lot of accommodation required of them as well.
My husband and I have been talking about where we want to retire - the idea of being an old lady in the 'hood doesn't thrill me. But you know what does? A house outside of town on 10 acres. Maybe 20 minutes or so from the city. A place where I could get snowed in and it wouldn't matter. A place of solitude for when hibernation season rolls around.
I think I could be perfectly content with "going to town" once or maybe twice a week.
Of course, there's the issue of being a little old lady snowed in 20 minutes outside of town, but that doesn't seem so bad to me right now.
You'll have to check back with me in the spring.

Confronting Stigma

2011-12-01T13:38:00.001-08:00

Well, I'm back from a short visit to crazy town.
No, I'm not talking about mental illness, mine or anyone else's for that matter. Instead, I entered the truly insane world of the scientifically illiterate, the ill-informed, and the bigoted.
You see, earlier this fall I got tired - no, not just tired, but sick and tired, of post after post on Facebook, all made by the same person, questioning the safety and efficacy of immunizations.
There seems to be some kind of a social taboo these days against calling these people out, flatly stating their sources are biased and poorly documented, telling them that they simply don't understand science. What I've noticed most frequently is the failure to understand the difference between causation and correlation.
I know it's tempting to follow the old edict of "to each his own," except in the case of immunizations, choosing not to protect one's own children from the scourge of childhood diseases - and unbelievably, even cancer - doesn't affect only that individual child. Immunizations only work when upwards of 95% of the population is protected. When too many holes are poked in this herd immunity, outbreaks of disease will occur, threatening even those who have been vaccinated.
Who would ever have thought there would be a vaccine against cancer! Yes, that's what the Gardasil vaccine is folks - a vaccine against cancer - and there are people out there who claim it's dangerous, offering no scientific proof whatsoever; or, crazily enough, that it isn't necessary.
It's a vaccine against CANCER, people.
Anyway, after a heated exchange in which I could not get those arguing the anti-vaccine side to answer my most basic questions about their objections, and during which the tone turned decidedly nasty, I let the argument die. Instead, I simply matched each wacky, biased, anti-science link with a counter link.
I was finally unfriended, and frankly, I wondered what took them so long.
I have no problem whatsoever with ending contact with someone who causes you distress - after all, I'm sure it's difficult to deal with information that contradicts your world view and calls into question your own health care decisions - especially when that information is coming from sources more credible than holistic internet sites.
It was after the unfriending that things truly turned nasty.
Years ago, when first one, the two, then three of my children, and finally I, myself, was diagnosed with major depression and anxiety disorders, I decided that the only way to fight the societal stigma of mental illness was with honesty.
After all, mental illnesses are no different than any other illnesses of the body. Are people embarrassed or afraid to speak of their heart disease, diabetes, glaucoma? Of course not. Therefore, I have always been open and honest about who I am and the illnesses I have. In case you're wondering, I also have hypothyroidism (gasp!) and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (beware!).
After all these years, I've encountered very little real-life stigma, especially since my children left public school. And you know what? When you're honest about your own mental illness, it's amazing how many other people follow suit and talk about their own issues with anxiety, depression, bipolar, etc.
I guess I've come to take having depression in stride, as I have with my other conditions.
That's why I was so shocked to discover that these people - with whom I had argued about vaccines - spoke openly and cowardly on Facebook, insinuating that I was crazy and irrational because I have a mental illness.
Talk about being floored!
I guess it's easier to dismiss someone who is telling you information you don't want to hear if you can simply call her crazy. Jeez!
I must admit this blatant use of the fact of my mental illness against me was shocking. Truly shocking. That there is that much stigma out there just under the surface is truly frightening.
At first it made me rethink whether I should continue to blog openly about my and my children's struggles with mental illness.
But if I don't speak out, who will?
Until the fact that I, or anyone else has a mental illness is treated no differently than any other illness (would anyone ever say 'disregard her arguments, she must be irrational, she has cancer you know), it behooves everyone to stand up and speak out.
Anyone, of course, can disagree with me, think I'm a *itch, or that I'm mean and poorly-informed.
Just don't blame it on an illness - any illness - I happen to have.
Weirdly enough, you could even try to counter my positions with factual information:)

Middle Age

2011-08-31T13:28:00.000-07:00

Walking out of the craft store today I caught a glimpse of someone. She looked familiar, but wasn't quite who I thought she was. A second look at my reflection, and yes, it was me.
I am a middle-aged woman.
And it shows.
It's funny, I don't think of myself as nearly 50. Good grief, I can remember when my Mom was fifty! But here I am, almost at the top of the hill, ready for the great ride down.
And while I remember the climb, it just doesn't seem possible that so much time has passed.
I don't think of myself as a mother of adults. But three of my four children are adults. My oldest son is almost the age I was when he was born. My younger son, almost the age I married. My daughter, the same age I was when I started college.
How could my baby be 14?
I'm not a young mother anymore. My sister is a grandma. My aunts and uncles are all gone, as is my father. My mom is 82.
And all of this happened in the blink of an eye.
Really. I'm serious. It happened that fast.
I'm not ready to curl up and wither away. In fact, I'm at the cusp of a whole new chapter in my life, one that includes rediscovering myself, my talents, my interests. One in which my husband and I will soon have all the time in the world together.
Alone.
Wow.
In some ways, I can't believe how much living has taken place in these 26 years of married life. All the holidays, birthdays, vacations, pets, happiness, tears, living and loving. And it's definitely not over, just, well, evolving.
So that middle-aged woman? The one who dyes her hair, wears sneakers and footsies with capris, and is kind of thick around the middle?
That is me.
And you know what?
I like her.

Hurry up and relax

2011-08-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I took a nap.
A headache was coming on and my body, ever-achy from my EDS, just needed the rest.
And boy, do I feel better now.
I woke with renewed energy and well-being.
So of course, I vacuumed and dusted, walked the dog, cleaned the windows, folded laundry, mowed the grass, made a batch of jam, and talked on the phone about how busy I am.
Right?

Nope. Not me.
I ate two plums, contemplated what to make for supper, thought about when to do all of the above listed chores, and enjoyed the breeze wafting in my window while I watched the cat try to catch a fly.

Wow, what a wasted afternoon, huh? I didn't get anything done. I didn't feel frazzled or pulled a hundred different directions.
And I can't brag about how busy I was.

Somewhere along the line, our society seems to have come to value busyness for busyness' sake. I could completely rephrase my afternoon activities to make it sound as if I had been busy, busy, busy: I wolfed down two plums at the sink while browsing through my cookbooks, desperate to find a quick and easy meal to make for supper that would also use up my tomatoes. Then I hurriedly finished a book that's due at the library tomorrow, scheduled my weekend, and sat down for a second to catch my breath only to have the cat jumping all over me trying to catch a fly.

I would argue that far from being a waste of time, my afternoon was quite productive. I took the time to care for myself, enabling me to make a great dinner for my family this evening. (Stuffed tomatoes, millet souffle, and a giant chocolate chip cookie, in case you were wondering) I just finished a great fantasy novel that most of my family is reading, enabling me to pass on the book to the next person in line. While enjoying that breeze, I had time to just think a little, appreciate this glorious afternoon, and laugh at my ridiculous cat (he hasn't yet caught that fly). So I happened to be sitting here when my son came in, allowing me to have a nice conversation with him about his summer internship with the USDA, his plans for the evening, and do a little philosophizing about the world and its many ills.

When we take on too much, when we're just busy for busy's sake, we lose that opportunity to be at peace with ourselves, to experience the simple moments of every day in their entirety. We don't take proper care of ourselves, leaving us drained, frazzled, and emotionally raw, and unavailable.

I was talking with my daughter about college this morning, and I told her to have fun. Don't get so caught up in needing to be perfect, don't worry so much about every test, every class, every responsibility that you forget to enjoy the moment.

Life is right now. Right here. It's not tomorrow, or next week, or after the next promotion, or when we can quit that job, or buy that land, or whatever.
If you're overloading your life right now in the pursuit of some future goal, just be sure you know what you're giving up.
You may think it's worth it, and perhaps for you it is. But as the mother of 4 children, only one of whom is still a minor, I can tell you that time goes by so fast you'll likely feel you have whiplash.
And you can never regain those lost moments.
No achievement is worth losing yourself or slighting your family or friendships in the right here and now.

So, you know what? I wasn't overly busy today, and I won't be tomorrow, either. My work will get done, but not at the expense of myself or my family.
My life doesn't start tomorrow.
It's here.
Right now.
And I don't want to miss or mess up a moment of it

Strawberry Girl

2011-08-09T11:25:00.001-07:00

The days are passing quickly. Soon we'll be counting the hours, then the minutes.
Another chick is soon to leave the nest, and though I once had someone with only one child tell me that it's got to be so much easier for me when the kids leave because I have more than one, that simply is not the case.
Just as each child is an individual, each child holds a place near and dear in my heart. A separate place all their own where I remember the first time I held them, the feel of their fuzzy newborn heads against my shoulder, first foods, first words, first day of school... and on and on.
Just as each of my children is unique, so too is my love for them.
Each one is precious him or herself.

My boys are now grown men, Stephen in grad school and Zachary a senior at Iowa State. Even their leaving each fall still isn't easy. But now my oldest daughter, Sarah, is about to head off to school at UNI. She's going the farthest from home, nearly two hours away.
I know many parents send their kids off across the country or even out of the country for college, but I'm not writing this to try to compare. For us, this is a huge distance, despite how easily it can be traversed.
Sarah is my strawberry girl, an easy baby, always quick with a smile.
She's grown into a lovely young woman, brimming with talent, intelligence, and a zest for life. She's been through a lot in her brief 18 years, but she's never failed to impress me with her resilience and determination.
I not only love my sweet Sarah, I admire her.

Soon our daily laughter, hugs, and sharing will be done via electronics.
And I know we'll both cry a bit as we say goodbye, and likely more once we've parted.
But I have every confidence in her ability to not only survive, but thrive in her independence.
And just as it has with my boys, our relationship will change. But the time has come for us to transition from the parent/child relationship to the parent/adult child relationship.
I know she's ready for this, even if she has doubts.
And despite the miles and the independence, she'll always be my baby.
Forever and for always, my strawberry girl.

Song and Dance

2011-07-29T08:59:00.000-07:00

Nighttime at my house isn't very restful.

Oh, some nights I conk out quite easily and sleep really deeply and well, though this is usually when my husband is home and I've popped a couple of Benadryl.

Sometimes I'm awakened ever so gently by this guy snuggling up on the pillow next to my head, purring sweet lullabies in my ear.

Other times, I'm rudely awakened by a tiger pulling my hair - hard.
Elmer will pull until I finally stumble out of bed and feed him.

This lovely little lady usually sleeps on my feet all night. This doesn't really bother me, as I've grown used to it over the past 8 years. But Fern is a nibbler, and an emotional eater, and most nights, usually between 2-4, she awakens from a stressful dream and simply must have food.

Now.

Fern doesn't poke or prod me, however. She has a knack for finding crinkly things - a magazine on the floor, perhaps a kleenex box, or a pile of books, and she rattles them.

Scratches at them.

Paws and mauls them.

Until finally, I stumble out of bed, go to the food bowls, and feed her.

The main problem I have with these two is that usually the food bowls aren't even empty.

They don't bother to check first, but need just a couple pieces of fresh crunchy added to the top.

I think they're testing me to see if I really do love them.

Many people have suggested shutting the cats in the basement or at least closing my bedroom door. But I love the snuggling and the purring, and besides, Fern's crying sounds just like a baby - something I cannot ignore.

There's also the small matter of adding a litterbox in the basement, and you know, we already have 9 litter boxes and I just don't want any more.

Also, there was a small incident a couple of years ago when the cats had access to the basement. We never determined who was to blame, but let's just say I don't want to clean up a mess like that again!

Then there's this character.

Wally never used to be a problem at night, but now he's an old man.

And everybody knows old men need to pee a lot.

And I mean every few hours.

We take him out multiple times each evening and try to have the last time be at least 10 p.m., but long about 4-ish, Wally feels the call of nature.

Let me tell you, it must be a siren song, because there is no denying it.

Wally has these little tiny feet at the end of his long, skinny legs, and even when his claws are properly trimmed, his prancing up and down the hall sounds just like tap-dancing. I know it would be better if I'd just get right up and take him out, but usually by this time, I've been up a time or two already and am desperately clinging to the hope that he'll settle down for just another hour or so.

Which means there's a good 15-20 minutes of tap-dancing up and down the hall, in and out of my room, and even down the stairs and back up again.

Why don't I just kennel him?

Well, Wally was kennel trained when a

puppy, but it's been years now since he's been in a kennel, and I think it would freak him out, especially now that one of his medications causes anxiety.

And thirst.

Now, if I'm really lucky, I can either sneak him outside quickly and get back to bed without waking up this character.

Yep.

Because when this guy wakes up, my day has officially started.

Even if it's 4:30 a.m.

Gus is only 8 months old, and honestly, I treat him more like a baby than the sweet, adorable, little Gussie-wussie... ahem, you see what I mean.

So, if Gus awakens, it's outside we go, which is a bit of a process, as he wants to stop and sniff every little scent along the way. Plus, basset hounds are not known for their stair-climbing proficiency.

So, this morning, at the insistence of my very patient daughters, I decided Gus would just have to go back in his kennel until I wanted to get up. Good for me, right? I could go back to bed and get a couple more hours of shut-eye.

Except for one small thing.

When a puppy has been treated like a baby, the puppy acts like a baby.

And Gus was not happy to be alone in the dark when it was morning, for goodness sake.

So, he howled.

He howled in that most desperately mournful way only a hound dog can howl.

For two hours.

Straight.

So, last night, between the hair-pulling, the tap-dancing, paper-rattling, and singing, I did get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And people wonder why I nap.

Oh, and in case you're wondering: no, the sun is not yet up at 4:30.

Untarnished-silver, plus one

2011-07-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

While filling out some paperwork (an attempt on my part to track my spending habits), I noticed the date. Well, I noticed that it was July 27, which meant a whole change in my late afternoon plans, as today is the deadline for high school registration.

For some reason, I couldn't quite believe that it actually is the 27th - no particular reason popped into mind, it’s just that I thought today was Wednesday, but it’s actually Thursday.

No wait, it’s Wednesday.

It’s just that I thought the 27th was Thursday, not today.

Which really is Wednesday.

And after checking online, it really is the 27th.

Then it hit me.

Why I should have remembered this date.

It’s one of the most important dates of my life.

And I totally forgot.

Today is my 26th wedding anniversary.

Now, I know the stereotypical sitcom version of the forgotten anniversary involves the forgetful, contrite husband frantically dashing out to the gas station at midnight to come back with some pitiful gift for his infuriated wife.

But I have no fears in that regard.

In fact, I bet my husband, who is away all this week on business (sweating in the cornfields of Nebraska, the lucky guy), hasn’t remembered either.

And I’m not the least upset.

In years past, especially during those crazy, child-intense years, with a traveling husband and 4 children under 10, I might have been a little perturbed. Especially with the out-of-town part of the equation.

Let’s just say I’ve mellowed with age.

And I think my marriage, too, has mellowed, ripening like a fine Chilean wine.

(Do wines ripen? Maybe they age, which only goes to reinforce the image. Oh, and I’m still a bit of a non-conformist - I know it’s supposed to be a “French” wine, but frankly, most of the wine we drink these days, unfortunately, comes out of a box and any bottle we splurge on is much more likely to come from south of the equator than from across the pond.)

But, as I was saying, my marriage fits me like a comfortable glove. You know how leather gets softer as it’s worn and comes to fit every digit like a second skin? That’s how I feel about my relationship with my husband.

We trust each other so completely, love each other so enormously, that most of the time we just really enjoy each other. There’s very little strife, we laugh at each other’s foibles, and finish each other’s sentences.

Never for a second do we doubt our love for each other. And instead of fancy dinners out or expensive jewelry, or this year, even flowers, we show our love for each other in the every-dayness of our lives together.

Michael makes the coffee for me, indulges my crazy love of animals, and does an enormous amount of housework. I cook him fabulous meals (most of the time), and when I’m unable, he steps up with his famous nachos or homemade pizza. I like to seek out unusual beers for him to try, share books I know he’ll like, and give him the things he would never indulge in for himself (um, like new shoes).

We share the everyday stresses of parenting, bill paying, and politics.

If ever there were soul mates, Michael and I are it. Or they. You know what I mean.

So, yes, I forgot my 26th anniversary, and far from being a sign of a failing marriage, it is a sign of the strength of our vows to each other and our commitment to each other. It’s not taken-for-granted, but rather, is such a part of myself, that I don’t need to mark it with hoopla.

Instead, I’ll marvel at the passage of time, all those wonderful years together, and look forward to many, many more with the man of my dreams.

And I’ll sure be glad when he walks through the door Friday evening.

Om, Om Good

2011-02-12T11:05:00.000-08:00

Something hit me last fall.

Maybe it was my 47th birthday. Maybe it was just that "tired of being tired" feeling.

Whatever inspired it, in October I took my exercising to a new level.

Now, for some people that means running their first marathon or increasing their workouts to an hour each, 7 days a week.

But for me, that meant getting serious about exercising at least 5 times a week on my elliptical. I started out at level 1, barely able to walk 15 minutes. But over the course of the fall, I've built up to 5 days a week, 30 minutes at a time, on level 3. I usually burn 200 calories (dessert!) and walk 1.5 miles.

I cannot tell you how much better I feel.

Also in October, we added twice a week yoga to our routine. The girls and I faithfully attend a gentle yoga class at a local studio, with Michael joining us as he's able.

Honestly, after the first class I was hooked.

I cannot believe how much better I feel after a yoga class - stronger, healthier, more energetic. How could I not have known this? Really, if I hadn't thought it would help my daughter's headaches, I never would have had the nerve to try a class alone.

Never.

Thank goodness I did, because I can't imagine my life now without yoga.

Yesterday I even did a yoga DVD at home.

I will never move on to an advanced class or become a yoga expert, my body just isn't built for it.

But gentle yoga has done incredible things for my mind and body already in just four months - I'm excited to see what happens in the next four!

Of pies and personality

2011-02-10T10:50:00.000-08:00

I made an apple pie today.

As part of my New Year’s purge and perennial organization plan, I started sifting through the contents of one of my freezers. Yes, I have two freezers, a chest and an upright. After a summer of putting nothing new into the chest freezer, I think I can finally move what’s left into the upright and defrost.

As I started sorting through the remaining sauces, veggies, various meat items, and the occasional “mystery” package, I came across a bag of sliced apples I froze in September of 2009. If I remember correctly, they’re not the best apples in the world, being a result of "The Great Coupon Mania Of ’09".

Back then, one could print off innumerable Target coupons, all for the same item.

And print I did.

Then girls and I would head out to the nearest Super Target, armed with multiple coupons for bananas, breads, and apples... you name it, we couponed it. In September, I found coupons for 1 pound of free apples. So, off we trotted to Target, coupons in hand. We each gathered 1 pound of apples at a time, going through the checkout in a row, paying a couple cents each for our bounty. A quick trip to the car to deposit the goods, and we’d be back in produce before you knew it.

Target no longer has such a lenient coupon policy.

I might be the reason why.

Anyway, the apples turned out not to be such a great deal, being of the tasteless, shipped-in-from-a-million-miles-away, variety. My solution? Slice, sugar, and freeze for pies.

Of course, an apple pie is truly only as good as its apples, so the pies turned out to be somewhat disappointing, but nothing a heft scoop of vanilla ice cream couldn't remedy.

Mmm, there's nothing like a piece of Mom's disappointing apple pie with a scoop of vanilla!.

Let’s just say I learned my lesson and leave it at that.

But this morning, I found myself holding that last bag of disappointing apples. Not being able to throw it out, disappointing apple pie has been added to tonight’s menu.

As I dumped the apples into the crust, I started thinking about the women in my life and their apple pies. I never had one of my mother-in-law’s pies. After 12 children and the life of a farm wife in the '50s and '60s, I think her pie-maker was worn out.

My mom makes a mean apple pie, though it is quite different from mine. Hers has no top crust, while mine has the crumble topping of French apple. Mom’s apple pie is quite sweet; just thinking about it I can taste the syrupy deliciousness of the cooked juices. I don’t think she’s ever used a recipe to make her crust, but it turns out flaky and delicate every time. These days, she thinks nothing of making a pie or two and taking them to the neighbors.

I tend not to be quite so generous.

I remember when my Grandma was going to show me how to make an apple pie. My uncle and cousin were heading out on vacation in their camper and I wanted to make them some treats to take along. Grandma suggested an apple pie and tapioca pudding, two of my uncle’s favorites.

Grandma and I didn’t get along all that well. I spent the summers at her farm house for years, but we never quite clicked. If I remember correctly, Grandma wanted to get it done and I was procrastinating. I think when you were born in the late 1800s and were a farm wife, you learned to get things done - if you put them off, you might not have enough to eat that winter. The consequences for procrastinating were never quite dire-enough for me to change my "I'll do it later" attitude.

Grandma’s idea of teaching me how to make a pie upset me, too. I wanted to make the pie, she wanted me to watch her do it and learn. So I fumed as I watched her make the pie.

Without a recipe, of course.

I was 13 at the time, which might have had a little something to do with our conflict.

Anyway, I remember watching Grandma lay her precisely sliced apples - really, they were all exactly the same width - in a perfect spiral in the crust. She actually laid the apples in the crust one at a time. Slightly different from my slice, stir, and dump method of crust-filling.

Sadly, I don’t remember what Grandma’s apple pies tasted like, though in the image that comes to mind when I think of her, she’s always sitting at the table peeling apples over a tub.

My pies tend to be messy, rather unattractive things. They’re always running over, getting a little too brown in spots, or ending up slightly undercooked. But they always taste good.

I guess you could say I see a little bit of myself in my pies. A little messy on the outside, but worth a second look.

My girls aren’t interested in pie-making. Maybe someday when they have families of their own they’ll ask for a lesson. Or a recipe.

No one ever actually taught me how to make a pie (Grandma's lesson sort of went in one ear and out the other). I kind of ended up figuring it out for myself.

So I guess you can tell a lot about a person and how she makes a pie.

Just please remember one thing.

Don’t use disappointing apples no matter how cheap they are.

Every pie deserves better than that.

Love Poems

2010-12-31T10:31:00.000-08:00

We had a wonderful Christmas this year - calm, relatively stress-free, and full of togetherness.

One thing I have always tried to instill in my children is the importance of family - being there to support each other no matter what.

This year, my youngest showered all of us with her love and demonstrated her belief in the connectedness of family.

I knew she'd been working on Christmas gifts for all of us - she always hand-makes everything, usually starting in August! This year, she asked me for some of my old canning jars - I have a huge box of them in the garage - but she kept mum about why she needed them.

The closer it got to Christmas, the more often she mentioned needing to work on "PAPOP," her name for the gift she was making for all of us.

I could tell she was getting concerned about finishing in time, so I casually mentioned that she could wait and give whatever it was to each of us for our birthdays - but she insisted this wasn't possible.

I thought she was being too hard on herself - and being a little stubborn.

On Christmas morning, her reason for needing to finish, all the hours she spent sequestered in her room, and that last-minute dash to Office Depot for more ink, all became apparent.

The whole family gathered to open her gift to us: Pick A Peck of Poems.

We each had an antique canning jar filled with 52 poems - one for each week of the year - all written by Melissa for us.

Here is what the gift tag said:

These jars are full of poems written solely by myself. The poems are the same for each person and are labeled 1-52. Starting on the first Sunday of January everyone will read the first poem. There is a poem for every Sunday of the year. The jars are easily transported so that no matter where each of us is, every Sunday we open our jar and read the appropriate poem.

Love,

Melissa

I am so taken by her thoughtfulness and the love she poured into this gift. What a wonderful young woman my daughter is!

I can't wait to read the first poem!

From the berry patch

2010-06-19T13:19:00.000-07:00

Strawberry season has come and gone in our little patch. We picked for 3 solid weeks, averaging 2-4 quarts every other day.

There is nothing like a fresh grown strawberry, still warm from the sun, plucked carefully from its vine, and popped directly into one's mouth.

Our across-the-alley neighbors are from Mexico. One afternoon, the husband saw my boys picking and came over to visit. It turns out, his wife is from the prime strawberry growing region in Mexico and he had questions about growing strawberries in Iowa. We plan to give him some of our plants this fall when we do some dividing.

He has 3 or 4 little boys who had never before tasted a real strawberry.

We figured, in honor of their mother, we should remedy that situation.

They had never tasted anything quite as luscious, and the looks on their faces were pure delight. One little boy exclaimed, "I never knew they tasted this good!"

Makes me think of all the other children - and adults - who have no idea what real food tastes like. If they only knew, maybe more local farmers could make a living growing seasonal crops.

I buy grocery store fruit, but I know it is but a pale substitute for the real thing.

If only everyone could experience the explosion of flavor straight from the berry patch, they'd be like those little boys, who always seemed to show up right at picking time.

Snappy

2010-06-15T16:58:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago the girls and I ventured to a local park. They hung out on the beach and the playground while I walked the park's 3-mile trail. It was a beautiful, sunny day spent out and about together. After a quick lunch of pop, chips, and granola bars (I know, I know), we headed out to do some house-gazing; a favorite pastime of mine which I was pleased to discover the girls enjoyed. For me, drive-by house surfing satisfies my high level of domicile envy. The girls simply enjoy watching my level of panic increase as I find myself lost (temporarily, mind you) or too near the river, or railroad tracks. Or worst yet, lost on a dirt road next to railroad tracks close to the river.

Ah, phobias, I embrace thee, if only because you so verily entertain my children!

Anyway, on our way home after this foray, we drove back past the entrance to this park, which is known for its proximity to the Raccoon River, its large lake, playgrounds, etc. A lot of construction was taking place along the road at its entrance.

As I was zooming along, content in my recently demonstrated ability to simultaneously freak out, entertain my children, and subsequently find my way home, I saw a big muddy bump in the middle of this very busy road. As we got closer, it sure looked like a turtle, but I dismissed the thought since it wasn't moving.

As we passed the bump, Sarah exclaimed, "Mom, that was a turtle in the road!"

After the obligatory argument of the "no it wasn't"/"yes it was" variety, I turned the car around and went back to the park, pulling the car off the road near the entrance.

Sarah jumped out to investigate, declaring the rectitude of her perception, "I told you it was a turtle!"

Ah, then the dilemma. How to rescue a large snapping turtle (I was sure that's what it was - we couldn't possibly have been called upon to rescue a plain, old, mild-mannered turtle) in the middle of a busy road.

Just then, I spotted a couple jogging by and told Sarah to run up and ask for their help. Mind you, my part in this rescue so far entailed sending my 17-year-old daughter out into the middle of a busy four-lane road to ask strangers to help rescue a turtle.

That, and I did turn the car around.

Not one of my proudest moments.

The couple stopped and the guy pulled up a couple of construction stakes and he and Sarah started scooting the turtle off the road. Said turtle obviously had a death wish, since he didn't offer one whit of assistance in his rescue.

I could tell, from the safety of the front seat, that he was hefty, too, by watching how they struggled to move him to safety.

How much does a snapping turtle the size of an 11 x 14 sheet paper weigh? Google wasn't particularly helpful with this.

Finally, he was safely on the side of the road, but was still way too far from the lake for comfort. What to do?

We decided to empty our cooler, scoot the turtle into it, then drive him back to the lake. By this time, Melissa and I decided to join more directly in the rescue effort. While we all stood lined up by the busy road, cars and trucks began to slow, watching what was going on.

We'd become a bona fide rubber-necking event!

One woman pulled her car over, crossed the lanes of traffic, and told us, "With the way my life's been going lately, I just had to watch this! This is great!"

Finally, turtle-in-cooler, the joggers took off, the traffic began to move again, and the girls and I lugged our unwilling rescue-ee toward the back of the Prius.

Once he was heaved in, we drove toward the boat ramp, getting as close to the edge of the river as possible. A quick dump and a little prompting with a stick, and Snappy took off into the water, ready to wreak havoc again someday, no doubt.

We left, buoyed by our altruism and ingenuity, ready for the next perilous rescue to come our way.

Thankfully, my darling husband washed out the cooler.

Fishy memories

2010-06-13T17:05:00.000-07:00

Last month the girls and I went to our little local zoo. I think it had been a couple of years since we last were there and it was fun to go back.

As always, one of their favorite places was the koi feeding area. I came prepared with change to buy the fish food and we enjoyed the ensuing feeding frenzy almost as much as the koi.

Two things came to mind while there.

First, I wish I had been more willing to say "yes" back when the kids were all little - they got to feed the fish, but each child only got one handful of food. I've learned a lot about parenting over the course of the past 15 years or so. Thankfully, my oldest two tend to be forgiving!

Secondly, watching the fish go berserk, roiling and tumbling over each other in a veritable orgy of greed, I was transported back to my uncle's ponds nearly 30 or more years ago.

I spent only 6 summers of my youth on my grandmother's farm, but the bulk of my happy memories were formed during those few months each year.

My grandma and I didn't really get along very well and she focused on and openly favored my older sister. Searching for escape, I went outside and discovered the man who probably had the greatest influence on my character and reasoning, along with my dad of course; my Uncle Clarence.

Uncle Clarence was, I think, 14 years older than my dad, making him well into his 60s in the early 1970s. In many ways he was like a grandfather to me. I remember following him around the farm, from tool shed to tractor and pick-up truck to cattle lot. I was so quiet and followed so closely that he often would turn and run into me.

Uncle Clarence was the first adult to treat me as an equal. Although he didn't hesitate to pronounce his own opinions, he opened my mind to question religion, politics, and human behavior. No matter what, Uncle Clarence was on my side.

I remember one year, as my parents prepared to take me back home to New York, I started sobbing and couldn't stop, throwing myself in Uncle Clarence's arms. It was always so very hard to leave!

Uncle Clarence had several man-made ponds that he stocked with fish. I vaguely remember that he ran a fishing business on the side. In the smaller ponds were the starter fish. I presume they stayed there until they were big enough to release into some of the bigger ponds.

Funny, I never asked about that.

And as I write this, I realize how tenuous many of the "facts" of my childhood are in my mind.

The starter fish were given feed on a regular basis and grew to know the sound of my Uncle's footsteps on land as he approached. I'm not sure whether they were crappies, bullheads, walleyes, or what; maybe a mixture of them all.

As he approached, the fish would begin to swim toward the side of the pond until the whole surface was wall-to-wall fish. And mouths.

As cool as this was, it was also kind of creepy to look out on a sea of slimy, writhing fish mouths.

My uncle and my cousin were consummate fishermen, but thankfully they tolerated my squeamishness about the whole business. I did learn to cast (though there was one unfortunate instance when I let go at the wrong moment, sending my cousin's prized new rod straight into the pond) but have never baited a hook or cleaned my catch. Heck, I never even actually touched any of the fish I caught.

Yes, they were mighty tolerant.

I got to participate in farm life as a visitor, savoring the good parts and never quite having to participate in the gross or uncomfortable. But I think the exposure I had to some of the necessities of growing and harvesting food enriched my life. Like watching Uncle Clarence shock a fish, then hang it from it's lower lip (okay, I mean the skin underneath the lower jaw), and skin it. I get the shivers just thinking about it. But I sure did enjoy my Aunt Ruthie's fried catfish.

Boy, it's been years since I've had that catfish.
Years since Uncle Clarence died.

Decades since my childhood summers on the farm.

But the memories of watching my uncle feeding those fish will be with me forever.

Sweetie

2010-06-10T08:03:00.000-07:00

My mommy doesn't say much...

but I know she loves me.

What about socialization?

2010-06-08T10:04:00.000-07:00

Mea culpa.
Mea culpa.

Mea maxima... you get the idea.

What is the ultimate failure of any homeschooling parent?

A child who doesn't know the times tables?
Nope.

Delayed reading?

Nah.

Inability to find latitude and longitude on a map?

Nuh-uh.

The correct answer here is "socialization."

As in, failure to properly do so.

It's difficult to admit this, being a long-time, somewhat eclectic, a little bit unschoolerish, periodically panicky homeschooler.

And in all honesty, most of my charges do quite well in the social skills department.

Except for one.

And it's all my fault.

Despite her tender years, my littlest girl doesn't get along well with others. She's too excitable, doesn't listen well to the social cues of her playmates, doesn't understand when someone else just doesn't want to play anymore.

Oh, and she doesn't obey her mother very well, either.

A good friend even told me her littlest was uncomfortable around my baby and that her actions are a little "unbalanced."

Wow, was that ever hard to hear.

Granted, she's still just a toddler...

in human years.

But my sweet little Ivy Rose is a bit of a maniac.

We recently dog sat for good friends of ours. Gil, their 9-year-old Welsh Corgi, played with Ivy a lot. But she just didn't seem to understand when he'd had enough, which led to nipping and general grumpiness.

It's hard to pull a 113-pound just-nipped St. Bernard off a guy who stands about 4 inches high at the shoulder. She was angry and hurt, he was fed-up, and I was sweating.

"Please, Mrs. Lauer, make her stop!"

When said friends dog-sat her, Ivy put to use a skill she mastered last fall: fence jumping. Apparently, she took off over the fence and ran straight toward the neighbor's dog, a sweet labrador retriever. A seeing-eye dog, no less.

I think she likely just wanted to play, but a huge dog barreling at full-speed is a little scary. Believe me, I know. I've been hit by flying St. Bernard a time or two myself.

As my mom recently reminded me, nobody likes the hyper, misbehaving kid. So I've firmed up my resolve and deepened my voice, insisting that Ivy obey me. And there's been a huge improvement.

We have much less barking, and when she does, I can get her to listen to me and stop fairly quickly. We've discovered she's afraid of people, so we've been working on those social skills as well.

Beware, those who enter my abode! You will promptly be handed dog treats and asked to greet my baby, quite a slobberful undertaking.

Our next step will be meeting more dogs and working on intra-species social skills.

But the true test will come later this month when my mom comes to visit.

Will I be able to keep Ivy from knocking Grandma over? Slobbering all over her? Basically, loving her to death?

Will my mom ever visit us again after meeting Ivy for the first time?

I'm keeping my fingers crossed and my pockets full of dog treats.

Couch potato

2010-06-07T16:26:00.000-07:00

So I'm seeing my therapist again.
Seems as if I should be saying this while sipping a martini in some chic little out-of-the-way cafe. Instead, I'm sweating in my family room, complete with white socks and over-sized t-shirt.
Me, that is, not my family room.
Besides, I don't like martinis.
When I was a teenager there must have been a spate of movies-of-the-week (remember those?) featuring women committed to insane asylums, er psychiatric facilities, against their will. Man, did those creep me out. It became a niggling, unspoken fear of mine. One of those fears that rears its ugly phobic head only in dreams.
Paranoid much?
Anyway, I think it's kind of ironic that I've spent my entire adult life battling depression and anxiety. Fortunately, it's become a lot harder to commit someone.
That, and crazy as this may sound, my husband likes to have me around.
And they say he's the sane one!
There's been a lot going on here the last year or so, and I've noticed my fatigue increasing along with a general inability to get much of anything done.
I mean, a greater-than-usual inability to accomplish much.
So, I guess it's time for a tune-up.
Again.
Sigh.
See you in the looney bin.

In a row

2010-06-06T16:30:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't blogged in... forever.

Blogging is kind of like falling off a horse (which I almost did once, by the way) in that if you falter and don't get right back on-line, you just may never get back in the saddle again.

Or something like that.

Anyway, we're all still here, our various maladies variously treated and diagnosed, and I'm ready to re-enter the blogosphere.

We'll see if I manage to hang on this time.

Oh, in case you were wondering, we never caught the mouse.

Mousers

2010-02-15T07:01:00.000-08:00

What are these two up to?
They're probably just messing with my brain... something Lester (the little guy) particularly enjoys.
He likes to sit outside the bathroom door and cry. And cry. And yowl.
Finally, unable to take it anymore, I climb out of the tub to let him in.
And he sits there.
Just sits there.
Now that he can come in, well, you see, he's just not all that sure he really wants to.
I close the door.
The yowling begins.
Open it... and Lester shoots off like "striped lightning" down the hall.
Lather, rinse repeat.

So the other morning when Lester and Fannie became preoccupied with something under the stove, I initially chalked it up to cat shenanigans.
Then I began to wonder... there isn't really something under there, is there?
Surely nothing more than a fur forest and maybe a grape?

Then on Saturday, Fannie continued the beneath-the-stove obsession. Fortunately, Michael had not yet left for Hawaii, so I asked him to pull the stove out to check for... gasp! ... mice.

For some reason, Michael didn't take the situation quite as seriously as the girls and me, insisting on, of all things. finishing our taxes before checking on the rodent situation.
Men.

Fannie stayed on guard...

ever vigilant.
All doubt disappeared when she started making hunting noises... clicking... clicking ... clicking...
Finally, taxes done, Michael and Stephen pulled out the stove to reveal... mouse droppings and the bewhiskered nose of our winter invader.
I quickly called the exterminator, my voice quavering just a little as I requested service as soon as possible. Yes, anytime Monday is fine. Anytime.
God, just please hurry!
This isn't the first time we've had unwanted wildlife in the house. We once had a mouse nest in the TV cupboard, we've had chipmunks invade our basement, and of course, my favorite, the bat invasion of 2005.
You'd think I'd be somewhat used to it by now, wouldn't you?
Since the exterminator apparently doesn't work on weekends - the nerve! - Michael bought a couple of traps. The girls were concerned about whether they were humane traps, how they worked exactly, and couldn't we just catch and release?
Um. No.
As far as trap construction and efficacy, I encouraged a don't ask - don't tell approach.
I don't know whether the traps caught anyone, since Michael left in the predawn hours yesterday. I don't even know where he placed the traps.
Fortunately, the cavalry should arrive sometime today.

But it's 9:36 right now and the exterminator has yet to call.
To say I'm a little on-edge would be an understatement.
Every time a cat's gaze lasts a little too long or one of the dogs becomes too interested in what's under a couch, I cringe.

Meanwhile, Fannie and I just wait and watch. One of us is excited. The other, ridiculously freaked out.
I let you decide which is which...

Crafty

2010-02-11T06:18:00.000-08:00

Melissa has a tradition.
She always makes the gifts she gives.
Over the past few years she's given altered-book style photo albums, crocheted purses and throws, handmade scarves, books of poems and Haiku, photo calendars and felted ornaments.
Last fall, she made a wet-felted scarf for a friends' birthday present.
We had never wet-felted before, so the task was a little daunting.
For me at least.
I remember when I was in first grade. I used to get Highlights magazine. Oh, I loved that magazine! I used to read the crafts pages and I remember yearning, yes yearning, to make the crafts.
But I was too afraid.
I don't remember whether I asked for help and it wasn't forthcoming, or whether I kept my desires to myself, but I never once worked up the nerve to make one of those crafts.
This somewhat irrational fear - okay, let's be honest, it's totally irrational - still plagues me to this day.
Fortunately I have Melissa to prod me along and push me through my mental hurdles.
Poor child.
Can you say "burden?"
Anyway, I managed to conquer my fear and the two of us embarked on a wet-felting journey together.
I must admit, it is a little less scary with company.

First we laid the silk scarf out on towels.

Next, Melissa took wool roving and laid it on top of the scarf.

Once the roving was in place, we laid a piece of plastic netting over the top.

Then sprayed the whole scarf with water.

Next we rubbed ivory soap over the whole scarf, beginning the felting process. This was hard work!

As usual, we had plenty of extra help...

We then further wetted the whole mess and began rolling and unrolling the scarf felt the roving to the silk ...

We rolled and rolled and rolled. Since we didn't really know what we were doing, we almost over-felted. It was really difficult to extract the scarf from the netting.

A quick soak in some vinegar water to remove the soap and behold...

the finished product!

While this was fun, it was a lot more work than machine felting crocheted projects.

But I can see us deciding to try more wet-felting in the future.

Dickensian

2010-02-09T14:38:00.001-08:00

So yesterday I took my two girls to the doctor's office.
Actually, I wasn't planning on going anywhere yesterday, so my darling husband didn't dig my car out from under our latest 8 or so inches of snow. Oh, and the snow plow, which actually came to my neighborhood in a timely fashion, piled up a mini-mountain at the end of the driveway, effectively trapping me in my home.
Sort of.
You see, I don't do snow.
Oh, I enjoy how pretty it is, love snow days, really love wearing my warm woolen sweaters and sipping hot chocolate in front of the fire.
But I don't shovel.
Snow-blow?
No-go.
I have many ~~excuses~~ reasons for avoiding this particular winter toil, all of them excellent in my opinion.
Bad back?
Check.
Lack of strength?
Check.
Prone to exhaustion from extreme physical exercise?
Double check. (I like to blame this one on fibromyalgia and hypothyroidism issues. Works for me.)
Unlike a very dear friend of mine who delights in showing off her shoveling prowess - she regularly shovels her crazy-long driveway faster than her neighbors can snow-blow theirs - I leave the hard physical work to others.
Which usually translates into "husband."
So when I became alarmed at Sarah's week-long stomach distress and pain - visions of appendicitis dancing in my head - I made a doctor's appointment.
And, despite the sage advice my mother gave me when the children were little, "You can't expect Michael to stay home from work when you're sick. Sometimes you just have to hang your head over the toilet and suffer," I called my ~~taxi service~~ darling husband and asked if he could take us.
Boy, doesn't that sound right out of the 1950s? And to think I used to subscribe to Ms.
Now, to be clear, I have spent my fair share of days with my head hung over the toilet, caring for four little ones, four medium-sized ones, and, to be honest, four large ones. Oh, the stories I could tell....
Suffice it to say, asking my husband to miss work is not something I regularly do, nor am I comfortable with.
Sweet man that he is, he readily agreed to zoom home to help me out. It probably doesn't hurt that he's scheduled to go to Hawaii next week, followed shortly thereafter by a trip to Chile.
Guilt can be a wonderful thing.
So, since we were taking Sarah anyway, I called back to see if they could see Melissa, too. Her toes have been bothering her for a month or more - they're sore, inflamed, red-ish purple and itchy. Nothing seems to help, so a two-fer was in order.
Now, just the day before, I got to thinking about Melissa's toes and pondered whether she could have chilblains. We looked it up on-line, and lo and behold, her symptoms fit. We joked around a bit about it and she finally agreed to wear socks.
So after Sarah's diagnosis - a likely side-effect from her migraine medicine - I told the doctor I thought Melissa had chilblains.
You'd have though I'd performed a miracle by her reaction. How in the world did I know about chilblains? In nearly 4 years of practice, she had never seen a case until just the week before, and now here was her likely second case.
Victorian novels.
What the Dickens?
Yes, I told her, it seems the gatekeeper or some other poor soul in Victorian novels always suffered from chilblains. Or gout. Or pleurisy. The flux. You name it, those Victorians seemed to have it.
As she walked out of the door, the doctor chuckled, "Harleqin Romances, huh?"
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Harlequin Romances? Me? This accusation was almost as bad as the time I had to request a copy of a Louis L' Amour novel at the book store. It was a gift for my husband, something I made perfectly clear to the sales clerk, who could have cared less what I was buying. The embarrassment nearly killed me.
Apparently, my faced turned beet red as I fumbled to explain that I didn't know about chilblains from trashy novels but from the author of, um, David Copperfield, you know, what's his name?
Fortunately, Sarah's young and nimble brain recalled his name. Yes, I read the Victorian novels of Charles Dickens.
So much more respectable.
So much less embarrassing.
What followed was a trip to the lab for blood work to ensure the diagnosis. We should find out sometime today.
So while my life seems to have taken on a slightly Dickensian flavor, I prefer think of it as "grotesquely comic" rather than due to "squalid and poverty-stricken working conditions." (a la Collins dictionary)
Melissa, however, might not agree.
This week alone she's had to scoop the litter boxes, help fold laundry, gather the eggs, and bundle-up to bring in wood for the fire.
Unregulated, strenuous, often cruel child labor.
The little dickens.

Thanks, Betty

2010-02-08T11:57:00.000-08:00

Potato Buns.
Need I say more?
These delectable, slightly-sweet dinner rolls are a family favorite.
And who do I have to thank for this fantastic recipe?
Betty, of course.
Betty Crocker.
Yes, thanks to Betty's 1956 cookbook, I have fabulous recipes for cakes, pies, and good-old-standbys like raspberry shrub and tuna casserole.
But that's not all Betty had to offer. The book is chock-full of helpful hints for the happy housewife, such as "Wear comfortable clothes and properly fitted shoes while working around the house."
No more high heels and skirts for me!
And this helpful hint for a good personal outlook: "Every morning before breakfast, comb hair, apply make-up, a dash of cologne, and perhaps some simple earrings. Does wonders for your morale."
I don't think Betty would want to experience my morale before my morning coffee.
But most of Betty's recipes are just the bees knees, especially potato buns, which are actually called "Potato Refrigerator Rolls."
Yes, that's right, the dough for these rolls, and most other breads, for that matter, can be made in advance and kept refrigerated. I often make a batch of bread dough and stick it in the fridge overnight for baking later the next day. The cold of the refrigerator inhibits the growth of the yeast. Once you bring the dough back to room temperature, it will continue to rise.
The great thing about these rolls, however, is their versatility and that they only need 2 hours out of the refrigerator to come to room temperature.
When I made this batch of rolls, I doubled the recipe and ended up with enough dinner rolls for two meals (one for that night, one for later) and enough dough for a Swedish Tea Ring.

So, without further adieu, I present Betty Crocker's Potato Refrigerator Rolls.

Measure into mixing bowl: 1 1/2 cups warm water and 1 package active dry yeast, stir to dissolve
Stir in: 2/3 cup sugar, 1 1/2 tsp. salt, 2/3 cup shortening, 2 eggs, 1 cup lukewarm mashed potatoes
Mix in by hand until dough is easy to handle: 7 to 7 1/2 cups white flour

Turn onto lightly floured board, knead until smooth and elastic. Placed greased-side-up in greased bowl.. Cover with damp cloth; place in refrigerator for 3-5 days. About 2 hours before baking, shape dough into rolls, coffee cakes, etc. Cover and let rise until double, about 1 1/2-2 hours. Bake in 400 oven for 12-15 minutes.
Makes about 4 dozen rolls.

Oh, and they also make great fake McMuffins!

Rule breaker

2010-02-08T11:05:00.000-08:00

Now, that is a title I never would have thought applied to me.
In school, I was always the good girl - good grades, polite, well-behaved. If I ever broke a rule, I did it on the sly, always knowing how to cover my trail so I didn't get caught. Not that I did this often, but I do remember pulling a fast one on my band teacher in middle school. We were supposed to keep a daily practice chart and have a parent sign it weekly.
Guess who neglected to do so?
I remember being to afraid to tell my mom that I had forgotten (didn't want to get in trouble), though I'm not sure what she would have done. So I filled in all the spaces with reasonable practice times and asked my mom to show me how she wrote her signature. I then took the paper with her signature and wrote over the top of it to make an impression on the form underneath.
I tried to go over the indentations with pen, but needless to say, it wouldn't have taken a forensics expert recognize the fakery.
What to do?
I couldn't not turn it in, as that would get me in trouble at school; and I certainly couldn't tell my mom now since the evidence of my attempted forgery was so, well, obvious.
It was then I had a stroke of brilliance. I took the form and ran it under the faucet - not too much, but just enough that I could smudge the ink of the signatures and wrinkle the paper up real well. Then, when I turned it in, I told my teacher I had dropped it in the snow.
And of course he believed me.
I was the good girl, remember?
Whew. Just reliving that desperate act of my youth made my anxiety spike.
There have been other instances, both big and small, when I have broken the rules... but not by much.
It wasn't until I decided to take my three youngest out of public school 8 years ago that my desire to live by the rules, or rather, my fear of breaking the rules, began to fade.
The biggest stumbling block I faced in deciding to home school, other than the fear that I'd bring my kids home and make them stupid, was going against the norm.
And when I say fear, I mean FEAR.
I don't remember there being any specific fears, it was just plain scary to do something so... radical; something other people could point at and question. Add to that the decision to "mostly" unschool and the idea of fitting into social norms pretty much flew by the wayside. Though at first it was difficult to answer well-meaning questions honestly. "What curriculum do you use?" "How many hours a day do the kids study?" "Do you have school in the summer?"
I often found it easier to fib than to explain the philosophy of unschooling.
My rule-breaking has since increased, though I no longer feel the need to cover it up. My decision to no longer be a hypocrite by attending a church I didn't believe in evolved into my ability to flatly state that I am an atheist.
I cook from scratch, my home is way too furry, and yes, I raise chickens in my urban backyard. I make my own pickles, can tomatoes, and read for hours to my girls nearly every day. We rarely eat at the dinner table anymore, instead enjoying an episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" while balancing our plates on our laps. (Hmm, I need to look for some old-fashioned TV trays...)
Where am I going with this?
Oh yes, my most recent failure to follow the rules.
I joined the Eat from the Pantry Challenge and was an abject failure.
That's right - no sooner had I vowed to spend no more than $200 on groceries for the month of January than I felt confined. I did well the first couple of weeks, but then orange juice went on sale for 77 cents a half gallon and peanut butter for only 99 cents a jar. I felt the strain of my self-imposed restrictions almost immediately.
Suddenly, despite quarts of frozen strawberries, blueberries and applesauce in my freezer, all I could think of was going to Costco for some fresh fruit - kiwi called to me, blackberries beckoned, and tomatoes taunted.
When milk went on sale for 88 cents a half gallon, I couldn't justify passing that by, so 20 half gallons soon graced my refrigerator shelves. Cheese on sale for less than $2 a pound? Load me up, please.
In all fairness, I did eat from my pantry, which by the way, includes two freezers, two refrigerators, and 7 overflowing shelving units in the basement. But the idea of following self-imposed strictures quickly lost its luster.
I did spend less than I normally would have last month and I even was able to defrost and organize one of my freezers.
But I just don't have it in me anymore to follow the rules - even when they are voluntarily self-imposed.
Funny thing. I've noticed this month that I've hardly ventured to a grocery store and my grocery spending is crazy low.
Wonder what that means...

Mommy and Me

2010-01-14T17:02:00.001-08:00

I ran across a rant of sorts yesterday from a couple of young mothers seemingly at their wits' end with their children.
Their five-year-olds are driving them crazy, misbehaving, refusing to clean their rooms. Shouldn't five-year-olds be more responsible?
Shouldn't they listen to their mothers and just obey, for goodness sake?
I mean, should children of this age force their mothers to raise their voices, threaten, and demand obedience?
After all, they're five years old.
Now that they can "think for themselves," it's time to at least expect decent behavior.
Isn't it?
Well, isn't it?

Now, I'm a seasoned mother of four, so I've seen 5 years old four times already. And I have years of mothering experience and lots of frustration under my belt, and I'd like to tell these young mothers that I certainly empathize.
Being a full-time, stay-at-home mommy is hard, often frustrating work.
But I'd like to ask them to step back and imagine the hard work and frustration involved in being 5.
Yes, that's right.
It's hard to be a little kid.
And a child's mommy should never be his or her adversary.
Now, I don't believe in un-parenting. I don't believe that rules and discipline stifle a child's imagination.
But it's time to take a hard look at your priorities, ladies.

Is it so important to have a child pick up his or her room every single day? Is that really the most important lesson for your five year old to learn today? Or even tomorrow? Do you really think threatening a five-year-old with punishment or declaring you will charge him if you clean up his toys for him is the message you want your child to get from you? His mommy?
When my boys were little they could mess up a room, heck the entire floor of a house, in an afternoon of play. They liked to build cities using Legos, blocks, Tinker Toys, Little People, basically every single toy in the house, that covered the floors of entire rooms. It used to bother my husband to come home to this "mess" and he wanted it cleaned up right away.
But the boys had spent all day on their creation and would continue to play with it the next day. I asked him how he would feel had he spent an entire day of work, only to be told to remove it and start over the next day.
He changed his mind.

Now, that doesn't mean we lived in a perpetually messy house. But I knew it was too much to ask of a young child to pick up and sort all those toys.
The best strategy? To help them pick up.
That's right.
Help them.
Even though I had other things I needed, even wanted to do, when it was time to clean up, I helped them do it.

Why? Shouldn't they be expected to clean up their own messes?
Well, partly because it was a kind thing to do. But also because it is too much to ask of a five-year-old to put away and organize alone. There was a benefit to working alongside my little ones as well; we had great conversations during clean up, I could help them learn how to go about such a task, they learned organization skills, and more.

What about the misbehaving? Purposeful disobedience?
Most often I discovered that naughty behavior came about because my kids weren't getting enough of my time and attention.
That's right. My children's behavior often reflected their need for more "mom."
So, maybe you have a home business, younger children, older adults you're caring for... it's easy to get overwhelmed and self-involved. You think you're giving your child enough attention, you think the attention you're giving ought to be enough, for goodness sake. You have too much to do in a single day, can't that five-year-old just behave?
Well, no.
What other way does a young child have to tell his mommy that he needs more of her than to misbehave. Maybe it's time to set aside your business, cut back your hours, reduce some of your socializing, or homeschooling, and just be with your child.
To do this, you will make sacrifices.
You will ask your friends, your family, your spouse for more help.
And that's as it should be.
Your number one priority needs to be your little ones.

And you know what?
When they're bigger, say teenagers? They still need to be your number one priority.

Rearing children is not like training dogs. The number one thing I want from my children is their love and respect. But if I don't teach them how to show respect through my own behavior, how will they learn? Through loving and respectful interaction with my children, I have maintained wonderful, emotionally close relationships with all four of them.
We've never had "rebellious" teens, at least in part because my kids didn't really have a lot to rebel against. That's not to say there weren't limits or rules, because there certainly were. But our rules were "family" rules, not rules imposed on the children from the all-powerful, authoritarian parents.

It's not easy being a mommy.
But the last thing you want to do is create an adversarial relationship with your child. Walk with your little one, hand-in-hand, together through life.
Believe me, the rewards are boundless.

Kitten in a Cupboard

2010-01-14T08:28:00.000-08:00

When we moved into our house 3 1/2 years ago, we couldn't afford to buy built in cupboards for the remodeled kitchen. I had always wanted an unfitted kitchen, so we found free-standing furniture pieces and made an old-fashioned kitchen.
Well, fast forward three years and the novelty of the free-standing kitchen had worn off. While I loved the look of the furniture pieces, it was time to create a more functional kitchen.
I was able to keep some of my old furniture pieces, so the kitchen still has a somewhat unfitted look to it, but I love having so much counter space!
Unfortunately, so do the cats.
They've discovered the joy of counter tops and now can climb to the top of the fridge, the tops of the cupboards, and, as you see here, into my antique shelves.
Oh well, what's a little more fur?

Shell Game

2010-01-12T07:30:00.000-08:00

Ain't they purty?
I'm ridiculously proud of these beans.

Last summer, for the heck of it, we decided to grow some beans. I ordered a couple packages of heirloom beans and a couple packages of black beans.

And grow they did.

It was just about as easy as tossing them out the window and watching them take off, a la Jack.
The only challenges they faced were a certain St. Bernard, who like to reach into the garden and steal them, and the occasional rogue chicken.

I first jar was shelled last fall and was brim-full. I honestly can't say I've noticed a flavor difference between home-grown and store bought, but that may be because I almost always cook my dried beans from scratch.

Sunday, after a little siesta, I came downstairs to find Michael and the girls shelling the rest of the beans.

Apparently, it takes intense concentration. Probably because you have to dodge all the flying beans.

Sarah and Melissa

Melissa and Michael

The un-shelled.

We'll definitely grow more beans this summer. I hope we can work to maximize our growing space yet again - it's been a work in progress since we moved here 3 1/2 years ago. Someday, I hope to have enough room for a huge garden so I can grow whatever I want. That someday is likely not so far away anymore...

In the meantime, I'll just have to be patient and content myself with only 5 jars of beans.

The problem is, they're so pretty, it's hard to make myself use them!

The Un-yon

2010-01-12T07:15:00.000-08:00

Hmm, found this on my windowsill Sunday morning...

Goodbyes

2010-01-10T13:44:00.000-08:00

There we are, the whole gang, at the Des Moines Botanical Center in December.
For most people, it seems, the new year started on January 1. But for me, the new year always seems to start when it's time to say goodbye.
Zachary just left today to head back to Iowa State where classes start tomorrow. Stephen has one more week before his classes start. He graduates from college this spring.
Sarah will be home this semester while we try to conquer her migraine pain, but the time for her goodbyes is fast approaching. She'll be 17 in April, with college right around the corner.
And though Melissa will just turn 13 in March, I know how fast six years can speedy by.
There were a couple of times this holiday break that I purposely stopped to form an image in my mind of the whole family together, laughing, joking, loving each other.
I know we'll have many, many, more times together, but life is just around the corner, with marriages, travel, work. Who knows how long before the parameters of our nuclear family change and grow.
Not that this is a bad thing; I know we'll stay happy and strong even as we add more members. It's just that, well, things will change.
And when they do, I know I'll be ready to embrace those changes with open arms. Can anyone say "grandchildren?"
Last spring when we pulled out of my mom's driveway in Arkansas, our week-long visit ended, I watched as she stood by the garage waiving her goodbyes.
Just a few years ago, my dad was standing next to her.
Thirty years ago, my grandpa stood by his garage, waiving, and ten years before that, my grandmother stood with him.
Someday it will be my turn to stand by the garage, waiving goodbye to those I hold so dear in my heart. I can only hope that circumstances keep us close, in distance and in love.
I have to admit, though, I am sooo glad those years are not yet here.

Eat from the Pantry Challenge - Week 1

2010-01-08T12:36:00.000-08:00

The first week of the Eat from the Pantry Challenge is going great-guns! We've had some great meals this week from roast turkey and mashed potatoes, to turkey noodle soup, from homemade pizza to falafel.

The pantry challenge just happens to coincide with a challenge I've given myself to make all our own breads this month. Whew! That uses a lot of yeast and flour, but fortunately I started the month with a pantry well-stocked with nearly 60 pounds of white flour and 20 pounds of whole wheat. I bought the white flour last fall when it was on sale for 99 cents/5 lb. bag. The bags of whole wheat flour were full-price - it never seems to go one sale! I bought 10 jars of yeast early last fall when a small store was reducing it's inventory - I believe they were less than $2 a jar. I still have two or three jars left, which should see me through the month.

Above you see but one tray of a double-batch of pitas I made, half of which went directly into the freezer for a later meal. I find that whenever I can double a batch, whether it's bread, muffins, waffles, or even main dishes, it's well worth the effort since it saves me so much time down the road.

My oldest son, Stephen, has spent a lot of time living in foreign countries, especially when you consider that he's only 21! One night this week he made us falafel, using dried garbanzo beans I had on hand, to go with the pitas.

Oh, my, was it ever delicious!
I must also comment on the gorgeous bowl it's in - one of a set of three nesting bowls I received for Christmas this year. I absolutely love the color! In addition to being 50% off full-price, we were able to use a special one-day coupon for another $10 off, making the present even sweeter!

I gave myself $200 to spend to get through the month, which isn't a lot for a family of 6, three of whom are adult males and two teenage girls to boot. Saturday Hy-Vee had a one-day sale that I couldn't pass up. Milk was only 88 cents a half-gallon and grated cheese was $1/8 oz. bag, making it $2 a pound. We drink a ton of milk here and had just run out. Last fall I started buying grated cheese whenever it hits that $2 a pound (or less) mark and freezing it. That way, I always have the cheese I need on hand and I never have to pay an exorbitant amount due to lack of planning. I also had just run out of cheddar, though we were still well-stocked with mozarella.
So... the very first week I spent $78.50 of my $200 budget stocking up. I bought two weeks of milk, about 10 gallons of skim and 2 of whole, and 30 packages of cheese. Add to this several cans of green beans on sale, of course, 1 bottle store-brand ketchup, 1 jar of garlic-stuffed olives (believe me, this is a staple in my house!) and 1 pint of cream.
Add to that total $6 I spent at another grocery store on reduced-price fresh produce. I've discovered one of the local stores regularly marks down perfectly good fruits/veggies for 99 cents a package. Saturday I found a package of 6 pomegranates (only 3 turned out to be good); a package of 5 zucchini, which my daughter promptly turned into two loaves of zucchini bread; two packages of mushrooms, porcini and button; and two packages of mesclun salad mix.

We used the mushrooms in an omelet for lunch that day and for homemade pizza, the salad was huge - and beautiful - and lasted for two meals. We've also discovered a love for pomegranates!

Here you see the falafel in pitas ... we topped them with ripe avocado slices I had on hand in the fridge. Yum!
So, now at the start of week 2, I have $72.50 left and three weeks to go... gulp.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...

Burn baby, burn

2010-01-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

When we moved to our house nearly 3 1/2 years ago, it needed lots of work. We invested nearly $50,000 in remodeling the kitchen and bathrooms.

After we moved in.

I will never, ever, ever, do that again!

But despite having the Contractor from Hell we ended up with a much-improved (as in livable!) house.

Unfortunately, we couldn't afford to remodel the fireplace then, too, so we spent a darn cold first winter in our old 1904 house. If I remember correctly, the girls and I spent most of every day upstairs, which the radiators seemed to keep almost too warm at times.

But downstairs?

Yikes.

Just the cold waves moving in from the walls and huge windows were enough to send us scurrying for covers.

We've toughened up since then, however, and are able to keep our thermostat set at 65 degrees during the day and 55 at night. I'm not sure, however, that we could have borne this without the repair to our fireplace late last fall.

This is what it looked like the first year and a half we lived here. Everything original, complete with cold air whooshing down the chimney. The woman who owned the house before us kept the whole fireplace covered with black plastic to keep out the chill.

It even had a nice coating of antique ash.

Last fall we finally decided to install a high-efficiency wood burning unit. It doesn't quite have the look I wanted, but we had to find something that would fit in our unusually small opening. That left only one choice, but I've come to like it. I also had to come up with a tile solution, as we didn't want to (nor could we afford) to replace the period tile. I found this set of three tiles on-line and am quite pleased with how the whole thing turned out.

Here is the fireplace as it looks today:

It's made a huge difference in our comfort downstairs, making this room the family gathering place.

It has an electric fan and puts out a lot of heat.

We also discovered that by closing one set of pocket doors and a hallway door we can effectively shut off the front half of the house, thereby trapping all that luscious heat in the living room.

And with temperatures here at -3 degrees and lows around -17, never mind the wind chills, this room has become our haven!

In-House Outhouse

2010-01-03T10:00:00.000-08:00

I grew up hearing my mom tell about life with her grandma and grandpa. This was the 1930s when frugality was not simply a lifestyle choice. She remembers watching her grandpa make laundry detergent and her grandma making cottage cheese.

Even after her own mother paid to have electricity wired to their house, my great-grandparents sat in the dark at night so as not to spend the money on lighting.

My mom told of using the outhouse at her grandma and grandpa's; it was just a fact of life. People really did save the old Sears & Roebuck catalogs for toilet paper, but, according to my mom, the best t.p.-of-old came from summer peaches.

Let me explain.

Summer peaches came by the box, individually wrapped in tissue paper. My mom remembers her grandparents carefully smoothing out each of those wrappers for later use in the outhouse.

My dad used to tell stories involving outhouses, too, though I'm not sure when the farmhouse in which he grew up got indoor plumbing.

He told of Halloween pranks involving disassembling an outhouse and reassembling it atop a downtown building. I seem to remember something about some unfortunate soul falling into the outhouse hole in the process...

Anyway, it's easy to wax nostalgic about days-of-old when living in the comfort of our modern houses. Though my house was built in 1904, it does have all the modern conveniences of indoor plumbing, except when it comes to heating certain rooms.

The remodeling of the kitchen and creation of a half-bath next to it helped make this old house livable, with one minor exception, that is. There was no room for a radiator in the kitchen proper, nor in the downstairs bathroom.

Most of the year this isn't a problem.

This isn't that time of year.

With temperatures below freezing, using our little half-bath becomes an arctic expedition. We can't leave the door to the bathroom open since that would only serve to lower the temperature on the main floor of the house. We also can't leave it open since a certain puppy loves to grab toilet paper and Kleenex boxes.

Michael has a nifty little temperature-assessing device he borrowed from work - it looks kind of like a ray-gun that measures the temperature of individual objects when pointed at them. Last night, while huddled at the dinner table, we decided to see just how cold our little in-house outhouse really is.

Let me tell you, it was eye-opening.

Or perhaps I should say, bun-numbing.

At 8 p.m. it was -4 degrees outside. The thermostat in the house was set at 65 degrees. But a little trip to the bathroom might have required gloves and a coat, with the air temperature measuring 41 degrees, the outside wall of the bathroom at 32 degrees, the floor at 34 degrees, and, get this - the toilet seat at 39 degrees!

Now, to lend an additional measure of perspective here, someone suggested measuring the temperature of my, um, rear. Always game for an experiment, Michael and I stepped into the other room, I bent over, he pointed the thermo-gun, and, well, we came up with a butt-temp of 83 degrees, sans jeans.

This massive temperature differential prompted my eldest to proclaim, "It's lucky mom's butt doesn't fracture."

Indeed.

So, when you're feeling a little chilly in your house, thinking maybe you'll nudge that thermostat up a degree or two, I urge you to think of your forebears and the long journeys undertaken in all weather to the "necessary."

Or you can just think of me.

And my really, really cold rear.

Daily Bread

2010-01-01T15:21:00.000-08:00

So today was the first day of the Eat from the Pantry Challenge and my own challenge to make all our bread from scratch for the month of January. Today's menu, all from what we already had on hand, included mashed potatoes and gravy, roasted turkey, brown rice casserole, green bean casserole, asparagus Parmesan, cranberry-orange bread, three grain bread, and pumpkin bars.
There's been a lonely bag of cranberries resting in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator since Thanksgiving. Every time I'd see them in there, daring me to make something of them or throw them away, I'd think, "I really need to make cranberry-orange bread." But I never seemed to get around to it. Until today, that is.
Food waste, be damned! We now have three loaves of cranberry-orange bread ready for dinner tonight, breakfast, and for the freezer.
I love this recipe, since it uses half whole wheat flour, yet the bread still moist and delicious.

I boiled up a bunch of brown rice this morning, since it's so handy to have it ready to heat up and use during the week. Unfortunately, I think I used up all but a couple of cups today making this three grain bread and the cheesy-rice casserole for dinner.

This is a great whole grain bread, incorporating brown rice and corn meal, along with white flour. When the kids were little I always baked in in loaf pans, but I really like the look of the ovals. This was Sarah's favorite homemade bread when she was little. She misunderstood my calling it "Three grain rice bread," and forever after it's been known as "Three Blind Mice bread" in our family!

The two pie pumpkins and the acorn squash sitting accusingly on my kitchen counter since September have also met a fitting end today. I finally baked them into a squash puree and made whole grain pumpkin bars for tonight's dessert (and probably tomorrow's breakfast, as well!)

The Eat from the Pantry Challenge gave me the nudge I needed to use what I had on hand, rather than allowing good food to spoil. It never hurts to have a little push to help turn intentions into actions.

Eat from the Pantry Challenge

2010-01-01T14:27:00.000-08:00

A glimpse at part of my basement storage

Here it is, January 1, 2010, and it seems all the blogosphere is setting goals for the new year. I don't usually proclaim my goals to the world, but there's an interesting challenge I decided to try this month, the Eat from the Pantry Challenge from Life as Mom and Money Saving Mom.

The idea is to try to eat from your stockpile as much as possible this month, but the parameters of the challenge are individual. Now, since I started couponing in August, I've built up quite a stockpile, but I've always had that tendency. When you can and freeze in the summer, you naturally end up with quite a stash of food to see you through the winter. I have home-frozen corn and green beans, tomato sauces, pesto, strawberries and blueberries. I have home-canned tomatoes, salsa, dill pickles and dilly-green beans, two bushels of potatoes (grown at a friend's house), sweet potatoes and beets.

Since I've started paying attention to sales, I also have more cereal, flour, canned fruits and veggies, sugar, spices, cleaning products, laundry soap, etc., than I could possibly use up in one month.

I'm going to keep the rules for myself relatively simple. I'll continue to buy fresh fruits and veggies, though opting for the best prices when I shop. If there's an incredible "deal" I'll likely still stock up, though I'm going to try to spend only $200 for the rest of January on food/grocery store items for my family.

For example, Hy-Vee is having a one-day sale tomorrow and I plan to stock up on grated cheese ($1 a bag) and milk at 88 cents a half gallon. By stocking up on grated cheeses when the price hits $1 a pound, I know I save a ton. We simply freeze the cheese and pull it out when ready to use it. Also, we drink a lot of milk. I prefer to buy my milk from the local dairy, but since deciding to hit our debt with everything we've got, I decided to choose price over preference, at least for the time-being.

I typically make homemade breads, but rarely manage to do so exclusively. For this challenge, I will try to make all our breads from scratch for the entire month. I'm off to a good start today, making 3 loaves of cranberry-orange bread, three-grain bread, and pumpkin bars.

Ouch!!!

2009-12-28T08:38:00.000-08:00

After a slow November and early December, the ladies have picked up in their egg production. They're back up to laying 4-7 eggs, which is just about perfect. I have plenty to use myself and extras to give to friends.

Everybody molted last fall in September and October, and they're nestled snug in their coop. With the weather this cold, we have a heat lamp on in the coop and a device to keep the water from freezing.

The girls are really glad that Michael has taken over gathering the eggs and changing the water. It's a cold, cold job these days!

One poor lady laid the monstrosity you see above a week ago. To give you a little perspective, below is a comparison between jumbo and a regular egg.

Yeah, I know.

Ouch!

I finally got around to using the egg today and it turned out to be a double-yolk. I am so thankful for the ladies and the hard work they do for us everyday. A dear friend gave us meal worms for the chickens for Christmas. We need to get them out to the coop before all the worms die. Sarah wants to be sure each lady gets a worm, so they'll have to be hand fed.

Thank goodness for Michael!

Holiday-ditty-oddity

2009-12-27T12:38:00.000-08:00

Or why I need a thesaurus and a dictionary to write my Christmas gift tags.

Nearly 8 years ago, I bought my darling husband a set of DVDs for Christmas. You see, we'd been watching The History of Britain on TLC or some other channel that entire fall. Now, it's a long series, with many, many episodes and we completely enjoyed watching them.
When we could stay awake, that is.
You see, we'd start out watching an episode and one or the other of us, sometimes both, would fall asleep before the end. When we'd try to recap for each other, we'd find we couldn't remember crucial details, like what happened with Queen Mathilda or exactly what led up to The War of the Roses.
Strangely, this only deepened our love of this series, as we could watch it over and over... and over again and again and it never got old.
So, the perfect Christmas gift for Michael that year was, of course, the complete series on DVD. I wrote a funny little ditty on his gift tag, complete with rhymes and references to Romeo and Juliet.

Wish I'd saved the little bugger, since that was the beginning of a FAMILY TRADITION. You know what I mean, every family has them. We have many, i.e. Advent boxes, hanging the stockings, the angel at the top of the tree. Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without certain traditions, and though at times I'd really like to just write simple names on gift tags, doing so would likely cause some kind of holiday horror, like Santa not coming or the hot chocolate curdling.
So, each year, several days before Christmas, you'll find me gearing up for a burst of creativity, searching for the thesaurus and dictionary. I decided to record a few of this year's gems for posterity.

For Michael:

Hark! The herald angels sing
Glory to this great new thing
Hook it up and watch amazed
All those choices? You'll be dazed

No more lonely nights downstairs
You and dogs are now prepared
View it to your heart's content
Never mind how much I spent

Glory to this great new thing
Watch the wonders it shall bring
Glory be to heaven on high
Look at all your money can buy

He got a Roku player for the downstairs television.

For Melissa:

Well, doctor, it's a new field of study...
but preliminary analysis of the data indicates
the torture and murder of simulated creatures
is but one small step away from... ack! ugh!
No... no... don't lock me in here ... HELP!

She got SIMS 3.

For Stephen:

Recycled though I'm not
your mom, she didn't plot
The eco option wasn't there son
forcing her to buy a new one
Still and all you must admit
She tried and tried, yet did not quit
Greenest green I may not be
Still, greener than CDs, you see
Mama tried, she fought, she parried
then she bought, a little harried
Still, a good price she sure did find
Gee, she hopes you will not mind

He wanted a reconditioned Ipod Touch, but received a new one.

For Sarah:
(to the tune of Yankee Doodle Dandy)

More than useful, ornamental
that's the gift I aim to be
Use me with an air of caution
Heat and style you're sure to see
Made to aid the artsy-fartsy
Creativity!

She received a special kiln for the microwave for making fused-glass beads.

Okay, as I'm writing these down, I'm realizing the need for that dictionary and thesaurus probably isn't apparent. You see, I lost a couple of the best tags, so you'll just have to take my word for it!

Very Merry

2009-12-25T08:31:00.000-08:00

And a good time was had by all...

Christmas Colors?

2009-12-24T07:19:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when you let the guys mix up the frosting for Christmas cookies.
I don't know about you, but gray and purple just scream "Christmas" to me.

Decorating Christmas cookies is a family tradition. This year, we decorated early so everyone could participate before heading back to college after Thanksgiving.
And so that the cookies were made and decorated before Christmas this year.
Ah hem.

We have such a good time together as a family.

Oh, wouldn't that cup of coffee be good right now with a sugar cookie????

See that stack of unfrosted cookies? I made a double batch this year, so we had several stacks like that.

I used to have to encourage the kids not to "gloop up" the cookies with too many candies, chocolate chips, and other decorations.

You can tell everyone is older now, since our favorites have just frosting and colored sugar. I'm not sure making the cookies that early is a good thing, though. Zach took a couple dozen back to school with him, but the rest of us managed to demolish the whole shabang in about a week.

Yep, that's right.

I think that works out to 3 or 4 dozen apiece.

No wonder my pants are a little snug...

You'd think I'd learn from my experiences... but I have another batch of dough chilling in the fridge right now.
Zachary felt cheated.

What else was a mom to do?

Lap Dog

2009-12-23T18:16:00.000-08:00

I have a lap dog.
The only problem is she weighs about 115 pounds!
Just try telling Ivy she isn't a lap dog.
These days, every time I'm downstairs she jumps on the couch next to me to snuggle and almost always ends up on top of me.
I don't really mind, though Michael gets a little miffed when I tell him there isn't enough room on the couch for the three of us, so would he please move?

She's actually a little St. Bernard, since she'll likely finish up no more than 120 lbs. Her mama was 160 lbs. and her daddy weighed 140 lbs.

I can't imagine.

We'd like to write a series of children's books about "Ivy, the Littlest St. Bernard."

Wally has gotten used to her and will even "snuggle" at times.

This is her spot on the couch.

She likes to be kissed on her "po' dots."

Sometimes it's hard to get your angle just right.

We've had Ivy now for just over year.

And what a year it's been!

But we can't imagine our lives without her.

Eerie Community

2009-12-22T06:31:00.000-08:00

Late every fall, the crows descend.

They arrive by the hundreds to roost in the tall trees in my yard.

Apparently, crows used to roost in the countryside, but starting 30-40 years ago, began to congregate in cities.

I find it a little creepy to see mobs of these huge, black birds flocking in the skies over my house. Then again, I was probably only 6-years-old when I first saw Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

Why do these birds roost together in the fall?

Ah, the mystery deepens.

No one knows for sure, but thoughts include warmth and safety, communication, and socialization.

Perfectly natural reasons, I'm sure.

But it still gives me the willies.

You can ring my bell...

2009-12-21T08:37:00.000-08:00

Not allowed to sing, dance, play Christmas tunes, or do much of anything for two hours...

About 10 years ago (and believe me, I have no idea where all that time went ) I saw a great Christmas Advent idea in a magazine and decided to copy it for my family.
Thus was born the advent boxes.
It was great fun for little ones having a box to open every night counting down to Christmas. At first, it was easy: candy canes, pencils, Christmas activity books, etc. I must admit, the best use of the advent boxes was my own - for years I chose tree ornaments that I loved, placing 4 of each in one or two boxes. I never would have felt okay about doing that directly for myself, but hey, if it was for the kids...
But as the kids got older, 25 boxes full of kitschy X-mas stuff seemed a little... excessive. I mean really, an 18-year-old guy really doesn't want stickers and pencils any more, you know? Plus, my ornament collection pretty much filled up the tree, so... it was time to come up with a different idea.
So a couple years ago, I started letting the kids come up with advent box ideas of their own - typically activities, such as "Go to a movie," "Have hot chocolate and play a game together," that sort of thing.
This year, we included lots of charitable activities, of which Salvation Army Bell-Ringing was one.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to choose an indoor location and the day after the great blizzard found the girls and me ringin' that bell in Merle Hay Mall outside the Sears store.
For two hours.
Late in the day.
When no one was shopping.
Not the most thrilling experience we've ever had, but we did get a few donations.

Ringing a bell for two hours doesn't really help a migraine.

There are a lot of rules for bell-ringers, enumerated on the back of the Sharing/Caring sign. You aren't allowed to sing... if you do, only loud enough for the person standing next to you to hear, which in our case was probably a good thing.

You aren't allowed to bring a CD of Christmas music, either.

We did our best to follow the rules, though the time sure did crawl.

About 1/2 hour in, I remembered there was a Starbucks in the Target at the other end of the mall. I scrounged up some cash and sent the girls for Mocha Frappucinos, though I questioned whether drinking gourmet coffee while asking for donations would be appropriate.

Apparently, it wasn't.

The Starbucks was out of mocha.

Finally, our two hour stint was over, the kettle had a few extra dollars in it, and the three of us felt good that we had done something to help others.

Best quote from the experience "Smile. I think they're going to give us money."

Hopelessness

2009-12-18T15:40:00.000-08:00

I didn't think I would be here again, in this particular place.
It's been years now that my two oldest children managed to tame their own personal demons and gained, if not total dominance, then great control over their mental illnesses.
Each of them was diagnosed with severe anxiety disorders and major depression at the tender ages of 10.
Now, at 21 and 19 years old, they are fully-functioning young men, in charge of their lives and imbued with the great desire to help others. Our oldest will graduate from college in the spring; the other is a successful sophomore at Iowa State University.
I gained control over my own demons over the course of about 5 years of therapy, therefore able to start my forties without the cloud of severe depression coloring my every day.
I'll never forget the day I realized my oldest daughter also suffered from mental illness. The signs of her OCD and anxiety were unmistakable. With trembling hand I called the therapist to report that she needed to be seen immediately... my little girl was suffering.
Nothing can prepare you for the suffering of a child. And when it's your own child, you feel helpless and frantic. A fear so primal it makes you want to scream in agony takes over as you begin the waiting, wondering, and hoping.
Her disease also manifested at age 10.
She, too, found help through therapy and medication.
But now, here we are nearly 7 years later, and the worry and anxiety seem more than I can bear. My little girl is suffering again and there truly is nothing I can do to fix it.
She's suffered from unceasing migraines for the past 7 months. That's close to 210 days with chronic pain. She's gone through several medication adjustments and changes with only occasional, moderate relief.
As if that weren't enough, depression has reared it's ugly head again, taking control of her heart and soul. She feels hopeless. Helpless. Scared.
Through it all, she's persevered, maintaining A's and B's (maybe one C) in all advanced classes. But the shroud of depression blocks these accomplishments from her view. All she sees is cloudy and dark, the lenses of depression filtering out the happy, the good.
There is no sunlight.
Only pain.
And I find myself in a place I thought I'd never again be forced to visit, helping my child through a maze of physical and emotional pain.
And trying not to scream.
But hugs aren't enough.
She will need more courage and strength than ever before to make it through.
As will her father and I.

I wrote the following nearly 9 years ago, in the midst of my second son's panic attacks. It remains an accurate reflection of a mother's fear and torment.
Of my fear and torment.

I’m being held prisoner. Like a tiger in a cage, there is nothing I can do to protect my young. I am not in jail and have never been arrested. But the walls of my prison follow me wherever I go. They are inescapable. My jailer pursues me endlessly, not even in my sleep can I find freedom. The agony of my situation makes me want to cry out in pain, to wail and keen, to tear my clothing, but I cannot even reach the tears. The pain has cut through my heart right into my very soul. Any mother would feel this way, for the bounds of my prison are my son’s mental illness.
How did this happen? Why? Could any God be so cruel to an innocent child? I question the wisdom of faith, for I no longer can have faith in anything. “Don’t worry, he’s going to be OK,” his therapist assured me repeatedly over the course of the last year and a half. But he isn’t OK. In fact, he is worse. Whose fault is it? No one’s. Perhaps that’s partly what makes this so difficult to bear. There is no one to blame, no one to point a finger at, to scream at, to curse.
I hold my son in my arms as he cries, wails and screams in the agony of a panic attack so brutal he feels there is no escape. His weight is crushing me, shoulders digging into my chest, tears soaking my blouse. And I remember holding his dear, sweet baby-soft, fuzzy little head in the crook of my neck. I can remember how he smelled, that wonderful, innocent baby-powder smell. Eleven years ago, when I held his peaceful little body in my arms, I never dreamed he would have to face such a demon. All there was then was the infinite promise the future would hold for my perfect little boy. Now, I hold his sobbing, hulking form as he screams for me to protect him, keep him safe, not to let anyone hurt him, and I wonder how much of that promise is now lost.
We are waiting for a new medication to start to work. Two-to-four weeks, we don’t understand why the symptom reliever isn’t working for him, we are stumped. Maybe you should get a second opinion. Never seen a child with this severe an anxiety disorder before. No comfort anywhere I turn. A strange reversal from hearing he got the best grade in class, was the best speller, earned the highest score possible in the music festival, Now he holds the title of “most severe case.”
There is no one to have faith in. We wait, fingers and toes crossed, for a medication to start to work. It has barely been tested on children, no one knows what the long-term side effects might be, how it works, or even if it works now, whether or for how long it will continue to work. I have no faith. There is simply nothing else to try.
It’s no one’s fault, I repeat as my mantra. It’s no one’s fault, I assure his grandparents, cousins, my husband. It’s no one’s fault, the therapist, the psychologist, assure me. I’m afraid you are feeling guilt over this, let me help you with that, the therapist says. Guilt? What is motherhood without guilt? I remember the time I forgot to send in snacks in first grade, the time we forgot to go to the elementary art show, all the times I have made mistakes as his mother. I forgot that he is the one who doesn’t like milk on his oatmeal, gave him his brother’s lunch bag, yelled at him in anger. This is genetic, they say. Small comfort.
Intellectually, I can accept that it is some cosmic joke, an error of genetic combination. But in my mind I go over every minute of his life, looking for signs I might have missed, ways I should have behaved toward him, things I should have said. I know it is genetic, but there must be someone to blame. I am his mother, I am supposed to protect him. Now, I cannot keep him safe. Safety. Look both ways before you cross the street. Wear your bicycle helmet. Buckle up. If the ball rolls into the street, don’t run after it. Never talk to strangers. Don’t use drugs. It was all so frightening, yet so simple. I could teach him to be careful, to be safe. Now I try to teach him to recognize the signs of stress before they become distress. Hold my hand, count as you breathe, go take a shower. I will keep you safe, I assure him. But I know I cannot. I have no more power over his anxiety than he does. I feel so helpless. So alone.
He cannot go to school. His teachers are understanding, but they don’t understand. How can they? This is so much more than a stomachache to avoid school. If he had diabetes that was out of control, or was laid low by a viral infection, or a congenital heart defect, his classmates would all have made him get well cards. But I hesitate to tell them the truth. If his friends know, will some of their parents no longer allow them to play with him when he is well? Will it become something to bully him about? Will they think he is crazy? Will he get well?
Are you sure this is real? his grandmother asks. She means well, and it is a valid question. She lives far away. And it would be so much simpler to deal with if he were “faking” something. But would anyone question whether an infection or other physical illness were real? Would you question the shortness of breath of an asthma attack or the fever of strep throat? This is a physical illness. His body chemistry is out of whack. The only difference is that it affects the functioning of his brain, not his liver, or heart, or sight.
Just as no one can truly understand how overwhelming caring for a newborn can be until he/she has a baby of their own, no one can understand what it is like to face mental illness without direct experience. I try not to expect anyone to understand. But I am so alone.
How do I even begin to describe the all-consuming, abject fear of hearing my little boy scream, “It isn’t worth it if life is going to be like this,” and to know, in the midst of his terror and desperation, he means it, Don’t ever say that, if you ever feel that way you must tell me, have you ever thought about how you might kill yourself?, it won’t always be this way, I will protect you. But I can’t. I can’t make it better. A kiss, a Band-Aid, a Life Saver, a hug. Not this time. I am afraid to leave him home alone.
You must search for answers on the Internet, you need to take care of yourself, you need to get more sleep. They mean well, but they don’t understand. I can’t even get a decent meal on the table, fold the laundry, fill out school registration forms, clean, let alone do anything else. The therapist suggests taking a candlelit bath with scented bath oils when I have a free moment during the day. Only a man or a non-stay-at-home parent could suggest something like this. With four children, a puppy, Brownie meetings to plan, therapy sessions, meetings, teacher conferences, and the weight of the world on my shoulders there is no such thing as a “free moment.” Plus, before I could take a bath, I would have to clean the master bathroom, buy scented bath oil, find candles and matches, put the puppy in his kennel, make sure my four-year-old is safely occupied, and these days, make sure my son was not headed for panic. Never mind having to clean the bathtub again to wash away the slippery oil, put away the candles and matches, and probably dry my hair. Impossible.
So I wait, and watch, and worry. Will I be an 80 year-old woman with my sixty year-old son still living with me? Will this medicine even work? What if it doesn’t. What if it works for a while, but then stops? What if there are side effects? What do I do if he has another panic attack tonight? Will he be able to go to school on Monday? What if one of his friend’s mothers calls?
My four-year-old daughter asks me why we didn’t go to the library last week. Her brother didn’t feel well. Will we go next week? And before I can answer her she says, “We probably have to wait until his anxiety disorder gets better, right Mommy?” That’s right honey. We’ll just have to wait.

So proud

2009-11-30T14:36:00.000-08:00

My oldest son Stephen is 21 now. I can't quite believe how fast all those years flew by. He'll be graduating from Drake University this spring and likely heading off to graduate school in the fall.
In his 21 years, Stephen has accomplished more than I have in my 46. He takes what he believes in and turns it into action.
In many ways Stephen's life has not been easy, but his struggle with mental illness has not consumed him. Instead, his fight against depression and OCD have made him stronger than anyone I have every known. He takes his empathy for those less fortunate and works hard to make a difference. He has lived in Egypt and South Africa, worked all through college, volunteered as a literacy tutor, assisted at Head Start, worked as a statewide volunteer for Oxfam international, and is an active member of his church.
My little boy has grown up to be a man to be admired.
He is loving, caring, funny, smart...
I am so thankful, Stephen, that I am your mother.

What follows is a sermon Stephen gave last summer at First Unitarian Church in Des Moines.
He received a standing ovation.

Spiritual Journeys through South Africa

Let me begin with a story, for what is life but a series of narratives in which I am both author and character? This story begins at my darkest hour. Suffering from severe depression, I am questioning the value of living a life without apparent meaning. I cannot see past my pain, neither can I bring myself to plan an escape. I am forced to choose between utter despair and the possibility of a better future. I decide to give it two weeks. By waiting, I have in fact made a decision. I've chosen to live!

Fast forward six years. My life looks different now. I am twenty: on scholarship at Drake University, volunteering with anti-poverty organization Oxfam, and preparing to study abroad for five months at a university in South Africa. I've come a long way in these six years. I am ready to engage with the world and all it has to offer. I am free.

Upon arriving in South Africa, the first thing I notice is the fences. Tall and topped with electric or razor wire, they surround every home and business of value. Crime is a daily reality in this country. I'm told it is driven by poverty, a culture of entitlement, and a high social tolerance for violence. This reality is driven home for me every time I go out to buy groceries. The way to the mall is lined with beggars. Some have homes and families to support, others have been on the streets since childhood. They try to make do on the generosity of the affluent. Most people walk on by, seemingly oblivious to their presence. I make a point to talk to them and to greet them respectfully as people.

One man, who goes by "Mr. Rubbish", is particularly friendly. He is always curious how my studies are going. He often cautions me to be safe and only occasionally asks for some groceries for his family. Yet there will always be barriers between us. In my short life, I've had opportunities that Mr. Rubbish can only dream of. I have the opportunity to be educated, to work at a decent job, and to travel abroad. Mr. Rubbish dreams that one day his children will experience these opportunities. It is not too late for them.

I have never felt as "White" as I feel on the streets of Pietermaritzburg. Whites are a minority in South Africa, but as a White man I retain the identity of a colonizer. While I didn't ask to be privileged in life, I benefit every day from my White-maleness. These benefits of privilege are two-sided. I can access opportunities that people of other races and genders are excluded from. However, as long as the implicit assumptions of my identity go unchallenged, I will lack the ability to learn from the identities of others.

Like many White American men, I haven't had to think much about my identity growing up. I was more inclined to think of everyone as "just people". This is partly right and partly wrong. All of us do share a common human bond, but eliminating others' cultural and gender identities from consideration too often leads me to consider them solely in terms of my own White Male identity. Seeing myself in this way, as a "default" that everyone else must be judged by is dangerous if I want to grow in a truly multicultural, multiracial, multi-gendered world. My experiences engaging with multiple beliefs in our UU congregation make it easier for me to adjust to the multiplicity of identities that is newly brought home to me by my status as a foreigner in South Africa.

My religious perspectives are brought to the fore early in my stay. The second Sunday of my trip I visit the local Pentecostal church. In an unfortunate incident, I am forced to call-out the youth pastor when he asks if anyone doubts his proof of the existence of God. "Haven't you assumed the existence of God and then proven his attributes?", I ask. Fortunately, he takes it well, and we proceed to have a good conversation about the meaning of worship. While we agree that worship is about service out of reverance for something, we disagree about the way that worship should be approached. His tradition approaches worship as something that stems from certainty in the truth of the doctrines of his form of Christianity. While I could acknowledge a need for God within me, I was not in the least bit inclined to worship out of logical compulsion. I tell him that I would worship if I understood that it was the morally correct thing to do. He asks me if I would consent to worship a God that did not create me. I can tell that he is still thinking in terms of compulsion- if God didn't create me, he would have no power over me. I tell him I'll get back to him on that one.

Meanwhile, classes begin and I am plunged once more into the world of academia. I thrive off the constant discourse around development. While community development is seen as more or less an aside to education in the United States, it is central to the academic discourse in South Africa. I realize this early in the semester, when I am speaking with my floor-mates. They are curious why I came to South Africa to study and are initially not impressed by my explanation that I came to learn about my own culture. To them, education is the pathway through which the student's entire community is uplifted, and they don't see why I would come from a rich country to study in a poor one. I explain that the United States is not uniformly wealthy and that many people who do have enough materially are struggling to find meaning in their lives. After a half hour discussion on life in Iowa, I am rewarded with one of the most gratifying experiences of my trip when he says "I guess you Americans are ordinary people after all”. "That's why I came here," I think to myself.

I am fortunate that one of my classes arranges opportunities for me to volunteer with social justice groups. The first group, the KwaZulu-Natal Christian Council, advocates for policies that allow poor communities to regain control of their destinies. Poverty is far more than a deficiency of material things. Poverty is about power: the power to feed one's family, to work in a dignified environment, and to express ones views in society. My experiences of powerless during my frequent bouts of depression leads me to empathize with people who lack the power to do even the most basic things for themselves. Like depression, poverty is a treatable condition that can be reduced in most cases through the actions of the human community.

One of the assignments that I receive is to develop policies that will enable people to feed themselves through gardening. In a poor country like South Africa, poverty or illness often means starvation. The government is supposed to prevent this with a handout, but often the donations of food or money arrive too late. Many communities would like to take matters into their own hands by growing some of their own food. I visit a local women's group that is starting a garden to grow vegetables for children, the elderly, and people with AIDS. I share my knowledge about watering and mulching vegetables, and they share their recommendations for how the government could support their work. I combine their information with further research and draw up a set of policies that they can use to lobby government officials to support community gardening. By challenging the prevailing notion that views poor people as little more than objects of charity, I open up a space for them to asset their power.

This form of empowerment is humbling work. It requires me to sacrifice some of my control- to trust the newly empowered women to help guide our common future. As they continue to gain experience lobbying their government, there is no guarentee that they will say what I would want them to say or do what I would want them to do. By helping these women to take their place at the decision-making table, I have given up some of my power. But what alternative is there? How can I ethically say that I- by virtue of wealth and status alone- should have a disproportionate say in the direction of the world? I would rather replace this culture of dominance with one of compassion, where every person is able to participate in determining our future. I believe that we will not see the end of poverty and environmental degredation until we empower each individual person to participate constructively in the decision-making process.

After a few weeks with the Council, I begin work with a second organization. The Ubuntu Crisis Centre is an orphanage in the rural township of Edendale just outside the city. The centre provides support to orphans, poor, and abused children. Most of the 32 girls at the centre have been raped or beaten. All of the children have witnessed violence that most of us would find unimaginable at their ages. My role at the centre is to be a positive male presence in their lives. We play games, do science activities, and laugh together. One day, I help the children to make ecosystems in plastic bottles. We gather soil, plant weeds, and have fun searching for cockroaches to represent the animal kingdom. After explaining science as a way to learn by watching the world and thinking about what is seen, I set the kids loose to record their observations of the bottles. After a week, we think about our results. One group kept everything alive and considers their bottle a success. The other groups overwatered. All of the children gain an appreciation for nature and for using science to learn about the world. Meanwhile, I gain a valuable insight into myself. I discover how to use my freedom.

I think everyone discovers this at one time or another. We witness the pain and evil in the world and discover our freedom to chart our course through it. During my periods of mental illness, my sole freedom was to choose to live. As I have slowly become more free, I am able to choose how to live: what actions to take, who to build relationships with, and what path will guide the direction of my life.

I choose the path of service. I do so because for me, service to the human community is the fullest expression of my humanity and the logical outcome of my freedom. I do not serve to remake the world or to make everything better. I realize from my interaction with the girls at Ubuntu Crisis Centre that I cannot make the pain of the world go away. What I can do is be present, help when needed, and nurture the spark of freedom inherent in each person- no matter how awful their past or present.

I want to take a moment now to emphasize that community service is only one form of service to humanity. I know a woman who once expressed admiration at the degree of activism I engage in and told me how different she felt in her own life. However, this same woman brought up two children from a young age and now cares for her disabled son's young children. Surely this woman, through caring for her children and grandchildren, has done as much for humanity as I can hope to achieve through my activism. In my mind, service to humanity occurs any time we put the needs of the human community above our own immediate desires.

Which brings me back to the question of worship. Would I consent to worship a God that did not create me? A God with no power over me? To answer this question, I must first understand what worship is. As I see it, worship has two components: an awe and reverence component, and a sacrifice and service component. The former comes from discovering something greater than myself, the latter comes in when I act on this basis. So worship has to do with service out of awe and reverence.

As I continue to speak with the minister at the Pentecostal church, it becomes clear that I would indeed consent to worship a God without power over me. Indeed, I believe that this is the only God one can worship, given our inability to prove the existance of a Supernatural Divinity. My answer comes as a surprise to both of us. Being an evangelical, the minister sees worship solely as an act of absolute surrender of the self to a higher power. As a UU, I have traditionally seen worship solely as an act of community in the here and now. To him, God was compulsion, to me, God was incidental. My truth now rests somewhere in between.

You see, one of the lessons that I learned in South Africa was how to believe in something. Perhaps as a result of my history of mental illness, I often struggle with an excessive urge to control my life. In the realm of belief, this has led me to demand absolute certainty in an ideal or a reality before I’m willing to put my faith in it. South Africans, including Mr. Rubbish and the orphans at Ubuntu, taught me another way. Facing challenges of powerlessness and pain that are similar to what I had faced, these people exercised choice instead of control. The idea that we can choose where to place our faith has had important implications for my religious journey since then.

Realizing that I had a choice of where to put my religious faith, I began to think about what path I wanted to take. The most important criteria for my decision of what religious path to take were its applicability to my situation and its potential for my transformation. The more I thought about it, the clearer my decision became. I chose Christianity- not in the sense of literal belief in every church doctrine, but in the sense of living as I believe Jesus would have taught me to live.

My reasons for choosing liberal Christianity are largely personal, and my faith is still evolving. Right now I will share just one aspect of my faith. I interpret the Christian teachings in a Universalist manner, choosing to believe that God's love is for all of us, and that it is more than enough to make everyone worthy as they are. This adds a new dimension to my service. I no longer have to serve in order to justify my human dignity, and I am instead freed to serve others because they share in this dignity. As a Christian and a Universalist, my worship compels me not to write any human off as incapable of growth- of salvation.

This is not about denying the existence of evil. I've experienced enough depression to know the reality of human suffering. Nor is it about eliminating all forms of pain- as if we could. Rather, it is expressed as something closer to Ubuntu- the African concept that my humanity is inextricably tied up in yours, in ours. My worship leads me to become the best person I can be through service to the larger community of which I am but a part.

So even as I am personally attracted to the possibility of God, I am unreservedly grounded in the reality of a world in need and my opportunity to use my freedom for its betterment. At times this will require me to ceed power to the poor or influence to the oppressed; as our Church has ceeded its monopoly on religious truth. But one thing I’ve learned is that humility is the gateway to true spiritual growth. As I continue on my spiritual journey I take comfort in the affirmation that we are endowed with reason that we may choose, morality that we may coexist, and each other that we may love. This affirmation is the bedrock of my religion, and I look forward to your help in building on it. Thank you.

Handiwork

2009-11-28T09:53:00.001-08:00

Sixteen years ago, back when I was still a young mother of only three, I came across this idea in a magazine and it has become one of our most cherished holiday traditions. Every year at Thanksgiving we trace the children's hands on the holiday tablecloth. My mom then embroiders the name and date of each child in the handprint.
The adults trace their hands the first time they spend Thanksgiving with us, so I even have a my dad's handprint; a vivid reminder of all the Thanksgivings we spent with him before his death in 2004. Stephen and Zachary were 5 and 3 when we started this tradition and they each stopped tracing their hands several years ago. Sarah was a baby, and we have her footprint on the tablecloth, as well as all 16 years of her handprints. This is probably the last year she'll trace her hand. Melissa's footprint and an entire life of handprints are also on the tablecloth, as well as some family and friends who have only been with us a time or two.
My mom always asked the kids what color they wanted their handprints, so we remember when Zachary's favorite color was pink and Melissa's was lime green. We have all the paw prints from our dogs and cats, too. My mom added all the names of other pets we've had over the years as well, including Stephen's pet rats, the girls' gerbils, and Zachary's mouse. Even "Big Bertha," Melissa's pet millipede, is recorded on our tablecloth.
It's amazing how quickly the years fly by, how fast the children grow, family members pass on, and residences change. This tablecloth helps capture some of those precious memories.

This year was Ivy's first Thanksgiving with us, so it was time to trace her paw on the tablecloth

She was a willing and cooperative subject.

Some family members, however, tend to be a little less cooperative.

The kids noticed that Lester's pawprint, made two years ago, was made when he was just a kitten. Since his paws have grown since then, they insisted that he get a second pawprint.

He was less than thrilled.

Thanksgiving isn't his favorite holiday anyway.

Lester prefers climbing the Christmas tree and chewing on the ornaments to having his paw traced on some stupid tablecloth.

Maybe when he gets a little older, he'll understand...

2009-11-25T15:03:00.000-08:00

Whew.

Some of us have been working hard.

It's amazing how quickly the house can get put together when everybody is home! Laundry's folded and put away, vacuuming is done, dusting and general straightening up mostly done (it's just awaiting my input for final placement of stuff).

With everybody else pitching in, I was free to do a flurry of holiday cooking - all pie crusts are made and waiting in the fridge for tomorrow's French apple and pumpkin pies, a Southern Chess pie is ready for tonight, raspberry topping stands ready for the cheesecake, and two loaves of pumpkin bread just came out of the oven. My cinnamon roll dough is rising... should have the rolls made and ready to bake in another hour and a half or so.

Mostly I've been reveling in atmosphere of a full house.

Yes, indeed, I do have much to be thankful for.

Thanks, Turkey

2009-11-25T06:58:00.000-08:00

This is our thankful turkey.

He has visited our house for nearly 18 years (gasp!) now.

When Stephen and Zachary were just little guys, so very long ago, I started the tradition of the thankful turkey. Each day, starting November 1 or thereabouts, we each record something we are thankful for on a feather and add it to the turkey. By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, that turkey is fairly bursting with thankful feathers!

This was a great way to show little ones how much we have to be thankful for in our every day lives... and to show them that we could keep on adding thankful feathers seemingly forever and never run out of thankfulness.

We still do the turkey, all these many years later. Melissa, 12, has become our tradition keeper, for which I am grateful. We're looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner when we each grab a handful of feathers and take turns reading aloud all our family's thankfulness.

This year, we are saddened that my mom won't be able to be here with us for Thanksgiving. She had to cancel her plans for a visit due to some sudden health concerns. We will miss her terribly, but all of us are thankful for the excellent medical care she has and that her medical issue has resolved. She'll enjoy a Thanksgiving meal with friends and we will be thankful she is well again.

Things that go "BANG" in the night...

2009-11-19T13:55:00.000-08:00

Or, maybe it's time for my great "social" experiment to end.
Let me explain.
Last night we came home from a delightful family dinner in Ames, though we discovered a disturbing lack of decent dessert options at Carlos O'Kelly's. Anyway, we were all off doing our own thing - computer for Michael, reading for Melissa and me, Sarah was cleaning the litter boxes - when multiple loud bangs rang out next door.
Now, these weren't "pop-pop" sounds but were real "bang, bangs." I didn't want to believe it was shots ringing out, but what else could it be? 10-15 in a row M-80s?
That's what dh thought, until he looked out the window and saw a patrol car several houses down with its lights flashing.
We knew then that we needed to call the police, who took our information about where to look. Not long after, the police were in our neighbor's yard with flashlights, trying to find shell casings. Thankfully, no one was injured (as far as we know), but we could hear one of our neighbors yelling as more and more cars and young men began to fill the street.
Right after dh climbed in bed and we turned out the lights, the doorbell rang. Reminding my too-trusting dh not to open the door unless it was the police, he grabbed his robe and ran downstairs. He invited the officer in - actually, he asked to step in - and repeated what we'd told the cops on the phone.
He said they'd found several shell casings, but with so many "alleged" gang members showing up, he and his partner were waiting for back up.
Later, we noticed a police car with lights flashing in the alley, and another police vehicle parked across our driveway. They stayed for several hours, though I don't know what they found, if anything.
Now, could this have happened in other, less economically stressed neighborhoods? Undoubtedly. But this is the third time in a week there has been noticeable police presence on our street.
I just now heard a commotion outside and looked down the street to see a small group of people - mostly young men and a couple of children - being harangued by an older woman in a house dress and slippers. Oh, and she was wielding a wrench, no less.
Yes, I said "house dress," but that's not really the point.
I don't like living in a neighborhood where drug deals go down regularly at the park, aggressive dogs run free, and gun shots ring out in the night.
Now, we've discovered that most people here are just plain folks; friendly, helpful, and just living their lives.
But there's just too much of the other "element" for my comfort.
Besides, I don't want to end up in a house dress and slippers wielding a wrench at gang members any time soon.

Going Bananas

2009-09-29T14:53:00.000-07:00

I mentioned in my last post how I initially went a little crazy with the coupons.
That may be a slight understatement.
You see, when I first started, Target was running a coupon special for 1lb. of free bananas. I discovered that I could print out as many Target coupons as I wanted from Hot Coupon World, and everbody here was on a banana kick anyway.
The girls came with me and we'd each buy 1 pound of bananas - and usually only be charged a couple of pennies (it's hard to weigh out exactly one pound of bananas!).
Now, the bananas weren't the only items I was buying at Target, so I wasn't making special, single-item trips. I usually did my weekly shopping at least one of the times. At the time their single-size artisan breads were also free with a coupon, as were single-serving Cheerios cups.
We went to Target so many times over the next several weeks that I think the sales people recognized us. I know the managers at a couple SuperTargets probably wanted to duck and cover when they saw me coming - apparently Target is notorious for not knowing it's own coupon policies and I started carrying the official corporate coupon policy in my purse!
Anyway, I probably "bought" more than 48 lbs of free or nearly free bananas during that promotion. And yes, that is a lot of bananas, but I have a great banana bread recipe that freezes well, so I don't think I threw away any overripe bananas.
I also have a lot of the mini-artisan bread loaves in my freezer. They make great garlic bread! We also are heavily stocked with our free single-serving Cheerios cups. Each holds about 1 1/2 cups of cereal, so it takes only 3 to make Cheerios treats - a favorite snack item around here.
No sooner had the Target promotion ended than I discovered HyVee had a one week only coupon for 1 lb. of free bananas. Chalk up another 10 lbs. during that week!
Alas, no one has free bananas right now, but that's really okay. The girls were starting to cringe when I called out "Who wants to go to Target?" and we're all pretty tired of bananas.
You may not think it was worth it, but I'm glad to have saved the $25-$30.
Plus, it's a real kick to walk out of a store with "free" merchandise.

The plan

2009-09-28T14:21:00.000-07:00

I've been working hard at managing our finances this year, but in the last 6 weeks or so I have really ratcheted-up the cost-saving strategies at my disposal.
I joined Swagbucks and have earned almost $15 in Amazon gift cards. Likewise, I opened an Amazon rewards Visa and by using it judiciously to pay some of our monthly expenses (and of course paying off the balance each month) I now have $125 in Amazon gift cards. I'm trying to earn enough gift cards to buy Zachary the Kindle he wants for Christmas without having to spend much "actual" money.
I've been reading lots of coupon sites and really working store sales. I'll never save as much as some people do on their food budget since I buy very little processed, prepackaged food, but have found that I now typically save 20% to 30% at the grocery store. I spent the last two months building up a stock pile of food and toiletry items, so now I can pick and choose only the best deals.
The freezers are full of local fruits, veggies, homemade sauces, and bread from the day old bread store. Sunday I bought 16 loaves of whole grain bread for just over $10. I always have bread in the freezer and never find myself having to run out to the store to buy a loaf for $3 or more.
I still do all my cooking and baking from scratch, which I know saves us loads of money. Tastes better and is better for us, too.
I worked out a plan this weekend that shows it is possible to pay off our credit card debt and our car loan in one year. While it's possible, I'm not sure how likely it is, as I didn't figure in college tuition, but I'm encouraged nonetheless.
I've been playing the prescription transfer game, so far garnering $75 in Hy Vee gift cards just for transferring our prescriptions. Once I'm done at HyVee, I plan to transfer 4 prescriptions to Kmart for another $100 in gift cards. I love our small pharmacy, but they understand why we do this and welcome us (and our money!) back with open arms. Of course it would be better not to have any prescriptions to transfer, but our fate has dictated otherwise, I'm afraid.
All of this takes a lot of effort and a fair amount of time, but it's definitely worth it. We've saved hundreds in the last two months - about $700 in fact - just by watching for sales, cutting coupons, and practicing frugality.

Now that I'm stocked-up, I've decided to only spend $50 a week this month on groceries and toiletries. Our month starts on the 26th, and so far, so good. Since I'm mostly shopping from the freezer, I decided to make a weekly menu plan.

Sunday: Chicken chili burritos and sweet corn
Monday: Rebaked potatoes, green beans, salad, pumpkin pie
Tuesday: Lentil Chili, veggie platter, corn meal muffins
Wednesday: Veggie-beef stew over cheesy polenta, fresh veggies, gingerbread and applesauce
Thursday: Garlic pasta, steamed broccoli, fresh tomatoes, french bread
Friday: Pesto, sliced tomatoes, garlic bread, apple pie
Saturday: Whole wheat pasta with ricotta cheese sauce, mixed cooked veggies, garlic and rosemary focaccia
It's hard for me to stick to a menu plan, but if I stay flexible I probably won't resist too much.

I must admit I went a little crazy with the coupons at first and my girls are tired of being my coupon accomplices. They're still willing to head to Walgreen's with me or to Target or HyVee when I need a couple extra buyers, but now I try not to ask more than once a week!

Neglected

2009-09-28T13:17:00.000-07:00

Sometimes there are things you mean to do; I mean, really and truly intend to follow through on, but somehow you just don't quite meet your goals.
No, I'm not talking about keeping my exponentially-increasing gray hair under control, though I certainly need to decide what to do about it once and for all.. You see, maintaining the high-lights and low-lights in my hair requires professional dyeing every 5 weeks or so. Add to that a trim and eye brow ~~mowing~~ wax, and we're talking second mortgage here.
Or I guess, in my case, third mortgage.
Is there even such a thing?
But I digress.
No, I'm referring to my poor, lonely, post-less blog.
It seems that once I got derailed I just couldn't quite climb back up on that horse.
How's that for a mixed metaphor?
I enjoy writing my blog, even though I don't exactly have a "readership." Just a couple of friends and an occasional relative. So I guess I'm not doing it for an audience.
I think I enjoy expressing myself in writing, relating the rather mundane happenings of a middle aged wife, mother and zoo keeper.
So, basically I do it for myself.
I think it's therapeutic.
I also, however, do it for my kids, especially my youngest, who is my biggest blog fan.
Melissa reminds me almost daily that I haven't posted. She will often go back and reread my blog from beginning to end.
She thinks I'm funny.
And that is about the greatest compliment a mom could receive from her preteen daughter.

Beautiful...

2009-09-10T09:12:00.000-07:00

Um...

Yeah.

Poor baby

2009-09-10T09:04:00.000-07:00

It's no fun recuperating from surgery.

You have to wear goofy medical paraphernalia.

Your mom makes fun of you, calling you "AstroDog" and "CosmicCanine."

You need help getting up on the furniture because your "lampshade" collar keeps getting caught on the edge of the couch.

The doctor makes you wear a t-shirt and its hard to drink out of your water bowl, let alone chew a bone.

But worst of all?

You have to stay inside and watch all the other dogs get to play.

Sweet boy

2009-09-08T08:10:00.000-07:00

Wally is in surgery right now. He has age-related fat tumors (hey, don't we all?), one of which could start to make walking uncomfortable. I know he'll be fine, but I can't help but worry about him. He's my Wally-dolly.

I love our veterinarian, though. Wally is freakishly scared of the vet clinic and tends to be a fearful dog anyway. Knowing this, they didn't make us drop him off as early this morning as is usual for surgeries. Instead, the office called to let us know when to bring him in.

I so appreciate this concern for my honey-dog.

And I hope he's okay.

Not again... please

2009-09-07T15:56:00.001-07:00

So, we survived.
Mostly.
Zach is back at school and almost back to full-strength. Sarah is still battling headaches, though the severity has decreased.
Now all we have to fear is H1N1. I hear that universities are sending sick students home to recuperate.
I'd like to question the ~~fairness~~ wisdom of that medical decision.
My oldest son, a senior at a local university, decided to forgo the ~~misery~~ commeraderie of the dorms and live at home this semester. His daily activities take him from a campus full of germ-ridden young adults, to coffee shops, work, and a myriad of volunteer events, not to mention church on Sundays.
My oldest daughter is a junior at the local ~~pathogen cesspool~~ high school, mingling daily with perhaps even more greatly germ-ridden adolescents, eating her homemade lunch in a cafeteria (really, how often do they wash those tables?), riding a city bus, and hanging out with theater kids, no less.
Youngest daughter, while homeschooled, associates with a much smaller number of people, but generally accompanies me on errands around the city.
Think Walmart, folks.
Dearest husband, of course, not only works in a building with hundreds of other people, but regularly travels to other states, sometimes even breathing the recirculated air on the corporate jet.
There have already been several cases of H1N1 at Zach's school. He's already had a horrible cold, so H1N1 infection is likely only a matter of time.
My question is, if he gets H1N1 and they send him home, does that mean the entire family must stay home until total infection and recuperation are complete? If not, won't the flu spread more quickly to other institutions (another university, a high school, a major seed company, Walmart)?
I had the flu once, years ago.
It was 1997 and I was nearly 8 months pregnant with Melissa. It was early February and my husband had left for a 12-day business trip to Hawaii.
I was home with our then nine-year-old, 7-year-old, and 3-year-old.
Did I mention we also were remodeling the basement?
Yeah.
I'm not bitter.
Anymore.
Anyway, first one son, then the other, came down with the flu. As the oldest began to recover, the youngest fell ill.
It was a fun time.
By the time Michael got home from his trip, not only was I exhausted and even more pregnant, I came down with the flu.
I don't think I've ever been so sick.
I spent nearly a week in bed and darling husband had to miss 5 days of work. I had barely recovered from the flu when I developed a horrible sinus infection.
I have received an annual flu shot ever since, vowing to do all I can to prevent ever being that sick again.
But now, there's this new version.
Oh, I'll get the immunization, as will everyone in my family who is eligible.
But it somehow doesn't seem fair to send what will amount to a typhoid-Mary into my house.
Of course, I wouldn't want Zach to be away at school, lying ill in a dorm room with no one to take care of him.
It's just that the thought of being that sick again, even all these years later, is a little frightening.
At least this time I have friends who'll leave Kleenex and soup on my front doorstep.
Right, guys?

Resistance is futile...

2009-08-15T17:30:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week Zachary began experiencing symptoms of c. difficile infection.

After a blood test and stool samples, the doctor could prescribe an antibiotic, so we caught the infection at the start this time.

Thank goodness.

Zach has been on anitbiotics now since Tuesday and he's beginning to feel a little better and is now able to eat a bit. He's still exhausted, but hopes to go to work a half day on Monday.

I can't explain the level of dread he and I both experienced on Tuesday, heading back to the hospital for tests while he felt more and more ill.

It took perseverance on our part, though, to get the antibiotics as soon as we did. I had requested that his doctor, who was doing a hospital rotation that day, call us in the evening. The receptionist assured me he would. Well, along about 9:30, I began to suspect that he never got the message. When Michael got back in town at 10 p.m., he agreed we should call the answering service.

We were just so afraid of waiting and having the infection progress without treatment.

Within 5 minutes of leaving the message with his service, the doctor called us, talked with Zach, and called in a prescription to a 24-hour pharmacy nearby.

Zachary seems to be on the mend, but I know we're all worried about yet another re-infection, especially since goes back to college on Thursday and classes start Monday. Fortunately, he attends university just 40 minutes away.

I'm concerned about his stamina, about susceptibility to other illnesses since he's been so weakened by this illness. He had regular check-up on Monday, before he knew he was getting sick again, and discovered that he had lost more than 20 pounds during his illness in July.

There's a lot to be thankful for - our medical insurance, access to quality medical care, that this reinfection seems to be clearing up...

But it's hard not to worry about him.

And it's scary to realize how such serious illnesses can seemingly come out of nowhere and wreak such havoc on a young man's life.

Temptation

2009-08-11T07:49:00.000-07:00

I aint got no "stick-to-it-iveness.
In other words, I have difficulty with long-term planning.
When I decide to make a change, whether it be rearranging the furniture, landscaping the yard, or getting rid of our debt, I want it to happen now.
Or preferably 5 minutes ago.
We've been working hard on our consumer debt, having paid off $21,000 since January. I've had a few splurges here and there, so we're actually about $1,000 behind where I wanted to be, but the goal of being out of consumer debt in two years is still within reach.
I've been driving myself crazy for the last 6 months cruising money and debt blogs, couponing, and plugging our numbers into debt calculators.
Over and over and over again.
Repeatedly.
Our success so far is really quite remarkable, but it's that remaining balance that nags at me. Last week I decided to start accumulating all the "found" money - insurance reimbursements, rebates, etc., and put them toward our debt. We had two reimbursements and a store return that equaled $176. I immediately applied them to our largest debt, which is our primary focus.
Ah, but temptation never fails to rear its ugly head. Also last week, the pressure canner I've been eyeing since last season went on sale - 40% off - at Amazon. At $179 it still wasn't cheap, but it's the top of the line and I've been dying to can my own beans.
I know.
I have issues.
Anyway, I ordered the canner, plus a couple new books about canning. This was all made easier by my new Amazon charge card, which Zach and I used to purchase his fall textbooks, saving him boucoup bucks, plus an additional $30 off the first purchase.
But you see, having that Amazon credit card provided me with the means to buy what I hadn't budgeted for this month and put the bill off until next month.
Now, in the past, I wouldn't have planned to pay it off right away the next month; instead the debt would have continued to grow. So at least I'm getting better about my splurges in that regard.
The canner arrived and I was giddy with excitement.
For about 15 minutes.
Then I looked at next month's budget which includes new shoes for the girls, tuition payments, home repairs, car repair.
Gulp.
Suddenly, that canner no longer made me happy.
Instead, it was a symbol of my lack of self-restraint. The canner isn't a necessity, but a luxury, that right now I can't afford.
A quick trip to the computer and I printed off the return tags for the canner and books and asked Michael to please, quickly, whisk them out of my sight before I changed my mind.
And you know what? I still feel a little sad about not being able to can my own beans, but that is far outweighed by the fact that I made a sound financial decision.
We will be out of debt in two years.
I just have to stay strong and think of how good it will feel to buy that pressure canner with actual cash on hand.

Shell-shocked

2009-08-06T16:02:00.000-07:00

Whew.
I think I'm still recovering from the emotional stresses this summer has bestowed on me.
First, there are Sarah's headaches, now diagnosed officially as migraines. I should probably say "headache," as she hasn't been completely without it since mid-May. Fortunately, the preventive medicine she's taking has helped, and hopefully will continue to do so, as it builds up to its full strength over the next couple of weeks.
She's trying a new medicine to deal with the lingering pain - a "rescue" med rather than preventive. So far it, too, has helped, but nothing seems to zap the headache for good.
Not yet anyway.
Multiple trips to the doctor, the pharmacy, the hospital for EKG and MRI, neurologist appointment, and frustration with our insurance company, calls to the neurologist, but worst of all, Sarah suffering with horrible pain.
All summer long.
On a side note, as I explained to the neurologist our family history, I included the headaches I've have had periodically for the last 20 years. Throbbing, sometimes lasting days, sleeping helps, always on one side of my head, can usually feel the headache coming on ... he diagnosed me on the spot with migraines of my very own.
Awe, and to think I only gave myself credit for tension headaches.
Of course, I can't use his diagnosis, as he's a pediatric neurologist. I'm not yet ready to pursue an official diagnosis for myself, though, as I can usually blast the headaches away within a day with my over-the-counter arsenal of Ibuprofen, Excedrin and naproxen sodium.
Fortunately he didn't laugh as I described my non-prescription pharmacological battle plan - first I take 2 naproxen sodium, then if the headache isn't better in about an hour, I take two Ibuprofen, and try to sleep. If I still have the headache when I get up, I take Excedrin and pray to the great Pain-Reliever in the Sky (Analgesia?) to spare me.
Anyway, I've seen enough doctors this summer without seeking more for myself.

And then there was Zachary, felled by not one, but two potentially deadly intestinal infections, toxic E.coli. and C. Diff. He spent 10 days in the hospital, pumped full of antibiotics and fluids, and is still recovering now weeks later.
I can't believe the suffering he endured.
He escaped major complications, and we're hopeful he won't have a recurrence of the C.Diff., something that happens in about 20% of infections. Don't quote me on that... I'm too tired right now to look up the exact number.
We still don't know how he became infected. My conversation with the Polk County Health Department lasted nearly 30 minutes. The nurse was shocked by how sick my son had been.
One of his gastroenterologists told us that C. Diff. used to only be found among immune-compromised patients, patients already in health care settings, children in daycare, and people who had used certain antibiotics within a few months of the infection. Now, however, there is an epidemic of community-acquired (as in general community) C. Diff. infections, she said.
Another reason for rampant over-use of antibiotics to stop, including in the livestock industry. Yet another reason that I refuse to buy meat from industrialized agriculture, though I do occasionally indulge in a fast food hamburger or pizza with meat toppings.
Of course, my son got the infection anyway.
It's amazing how long it's taking him to come back to full-strength. I can see how this disease, even without major complications, could be deadly to those already weakened by other diseases.
I've learned that I'm great in a crisis, able to hold myself together for the sake of others (and myself, I suppose). The girls were a mess of worry over Zach's illness, and fortunately I was able to help them through their anxieties. I was upbeat for Zachary, polite and knowledgeable with the doctors, ready to advocate and be strong when necessary.
But when it was all over I felt as if I had been run over by a truck and had half my blood drained.
The exhaustion was nearly overwhelming and I found my emotions all over the map. I wanted nothing more than for someone to come take care of me and take over my responsibilities so I could huddle in bed and recuperate.
But we all know that mothers always have to recover on the run, so to speak.
And I have, mostly. Though I still have days when I find myself suddenly on the verge of tears, for no discernible reason. I know my stress level has not yet come back down all the way to Earth. I'm trying to be kind to myself while still being productive.
While I've been able to process a bunch of tomato sauces, make some jam, and cook all our meals from scratch (I'm definitely extra leery of fast food and am trying to build Zachary up again), there are ridiculous projects I don't seem able to take on.
Thank goodness Michael took over freezing all the green beans. He's also been doing the laundry.
And corn.
Good lord, the corn.
Michael's been prepared to pick up a free bushel of corn for us the past two weeks.
Yep, I said "free."
And yet, for some strange reason, I cannot face the corn.
I keep postponing its arrival, hoping it will still be there next week.
Or maybe the next week.
I know it sounds silly, but I think that bushel of corn symbolizes the emotional healing I still need to do.
When I can face the corn, I'll know I'm better.
Maybe next week.

Still Here... Sort of

2009-08-04T16:22:00.000-07:00

I'm still here, my son is recuperating, my daughter's headaches are slowly improving, the dog is still crazy, the house is still furry, the garden is going like gangbusters, and summer weather has finally found us.
I hope to start posting regularly again... soon.

Ruminations

2009-07-19T17:05:00.000-07:00

In a heroic act of normalcy, my husband and I dashed to the Farmer's Market Saturday morning before heading to the hospital and my seriously ill son.
This may sound like a heartless and unfeeling act by a dispassionate woman. My God, how could you go fruit shopping with your son in the hospital?
But to me, making sure I had enough raspberries and blueberries to feed my family for the week, and enough to make jam and start the winter ~~storage~~ hoarding, was an act of anxiety reduction.
I know. It made sense at the time.
You see, I've been worried about that raspberry situation for several weeks now, and I haven't gotten much jam made yet this summer, what with Sarah's headaches, multiple trips to the doctor, and that dog of mine... so I a little fruit therapy seemed warranted.
Of course, Zachary had a bad day on Saturday, adjusting to different pain meds and fighting nausea. I wasn't prepared for a step backward, so I was thrown for a loop and my anxiety ratcheted up several notches beyond it's already sky-high rating.
Zach is doing better again today, thank goodness, but it's going to be a long road back to health.
I've spent a lot of time alone with my thoughts these past few days (and believe me, if you could hear my thoughts, that's a bad place to be). Zachary has mostly slept and I've sat somewhat paralyzed in his darkened room. It's been too dark to read, though I can't concentrate enough to handle anything more than a short magazine article anyway, and until Stephen lent me his laptop, the days have been long, dark, and full of rumination.
Turns out the effects of fruit therapy wear off fast, as I've been thinking about all those berries sitting at home waiting for attention, along with the dogs and, of course, the girls, who have spent way too much time home alone this past week. Thank goodness for good friends who had them over for two whole afternoons. (The girls, not the dogs)
At the market, while still buoyed by my fruit purchases and not yet in the thralls of buyer's remorse, we passed a couple we used to know. Well, I guess we still "know" them, though now they'd be in the category of "former" friends.
Let's just say, when I needed her most, this friend, with whom I had shared so much laughter, so many feelings, dropped me like a lead balloon.
She was depressed, but hadn't told me; I had just lost my father and wasn't coping well. She complained, I defended, and asked what was wrong, had I done something to offend?
Denials, back and forth, and she checked out of the friendship.
I don't know that I've ever been more wounded. The loss of this friendship reverberated throughout my life, affecting other friendships of mine, and causing to me withdraw from almost everyone, save my kids and husband.
I thought I was over it, but I guess all losses stay with you, in some form, forever.
So I saw them as we passed at the market, said "hi, how are you?" as we both kept walking.
The sting of that loss has come back to haunt me a little these past couple of days.
I'll never understand the "why" or even the "how" of something like that, and certainly regret other friendships lost as a result of my emotional cocooning all those years ago.
Today, I treasure my friendships more than ever.
My friends sustain me, care for me, laugh with me and at me.
They mean the world to me.
I think sometimes in life we have to experience certain losses to appreciate what we have.
And believe me, I do.

Worry

2009-07-18T12:41:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm sitting in my son's hospital room, watching him sleep.
Zachary, 19, has been in the hospital since Tuesday night's trip to the emergency room.
What we thought was simply a nasty stomach virus, turned out to be much, much more.
It started with him feeling nauseous Sunday afternoon, and several episodes of vomiting throughout Sunday night. By Monday afternoon, the vomiting had stopped, only to be followed by diarrhea. The diarrhea continued, with the addition of gut-wrenching cramps over night. By Tuesday morning, his stools were mostly blood, the cramps continued, and he couldn't keep anything down. A trip to the doctor's office, and we left with a stool sample kit in case the bloody diarrhea continued into the afternoon, and advice to sip Gatorade. He couldn't keep any of it down and had been dashing to the bathroom every 12 minutes for nearly 3 hours.
A late afternoon call to the doctor ended with the advice to take him to the ER, as he likely was dehyrdrated.
We left for the ER around 7, and the triage nurse told us it would be a 3-hour wait. We stationed ourselves next to the bathroom, but he could hardly stand the pain; after 3 trips to the bathroom in 15 minutes, I went back to the nurse, told her what was going on, and that I didn't think he could wait. One look at him and she exclaimed, "You look white as a ghost!" She called her supervisor, and he was taken right into the ER, where we had more hurry up and wait.
More tests were ordered, history taken, IVs, pain meds.
He was moved to a surgical floor, taken to X-ray, pain meds adjusted.
He had severe colitis, but the cause was still unknown. They started him on vancomycin, as blood work indicated infection. The pain, the blood, the cramping all continued.
Finally on Thursday we had a definitive diagnosis: toxic E. coli and an infection called c. diff., both extremely dangerous infections. We couldn't trace his exposure to these bacteria to any foods, as the whole family had eaten together the past week. More antibiotics, more waiting.
It's unusual to have two of these infections at the same time, let alone in an otherwise healthy 19-year-old. So far, he seems to have escaped deadly side effects from either of the infections, though we aren't completely out of the woods yet.
Yesterday he felt quite a bit better and was put on a clear liquid diet and did some walking. Today is a bad day.
They had to stop his pain pump, as these pain meds (morphine, delaudid) slow the working of the intestines and he needed to get his GI system up and working again. He suffered from quite lot of pain again all day today as well as nausea and couldn't drink much more than sips of water, nor could he do much walking.
Needless to say, this has been an incredibly stressful time.
I wasn't prepared for him to feel worse today, and so can only hope tomorrow is better again.
These two bacteria are frighteningly powerful. The illness is horrifically painful.
We don't know yet when he'll be coming home, though it could still be 3 or 4 days at least.
I'm sitting here in the hospital watching him sleep, thinking about all he's been through, and hoping for a fast recovery.
It likely won't be fast, but I'll be so thankful when I can take him home again.

One Local Summer - Week 6

2009-07-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

Finally, my garden is starting to produce in earnest, with many of this week's veggies coming from just a few feet outside my back door.

I use my Italian vegetarian cookbook all the time, with this week's marinated cauliflower salad a new find. The lighter cauliflower is from my garden, that glorious purple cauliflower is direct from the farmer. I've never seen cauliflower in such a gorgeous hue! I lightly steamed the cauliflower, made a quick vinagrette-type dressing, and tossed in a handful of calamata olives for extra flavor. After a quick one-hour marinade at room temperature, it offered a crunchy, tangy, counterpoint to the rest of the meal.

This is the first year I've successfully grown eggplant! My kids made fun of my little happy dance on the porch when I spied the first fruits, and a friend offered only cheerful disdain regarding my joy over "tasteless purple vegetables," yet I remain undaunted.

I love eggplant!

I sliced the eggplant and some garden-fresh green peppers, brushed them with olive oil and sprinkled them with salt and pepper before broiling them until browned and tender.

These luscious slices were then layered between homemade bread, with just a tablespoon of olivada (homemade, but imported olives) spread on the bread.

It was heavenly!

I've been dying to make my favorite stuffed tomatoes and finally had enough locally-grown (from about 100-ish miles away in Missouri) and tasty tomatoes to make it worthwhile. The tomatoes are hollowed out and filled with a mixture of homemade breadcrumbs, fresh parsley and basil, salt, pepper, olive oil, and garlic. Baked at 375 degrees for 20 minutes they are incredibly flavorful and melt-in-your-mouth terrific.

I can't wait to see what my garden - and my farmer's market! - produces this week!

This little piggy

2009-07-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday one of our chickens mistook Sarah's toes for "fat little grubs."

I think that was how I put it, anyway.

She was somewhat unappreciative of the remark, but her "little piggies" put me in mind of the nursery rhyme and how, as a child, I always thought the piggy who "went to market" was going shopping.

Whether for good or ill, today's children, in our society, at least, are so far removed from many of life's nasty truths. And when they aren't, there's often no one there to help them through it.

Life certainly didn't used to offer children much protection. Just look at nursery rhyme content and you'll see that children were not only exposed to much of the worst life had to offer, but lived and breathed it as well.

I know I heard all the nursery rhymes when I was little, but don't remember my mom reading them to me. Now I see the same with my youngest child; without a younger sibling, she didn't continue to hear the rhymes, the baby book stories, or a myriad of other toddler-type offerings past their age-appropriateness. Whereas my other three retain so many more memories of these books and rhymes, songs and fairy tales, simply because they heard them so many more times than she did.

Have you ever read any of the non-sugar-coated versions of The Brothers Grimm? Oh my, I sure did. (I vaguely remember some poor soul being rolled downhill in a barrel hammered full of nails!) Zachary loved those stories, in which tortures are described, everything doesn't always end happily, and even when good triumphs over evil it's done with a good measure of vengence.

But my Zachary loved these stories, I think, in part because I was there to help interpret, when necessary; to explain, if he wanted; and to continue reading them, even if they were disturbing; he was able to digest them, embrace them, and fall head-over-heels in love with the fantasy of them, without upset, confusion, or being scared.

Because I was there, however, I also knew that Sarah definitely preferred the Disney versions, Stephen always wanted non-fiction, and Melissa loved some of each.

This is what I have loved about choosing to be a full-time mother for the last 21-plus years. I have always been here when my children needed me and when they merely wanted me. I have been able to guide them in good behavior, model appropriate manners, laugh with them, cry with them, show them what I know about the world and help them make their own discoveries. We've had that most precious of commodities: time.

There are some pretty awful things in nursery rhymes, but if I hadn't been here with my children, they might not know that "Ring around the rosies" is about the Black Death, that the little piggy, unfortunately, wasn't going to WalMart, and "Mary, Mary quite contrary," wasn't really just out weeding her garden.

Of course, I didn't share this enlightenment with them when they were 2 or 3!

But by having time with them, we didn't have to hurry through each and every day. They could think, plan, day dream, and follow their passions, unlike many children today who don't have the luxury of time.

Or a mom or dad at home with them to share it.

I've had my share of problems in this life, who hasn't?

But I wouldn't change a thing.

Though really, I never cared for "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater."

But hey, it was opportunity to explain sexism.

Though I left out the part about the chastity belt.

Day lilies and Remembrance

2009-07-10T06:54:00.001-07:00

Posthumous portrait of Carl Totemeier by artist James Yale.

I've been thinking about my dad a lot this past week.

The day lilies outside my window conjure up many memories of my dad and his plants. A horticulturist, we were always surrounded by plants and flowers. After retiring, my dad went into the farmer's market business, gradually shifting from fruits (apples, berries, peaches) to perennials, especially day lilies and hostas. He was well-known and much beloved by all who knew him. Known as a raconteur, he could regale us with story after story of his youth on an Iowa farm, his college years, and so on.

We've moved a lot in our nealry 24 years of marriage, from Missouri to Delaware to Ohio to Iowa, and to 4 different locations in the Des Moines area. At each and every house, my dad would come visit with loads of plants and help us landscape. Our house previous to this one was landscaped solely by us, using the plants my father left when he died.

This is the only house I've ever lived in that doesn't have plants grown by my dad.

I tend to think of these gardens at my former homes as memorials to my dad. Sometimes I drive by and am instantly flooded with memories of him.

But of all the lessons I learned in the 41 years I had with my father, there is one that is, perhaps, the most important, and certainly the most poignant.

You see, my father taught me how not to die.

July 3 was the fifth anniversary of my father's death. It was a horrible death, precipitated by a sudden and devastating illness. In January, he's seemed hale and healthy, by March he was ill, by May, diagnosed with myelodysplasia; and gone by July 3.

There would have been no mitigating the severity of our loss, no other medical decisions could have been made to extend his life.

No, the lesson I learned is never, ever leave anything unsaid.

My father grew up during the Great Depression, a time when men were discouraged from sharing their feelings. Though my dad's every action in life showed that he loved me, I have no memory of his every telling me so.

We just didn't do that in my family.

As his health declined, I made sure my children, who saw him for the last time two weeks before his death, told him how much he meant to them and how much they loved him. I was shocked when he told each one of them that the loved them, too.

At least I did that much right.

But my dad didn't have a "final" converstation with any of us; my three sisters, myself, not even my mom. We didn't talk about what ifs, or what we meant to each other. We didn't even talk about his impending death.

My dad wasn't fully himself those last few days in the hospital, and though his doctor asked him in a veiled sort of way if he wanted to go on and told him "things didn't look good," we never directly talked to him about the decision to end the treatment that was prolonging his suffering but would never heal him.

He never took the opportunity, even before those last two weeks in the hospital, to tell us whether he was ready to die, that he loved us, what he wanted for our futures.

And though I told him in those last few hours that I loved him, it may have been too late for him to hear.

I have a hole in my heart that can never be filled. An emptiness and longing to hear the words I know I will never hear.

I've always been outspoken about my love for my children and my husband, telling them each how much they mean to me, expressing my love for them. If I have time to prepare for my own death, hopefully far in the future, I will make sure none of us leaves anything unsaid. It will be okay to talk about my death, for me to help them cope with my death before I'm gone. To share our memories, our love, our fears and our hopes. And I will tell each and every one of my loved ones what they have meant to me, how proud I am of them, and how special they each are.

I will leave nothing unsaid.

So I look out my window at the day lilies and remember my dad.

I know he loved me.

But I will live the rest of my life never having heard the words.

The beauty of the day lilies, their grace, their toughness and their delicate resiliency will always remind me of my daddy.

And how much I loved him.

One Local Summer - Week 5

2009-07-04T17:16:00.000-07:00

Cauliflower-cheese pie.

This is one of my absolute favorite meals, and is quite well-suited to local dining.

The crust is made from grated potatoes, lightly salted and pre-baked.

The filling is cauliflower sauteed with onions and thyme and the custard is made with a couple of eggs, salt and pepper, and a dash of cream.

I've never been a big fan of cooked cauliflower, but this pie is delectable.

We had a wilted lettuce salad, using lettuce and onions from our garden. The lettuce is quickly tossed in hot bacon grease (just a dab!) and a dressing of vinegar, salt and pepper. A few pieces of bacon are crumbled over the top. I keep thinking my lettuce is done for the season. I cut it way back, then the weather cools again and I get another growth. Not that I'm complaining!

The coup de grace was mulberry sorbet. The mulberries were picked from at a friend's farm, juiced, then put in the freezer with a little sugar added. Mulberries are quite sweet, so I added the juice of 1 lemon. All it takes is a quick stir every half hour or so, and in about 3 hours you have sorbet! I didn't leave mine in the freezer quite long enough, so it was extra juicy, but the taste was great. I'll definitely be trying this again with different fruit juices.

This may be the "most" local meal I've made so far this summer

Stress

2009-07-03T14:04:00.000-07:00

This has been one of those weeks.
I don't handle stress well, and my stress load went stratospheric this week.
Zachary has been dealing with GERD for a couple of years now, and has undergone numerous tests this summer trying to pinpoint the cause. His gastroenterologist believes it likely that he suffers from a slow digestive tract (gastroparesis), but he doesn't fit the typical profile (i.e. he's not overweight, doesn't smoke, doesn't drink alcohol, isn't diabetic, is only 19). This makes diagnosis and treatment more difficult.
We're not talking about the occasional heartburn here, either. He suffers from reflux throughout the day, every day. He's made modifications to his diet, tries to eat multiple smaller meals, raised the head of his bed, and takes Prilosec, which, by the way, has made no difference to his symptoms.
He decided, and we agreed, that a course of Reglan (recommended by the doctor), might only provide temporary relief and is not worth the high risk of nasty side-effects. So his local doctor is arranging a battery of tests at the Iowa City medical center. Apparently, a top specialist in digestive disorders is there. We're trying to find a cause that hopefully can be "fixed," though that may not happen. It might take 3 to 6 months before he can get in for the day-long testing - "nose to bottom," as the doctor described it.
The succession of tests he's undergone, his continuing discomfort, the worry over drugs and side-effects, have all taken their toll on me, I'm afraid.
Stressor number 2?
For the last 6 weeks or so Sarah has been suffering from almost constant, nearly debilitating headaches and insomnia. I took her to the doctor last week, after trying everything we could think of here at home, including over-the-counter meds, relaxation, drinking more water, adjusting the dosage of her SSRI, all to no avail.
She starts out the day ranking her pain at a 3, and by the evening she's nearly non-functional with a pain rating nearing 8 or 9. She had blood work done this week, along with an MRI. We don't have the results of the blood work yet, but her MRI was fine, thank goodness.
But that means there's no hope of getting her an earlier appointment with the neurologist - we're looking at about 6 weeks from now. Her symptoms don't fit the typical migraine pattern, so the doctors are reluctant to prescribe migraine medications, which I completely understand and agree with.
She's now taking a course of Prednisone, to be followed next week by a two-week course of Augmentin, in case there is a deep sinus infection. She's taking 600 mg. of Ibuprofen several 'times a day, per the doctor's orders, but still hasn't felt any relief.
I can't stand seeing her in such pain and it's such a helpless feeling for a mom not to be able to make it better. I'm trying to keep her as active as possible, but it's difficult to force her into activity when she feels so awful. As a veteran of some pretty horrible headaches myself, I can only imagine how worn down she is from this whole experience.
Meanwhile, I've been managing to keep up with cooking healthy meals and routine dog, cat, and housework, but I've been experiencing significant fatigue.
I know it's not my thyroid, as that's properly regulated.
A hefty helping of it is my poor handling of stress, I'm sure.
I've never received an official diagnosis of fibromyalgia, though about 20 years ago a doctor told me that's what I likely have.
So I'm struggling with sore muscles and a level of fatigue that makes me want to hit the sack about the time I finish my second cup of coffee in the morning.
Not good.
Not good at all.
Thankfully, Michael pitched in - ha, what am I saying? He took over! - and did a bunch of house cleaning. Zachary and Stephen have helped, too, joining in when they aren't at work. Melissa does what she can, as does Sarah, poor thing.
Me?
I'm still making meals, resting when I can, and generally feeling about as useful as a sack of potatoes.
Make than an empty sack.
But it's time to start that "positive self-talk" I've come to know so well.
I am not lazy.
It's okay to rest.
It's alright that the kids and Michael have to do so much.
I am not lazy.

I'll need to keep working on that part...

Art Fair

2009-06-30T08:44:00.001-07:00

We found Pinocchio at the Des Moines Art Fair Saturday evening!

Seriously, this sculpture (?) reminds of a limbless Pinocchio puppet.

We've never gone to the Art Fair before, mostly because it's always been beastly hot and I didn't want to be tempted to spend money. Well, this weekend cooled off beautifully, and I've been trying to get out and do more locally, so we piled in the car and headed off.

This man "arted right in front of us.

There was some beautiful artwork, but I'm not what you'd call a connoisseur. So while it was fun to look, temptations were truly minimal.

We tended to gravitate toward the photography, and I was sorely tempted by a wrap-around print on canvas of this photo Melissa's holding. You can't really see it in all its glory... dusty old pop bottles, beautiful yellows and greens, I knew just where I'd hang it... but the $275 price tag was too steep for me.

Michael was having fun taking pictures, until he was informed that it's not polite to photograph works of art without prior permission.

Oops.

I understand completely; no artist wants someone to steal her ideas.

But darn, a few more shots of this and I could have made my own here at home.

Neat mugs. I'm always tempted by neat mugs. Walk away. Just turn and walk away...

The most fun was painting sections of a door for a Habitat for Humanity house being built during the fair. We each chose a pre-drawn block and created our own artwork.

Sarah's...

Mine...

Michael's...

Melissa's...

Fence pickets were also available to paint.

I can't help but wonder, though, how long the new home-owner will resist painting over everything with a nice coat of white...

It's an idea I hope to remember for the future. It would be neat to have my grandchildren paint the bedroom doors in my house... someday... when I have grandchildren.

I'm glad we went, but I don't know that I'll be drawn to attending again next year...

Though maybe that photographer with the pop bottle photo will be back...

One Local Summer - Week 4

2009-06-27T15:58:00.000-07:00

This may well have been the best rhubarb pie I have ever made. Not too tart, not too sweet, and drizzled with local cream. I think I could eat this every day...

I found 2 lbs. of asparagus hiding in the fridge. Oops. It was a couple weeks old already, but other than needing to trim off a little extra from the ends, it was in good-enough shape to eat. I was not going to feed 2 lbs. of local asparagus to the chickens! I was worried that age might have toughened it up too much for my regular recipe, so instead I marinated it in a homemade balsamic vinegar dressing for several hours before grilling. I'll definitely be making it this way again next year.

I needed to use up my homemade barbecue sauce, so we thawed one of our local chickens and slow-baked it, using the broiler to finish. The slow-cooking and the sauce kept the meat from drying out, yielding delectably tender and juicy chicken.

I missed all the farmer's markets last week, so decided to check Craigslist to see if anyone local was selling veggies. I found a great source for organic, fresh veggies just a few miles away from home. A Missouri farmer who lives just over the border from Iowa - maybe 2-ish hours away - brings boxes of veggies for sale to his sister's house near Des Moines weekly throughout the season. I only have to commit to a week at a time and each box is brimming with veggies- all for only $20!

This salad used our own lettuces and onions, and tomatoes, cucumbers and zucchini from "the box." I marinated all but the lettuce in a homemade oil and vinegar dressing, tossed them into the salad and added slivers of locally-made gouda cheese.

Finally, I made whole wheat bread accompany the meal. Lately I've mostly been baking the basic white bread from Artisan Bread in 5 minutes. But this meal called for something more substantial and whole grain. Served with a choice of homemade jams, it helped to satisfy the non-meat-eaters in the family.

Snakes Alive

2009-06-26T10:47:00.000-07:00

Look who Sarah found in the brush pile on the other side of the driveway. According to her observations, this is Mama snake.

We've found lots of shed snake skins and spotted at least two baby snakes.

I'm totally creeped-out by snakes, even though I value their importance to the ecosystem.

I'm glad they're living in my yard, I just don't want to see one slither past me. Thankfully, though they are "gregarious," they mostly just want to hang out with others of their own kind.

It's nice to know this garter snake family is protecting my yard from rodents, leeches, insects, and other undesirables.

I'm also glad Sarah found them and took these close-ups.

I never would have been able to get this close...

One Local Summer - Week 3

2009-06-20T16:14:00.001-07:00

Shortly after we moved into our home almost three years ago, I got word that the local family from whom we'd bought pork was getting out of the hog-raising business. This would be my last chance to order pork from them, so I promptly dashed off an email asking for my usual 1/2 hog.

There was only one small problem; I'd actually ordered twice the amount of pork we could eat in a year!

Despite being a family of 6, we've never been big meat-eaters. Recently I heard the term "flexitarian" to describe this kind of eating, and I think we totally fit the bill. We primarily eat vegetarian, only occasionally choosing to eat meat. I try only to buy locally, humanely, and antibiotic-free raised meats. The exceptions are the once-in-a-while McDonald's hamburger for my daughter, a Subway tuna sandwich for me, and eating out, which hardly if ever happens here.

Anyway, I'd already placed the order and was too embarrassed to cancel half of it. No one I knew wanted a quarter hog, so into our freezer it went. Most of the meat was gone long ago, but I had a couple packages of ribs hanging out at the very bottom of the freezer. Every now and then I'd come across them, but it always seemed like too much effort to prepare.

Well, last weekend I finally worked up my gumption, found a recipe for barbecued ribs, and out of the freezer they came.

I made a quick homemade barbecue sauce and marinated the ribs overnight. A slow-cooking on the grill (about two hours) and they were melt-in-your-mouth tender.
Delicious!

I used the last of our garden-grown broccoli to make a salad. I used my favorite homemade mayonnaise recipe, using nearly all local ingredients including our own egg and Iowa-grown soybean oil. I love the garlicky bite of this mayonnaise, but decided the salad needed something sweet to contrast with the chopped spring onions and dressing. I remembered the apple slices I'd dried last fall after a trip to a nearby orchard and rehydrated a handful in boiling water. My husband and I loved how this nearly-completely local salad turned out and I know we'll be having it again often.

My youngest daughter is our pickiest-eater, and the sound of rib-meat being ripped from the bone nearly drives her crazy. She is my child who is most likely to become a complete vegetarian sometime in the future! I made homemade garlic bread - her favorite - to appease her. It worked - she hardly complained about the crunching, tearing noises the rest of us carnivores made. I used homemade bread, but the olive oil, Parmesan, garlic salt and pepper were, of course, not local.

Supper was fantastic, but now that my pork is completely gone, I need to go in search of a 1/4 hog to refill my freezer.

But this time, I'll be sure to cook those ribs a little sooner...

Merciful Dispatch

2009-06-19T07:18:00.000-07:00

I had to kill my chicken yesterday.

It wasn't easy, and I had help, but it had to be done.

The girls had noticed for a couple of months now that Dottie, one of our Australorps, wasn't doing well. She always had poop on her hind end, her comb was small and pale, and she weighed significantly less than her two sisters.

A couple of weeks ago, I spoke with our veterinarian who raises chickens of her own. She doesn't treat chickens as part of her practice, and told me she pretty much lets nature take its course with her own flock.

"If one of them dies, I figure, 'Oh, you must have been sick.' "

Now that's a practical outlook on chicken management if I've ever heard one.

Apparently, Dottie was, to put it simply, "not a thrifty chicken." Basically, this means she consumed our resources (food, etc.), but didn't produce anything for us (no eggs).

I was willing to allow her to continue her spendthrift ways, but yesterday she took a turn for the worse. While gathering the eggs Melissa found her semi-lying down in the coop. She didn't get up, didn't follow the other hens out into the yard, she pretty much just lay there.

This is the "not fun" part of animal ownership, yet it's a responsibility nonetheless. I couldn't allow her to suffer, which left only one choice: a quick, painless death.

I never thought I would be able to make such a decision, knowing that I had to put her out of her misery myself. Admittedly, I'm not as attached to the chickens as I am to our cats or dogs, which I'm sure made the task easier. But I had never killed another living creature larger than an insect before.

I knew it would be foolhardy to seek veterinary assistance for her; the expense wasn't warranted and the outcome would likely have been no different, except for a bill.

The girls, of course, were inconsolable, though I know they understood the necessity. They also understood that we couldn't allow her to suffer any longer.

Fortunately, Zachary was home and agreed to help me, as I don't think I could have done it alone. A quick internet search confirmed the best method was a sharp knife and removal of the head.

While I sharpened the knife, Zachary dug a hole for burial.

The girls said goodbye and went in the house, while I carried her to the location we had chosen. She was completely calm in my arms; I held her firmly against a piece of cement while Zachary quickly removed her head. I did keep my eyes closed for that part, though another time I think I'd be able to fully participate.

We placed her in a plastic bag, buried her deeply, and placed several pieces of broken concrete on top of her grave as I surely didn't want anything to dig her up.

I felt strangely calm, knowing we did the right thing. I also felt an odd sense of pride in my ability to properly care for my animals, even when that care was exceedingly difficult.

Dottie had a short, but good life.

She had a quick and painless death.

And she taught all of us an important lesson in responsibility.

She was a good chicken.

Blue Blazes

2009-06-18T09:59:00.000-07:00

As in, "hotter than."
We're dripping here in Iowa, with temperatures hitting 90 or so and humidity so high you can shower without water.
Eww.
Sorry about that.
We have our ceiling fans running, put fans in the windows last night, and are drinking buckets of water.
What we aren't doing is turning on the air conditioner.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not suffering for the ideals of environmental martyrdom.
No, we're suffering because the air conditioners aren't yet in the windows to turn on.
You see, our 1904 house doesn't have central air and it would cost upwards of $15,000 to have it installed. We have a boiler heating system so all ductwork would need to be added, the basement ceiling would likely need to be replaced in the process, and... well, we don't plan to make that kind of investment in this house. Especially since we need a new roof, the garage door opener doesn't work, the basement's a little leaky, we need to repair the window screens... you get the idea.
So we use window air conditioners; one large one downstairs, two smaller ones upstairs. They don't exactly make the house cool, per se, but they definitely do a number on the humidity.
It seems this happens every year; the hot, humid weather first strikes while the window air conditioner installer, aka dh Michael, is gone for the week.
When we lived in Delaware about 19 years ago, the heat and humidity were unbearable. Stephen was 2 and Zachary just a few months old. We'd managed to barter for a window air conditioner, though I no longer remember what we traded, but it wasn't installed yet.
It was so humid in the house that you could skate across the floors in your bare feet. Zachary and I were so sweaty, he practically slipped out of my arms. It was about the time that I'd given Zach his third bath, Stephen was beet red, and I was beyond rational that I caved in and called Michael at work.
Please come home and put the air conditioner in.
Please.
He didn't think he could "just leave," but fortunately his boss's secretary admonished him to get out of there and save his wife and kids.
We've been in similar situations many times throughout the years, though most often Michael's been on business trips.
As always, we'll survive; a little worse for wear perhaps, but eagerly awaiting Michael's return.
And yes, we have an ulterior motive.
We need relief.
As soon as possible.