My Dad is Missing

If you've come for a giggle, today may be the day to go surfing by.

I'm answering a question on david mcmahon's blog: "What's the most important thing you've ever lost?" Some may think I instantly answered, "my mind" but my thoughts went immediately to my Dad.
It was over 30 years ago, so it surprised me that it was the first "lost" I could think of (I regularly lose keys, children, my temper and most recently-- the oil bill... not a good loss). So I've pondered it a bit and considered what I lost from his early death.

When my dad left on an out-of-town bowling trip, I never expected he wouldn't come back. I lost that invincible feeling all children should have.

When he left behind a grieving widow, I also lost my Mom. She worked two jobs and went through years of anger--at him for leaving her behind.

I lost the man who would let me ride my bike to work to see him. He worked at the Glen Canyon Dam, and amidst all of the turbines, dripping tunnels and bright yellow hard hats, I liked "his" snack machine the best.

There would be no more midnight drives talking on the CB radio when he bowled an amazing score.

As for driving, without him to drive, we no longer did our annual 3-day drive to Kentucky to see family.

I lost my privacy. It's not always good to tell a prepubescent girl that her daddy still watches over her all of the time. I hid myself while on the toilet, in the bathtub, while changing clothes.

I lost my immediate family (Mom, brother and sister). We all kind of just went separate ways--well, everyone else went their own way, I was 13, where was I going to go?

I went to drugs. When my dad died I lost my innocence. Swimming among kids who lived for the next high or shot of tequila, I lost sight of my dreams.

I lost 11 inches of hair on a party night. My dad would never let me cut my long, thick hair and since he was gone, I let a drunk cut it all off. I've only managed to let it get that long again once in 30 years-- but it wasn't thick and shiny. It was an older person's over-processed hair, so I never saw it pretty like that again.

When I found my way back to some normalcy (as normal as a 17 year-old girl basically raising herself can get-- Mom may have hit a mid-life crisis in here somewhere), my father wasn't at my theater productions, choir performances, High School Graduation, or when I graduated from college.

At my wedding, he wasn't there to give me away. A white Calla Lily sat on the chair that would've been his.

He has never held my children, never heard A2's infectious giggle, or marveled at A1's beautiful dimpled smile; heard J1 rock the house with his drums, seen J2 leap straight up in the air to block a goal or watch us all fall head-over-heals for a little mischievous baby girl.

I lost the ability to trust that we will see each other again tomorrow.
Which is a good thing, I think.

One night, during a terrible time with our oldest son, I spent the whole night worrying that he would take his life and leave this planet thinking we didn't love him. But I did love him. With all of my heart. I just wanted to ring his neck, not lose him forever.

I also gained a beautiful man as a step-father, and saw my Mom emerge again.

I would've never joined my church, met my husband (had these destructive Spring Breakers--I mean blessings!) and moved all over the world.

And because I wouldn't have moved away from my family and friends to a new country where I sat alone while my husband played in the sand in the Middle East, I may have never felt lonely enough to start blogging.

And I would've missed out on you.

The people whose comments make my heart smile and posts sometimes makes it cry.
And that, my friends, isn't a loss at all.

Chefs, Some Insight?

When I tell you that I don't understand, will you think I am being sarcastic?

I once received the most glorious little package in the mail from a friend who had moved away. It was homemade toffee. I had never been a huge fan of toffee, since quite frankly, I like to hold onto the few teeth I have. But this toffee was different. It snapped when you bit it. It was covered with delicious dark chocolate and adorned in roasted chopped pecans. Heavenly. If I had allowed my husband to have any, he may have agreed with me.
So, I sent a letter asking for the recipe.

There! YOU! Yes, YOU who gasped when I said that. You are specifically who I am writing to today, because this really escapes my understanding.

My friend never responded.

Ok, to say we were "friends" may be stretching it a bit, we were more like people who respectfully enjoyed each other's company because we were in the same home business together. So it wasn't like my BFF just didn't write back.

I don't take hints well, so one day when she called, I again oozed compliments and gratitude for her candy-making abilities and asked her if she'd share the recipe.

There was a slight, deadly silent pause and then she informed me that the person that had given her the recipe had SWORN her to secrecy. I was picturing a dark little corner where our exchange was taking place and her telling me, "If I gave you that information, I'd have to kill you".
I respectfully dropped my inquest, but had to wonder...

Um, it's a recipe. Not her bank account. And she, like my "friend", had moved away from our state.
I don't get it.

I used to joke about my mother's oatmeal cake and how I "would never share the recipe, so don't ask" but did and even allowed it to be put in a church book.
I have sat among the bubble blowers and errant birthday balloons telling other mothers, "Oh these? They're from a box".

You gasped again, I heard you.

Someone even pulled me aside and told me, "You're not supposed to admit it's from a box."

Why is that?

Who cares?

I make some mean food, as our scales can attest to, but quite frequently, I pour Betty Crocker into my cupcake liners. And unless you're running a catering business with a speciality you don't want stolen, why do you care that I make your dish for my family? I would think of it as a compliment.
Don't you know, that every time I make the Pecan Cream Cheese cracker dip I think of the woman that gave me the recipe? Years later and thousands of miles between us, it's like she attends every party where I serve it. My friend Max's porcupine casserole? I remember the time he had daringly had our entire clan over for dinner when he discovered he had left out the egg and so the meatballs were only ground beef with rice in a tomato sauce. I love Max.
My grandmother's coconut cake (with real coconut milk), sits her down at my table with me for every bite.

So lighten up.
Share. It's not just your recipe, it's a little of you.

And now, every Christmas when I make MY special toffee, I think of the attempts to thwart my culinary progress and wish I had her address to say, "Na na nana na! I figured it out!"

Oooh, success is sweet!

Random Babbling

In all of my spare time-- you know, the moments between feeding the ravenous wild life (every 30 minutes or so I get, "I'm hungry!" How can they possibly be hungry, we JUST finished dinner?!), laundering the nine daily changes of clothing for 3 boys (disposable jeans might leave a huge carbon footprint, but I'm willing to try them), cleaning the murky swamp-like bathrooms (how DO they get pee in those places?)--I'm trying to have a baby.
The ideas are exploding in my head and some have splattered on to my desktop already...ideas just waiting for a blog to be assigned to them when time is again my own.

So this morning, I begin titling the new blog, but something tells me to Google the topic.
Yep. You guessed it.
There's about two hundred other blogs dedicated to the same thing. sigh.

Why can't I have a few little bovines running around my counter tops? Or have the ability to share "poop in the tub" tales with such class that the world queues up just to read them? Or some spooky transparent beings living in my closet (not the regular skeletons N.Y.'s Gov. David Paterson keeps introducing)?

Because I'm boring.
Good ol' I-have-done-nothing-with-my-life-for-so-long-I-bore-myself boring.
I'm not looking for pity here. I can stand in front of a mirror and acknowledge my flaws without slipping into pajamas for the rest of the week.

Where I could use your advice is:

Does anybody know what I want to be when I grow up?
I'm figuring, if God is good and I don't live to be a shriveled bag of 103 year-old bones propped up in a wheel chair, I am approximately at my life's half-way point now. It's a good time to decide what I want to do with the rest of it.
Of course, the next 17 years are pretty much spoken for like the last 19 3/4 have been. But after that-- what DO I want to be?

*Ballet is out. So don't even suggest that. A 40-something year-old, desperately out of shape woman pirouetting around in a tutu turns my stomach.
*I can't be a movie star at this point, since having a logical political view is something that is important to me.
*ANYTHING that requires Algebra, Calculus, Trigonometry or any other strange word that basically equals puzzles-my-brain-can't-wrap-around, is out.
*Child care is NOT an option. Have you even read any of my blog? I am not going to win Mother of the Year award in this century, and those children in question aren't likely to sue me.
*Writing would require an ability to write.
*Singing... uh yeah, not an option.
*Can't stand sitting at a desk, poking needles in people... are you sensing my desperation here?

Here are my abilities:
I can laugh at myself, and am not afraid of looking too foolish.
I'm usually smiling (because I whinge on my blog).

Now go get 'em! Find me my dream career!

Or, you could just ignore this post and go enter the contest so that I can mail out some English toffee to you.

Thank you Easter ...Snowman?

Wordless Wednesday

The joys of school holi-daze & babies, babies everywhere

Joy 1: My living room is covered in Geo trax.
Joy 2: We're living off of frozen pizza and popcorn.
Joy 3: If I see another football game (soccer) I'll scream (the best thing is J2 has recorded games, Best Goals of the Season, etc..., so we NEVER run out of football).
Joy 4: "I'm bored" is the favorite phrase for kids who have changed clothes nine times.
Joy 5: My laundry room has never been so busy. I hate snow now.
Joy 6: My skin is as pimply as a hormonally challenged teenager (would someone throw this Easter candy out before I explode?).

Joy 7: I LIVE FOR YOUR COMMENTS! PLEAASE SOMEONE TALK TO ME.
Ahem, sorry about that.

The contest is moving along nicely. Remember, if you have entered a photo caption or Scavenger Hunt answers, I am not posting the comments until the contest closes. If you've entered by leaving a comment on a March post, it should be up and your name has been entered.

I am using this posting downtime to catch up on my blog reading and...
I'm having a baby!

Those of you who just choked on your Dr. Pepper because you know me in the real world and specifically remember my husband sitting around with a bag of frozen peas while I supervised our move, calm down.

It's a blog baby. I finally have an idea for a blog other than whinging. I have been so impressed with all of the people who seem to have a purpose in writing and have something they stand for and for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything that I feel strongly about. Really. I would suck as a juror:

Prosecution: "..so I think you'll agree with me that the only thing to do is to find Mr. Slimybottom guilty."
Me: "Yeah, you horrible, awful person. There's no salvaging you. I spit on you".
Defense: "... and with that highly questionable evidence, I'm sure you can all agree with me that Mr. Slimybottom has been accused of a crime he couldn't possibly have committed, being such a pillar of the community."
Me: "Yeah, that's terrible. That poor man. I can't believe he and his family had to go through this!"

I bend with the wind, broth-ah.

So with a lot of self-reflection (self-indulgence?) a baby has begun to grow in my head.

Maybe I should get a baby counter for my blog--although my brother, who scans my blog at best, could have a heart attack.

I can't wait for delivery!!

Mr. Darcy - I'm Too Sexy

For Holly...

Time To Win!

And so here we are.

It can't be any easier to win some British sweeties, great tunes and a book. The book is a new one, I am not sending you my copy that was marinated in laundry detergent.

Like my playlist? You will have your own Katie Melua CD!

Here's what you've gotta do:

You can pull out your witty little thinking caps and give me a caption for any or all of the photos below (your name goes in the drawing as many times as you enter).

OR

Do the Scavenger Hunt-- all questions can be found by searching titles, no days-on-end reading involved. Your name will go in for every question you answer.

If you're feeling overwhelmed, you can also enter by just leaving a comment on any March post.

Let's get started, shall we?

A.
"Got Lunch?"
Irene


B.
"What do you think happens if we pee in this thing?"
Apparently Laura knows my children.

C.
"...nothing says i love you like a good choke hold"

The Vasquez3

Scavenger Hunt

1. I fell in love in January. Tell me the recipient of my affections.
2. My very first post on this site explains my Blog title. It's from a poem by who?
3. December 2007, something happened to bring up Memories of Christmas Pasts.. what was it?

Well that's it.
I moderate comments on this blog. If you leave captions or scavenger hunt answers, I will hold onto them until the contest closes-- so don't worry if they don't show up!

Enter as many times as you like.

Contest closes midnight, (EDT)March 31st. I will post the winner on April Fool's Day!

Good luck!!!

Lessons on how NOT to deliver a punch line

Ever get the feeling Someone upstairs has a wicked sense of humor?

My daffodils aren't laughing.

My Heather isn't giggling.

The Hyacinths are hating this...

I'm not one to tell Him how to tell a joke, but I think the delivery needs some tweaking.

Happy Easter Everyone
He is Risen!

Contest and photos will be posted tonight my time (that's today your time).

Death by Chocolate

The joys of Scrolling Saturday.
Rather than squeeze a little humour out while juggling kids, who on day two of holiday are BORED, I can just cut and paste. I like that. a lot. Contest will go up by Monday. I have the goodies ready for photographing now... oooh, I am so excited!

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

My Husband is Trying to Kill Me

I joke you not. I want you to watch for me and if a day or two passes without a new blog entry, I want you to contact the authorities. Fast.
I am not delusional, I have proof.
Today while frantically searching for the JC Penney card that I last saw in his hands when he was paying bills, I came upon a chilling discovery--- in my pajama drawer.
Why was I looking for a credit card in my pajama drawer? It's my stash-everything-in-here-quick-someone's-coming-over-drawer, and don't pretend you don't have one (or a closet, trunk, shower stall that you shove everything into when the doorbell rings).
And yes, people DO come into my bedroom. For some reason, everyone who graces our front step will ask for a tour of the house-- including the engineer who hooked up my hob and cooker (stove for you American-types). It could be because this place is massive. People will stand in our kitchen and look out the french doors across the courtyard, with the two ponds and connecting stream and ask, "Is that (pointing to the two-story bedroom side of the house) part of yours as well?"
One man who came to fetch J1 for a party we had shown up to without him (grumpy teenager, I didn't mind that he wanted to stay behind), returned to the festivities and all he could say was, "They live in the flippin' Pentagon!"

We were tremendously lucky in finding this place, but that's NOT what concerns me now. What I have thought about all day was what I found in my drawer.
In addition to a Pokemon ball, and a Creative Memories catalog, there's a box of German Truffles in a lovely gold box with a shiny blue ribbon. A gift from my husband when he returned from his vaca--I mean deployment. There's also a huge bar of some imported 70% cocoa, a monster Galaxy bar, and some British licorice mix. All brought to me at various times by my husband. My pancreas is screaming just thinking about it.
Out of curiosity, I went to my bedside table--yep, the sweets had found their way there as well.

Women who are swooning over such a thoughtful husband, please enlighten me. I don't think I have a romantic bone in my body (I might have had once, but all of my bones are tired these days and I can't make out which ones do what), I see it as his way of slowly poisoning me to get me out of the way so that he can have all of these kids (the crying, puking, peeing, pooping, mucous factories that they are) all to himself! I know it, and I fear for my life.
I'm afraid it won't be long now, he just came home from work and he brought me a life-sized Tootsie Roll! Help.

Other People

Other people,
throughout the world
are reverencing the day.
Or buying eggs
for the splashing
of wondrous colors.
Some are buying cellophane grass
that will wrap around
the hoover on Monday.
Other people,
have hand painted
tulips, chicks, cards of love.
But not me.
Today
on this first day of Easter Break.
I painted my children.
As a bunny?
No
Colorful like an egg?
No
Other people have certain iconic images
to help them recognize this time.
But my child has his own.
A2 has pestered me since last night to paint his face to look like Darth Maul. He has a birthday party to go to in the a.m. I hope I can get it all off by then.
DON'T FORGET!
Give away details will be posted by Monday!!!

My Brilliant Musings for the day...

I know you're tuning in for some incredible introspective musings, but for the life of me I can not come up with a thing today.
I wouldn't say it's a writer's block (doesn't one need to be a writer before you can claim creative constipation?), but more--yikes, I hate to type this admission-- I'd rather finish my book.

This blogger has gotten to the point of wanting to pick the book up in between turns in Wii bowling or golf (and at bedtime when the husband dozes off, back on goes the light).

It's nearly finished, and then I can A). read the blogs that bring me so much joy ;-) and
B). Have a contest. During our Easter Break. Stupid timing for me, but I've wanted to do it for a while.


Yes, you read me right.
I am going to have a give away of a creative English hamper (goodie basket). So you lurkers, get your fingers ready... and get out your wit-sharpeners-- I'm requiring a little brain power on this one.

Sun and signs of Spring to you, and Death (and Book Thieves) to me until then....

Whew! It's Wednesday

I'm Only as Good As the Book I Am Reading

I thought that the day before Wordless Wednesday I should tell you about the words filling my free time lately.

Recently while in a local charity shop, I was drawn to the book rack like a bug to the zapper. A weak, unconvincing voice in my mind was saying, "NO! You don't have the time... Remember The Tower! (forget the Alamo, I have to remember The Tower).

This is my leaning tower of books I intend to read.
There's more behind the wicker boxes...see? in the bag, and on the floor.

Books to the ceiling,
Books to the sky,
My pile of books is a mile high.
How I love them! How I need them!
I'll have a long beard by the time I read them.

---Arnold Lobel

Sigh.



ZAP! I picked out a book. Why? Because I liked the picture. That's how I pick my books, you know.

I read a little off the back ZAP!
Interesting, but I put it back--the Hubby and wee Shop Destroyer were clamoring for my attention.


***Tell me, do you have this problem? I love scrap booking paper.
I love scrap booking stickers, I like to go into the shops just to breathe in that lovely, "someone-out-there-could-actually-create-something-beautiful-with-these" smell.
I feel the same about book stores. and libraries.

Where is human nature so weak as in the bookstore?--Henry Ward Beecher

But it never fails that when I am in one such paradise, I'm always in the company of my family. "Hey, look at this!" one says. "Mom, look at this book." another will say. "Honey,
did you see this?" the husband will question. So with my head jerking around in circles and one eye twitching just a bit, I give up on looking at anything for myself.***

I digress. Strange for me, I know.

Well, ZAP ZAP ZAP went the zapper, because I was sucked back to the book rack.
I clutched my new treasure close to my chest...
and then paid £1 for a used book when I had The Tower at home.

I LURVED this book. I read passages aloud to my husband. I loved the way Kate Morton manipulated words and sculpted them into wonderful images in my head.

This is what greets you on the first page:

"Last November I had a nightmare. It was 1924 and I was at Riverton again. All the doors hung wide open, silk billowing in the summer breeze. An orchestra perched high on the hill beneath the ancient maple, violins lilting lazily in the warmth. The air rang with pealing laughter and crystal, and the sky was the kind of blue we'd all thought the war had destroyed forever. One of the footman, smart in black and white, poured champagne into the top of a tower of glass flutes and everyone clapped, delighting in the splendid wastage......This was not the shiny new building Teddy had designed, but an old structure with ivy climbing the walls, twisting itself through the windows, strangling the pillars."

I missed the characters when I was finished and sometimes find myself looking for a house that never existed. I like that in a book.

I also liked that my grey matter, forever trying to jump ahead as I read (drives my husband to distraction that I almost always have movies figured out within the first 20 minutes) was like a child's toy to Ms. Morton. She teased me with a bit of information here and a bit there, but kept enough hidden from me until the end. I will forever love her for it.

In January 2008, The House at Riverton was being read for the Barnes & Noble First Look Book Club. It's making it's way through the charts in other countries. There's a reason for it. Great read. Intoxicating.

I am currently reading (If I am only as good as the book I'm currently reading, and I never have just one going, does that mean I am a little scattered?) this book:


ZAP! Right there in Tescos. While I was just breezing in to buy laundry detergent (and that flippin' soap leaked onto my book...sacrilege!).

I won't bore you with too many details today, but will tell you, it's narrated by Death, and Death is portrayed in a way that is very endearing (he's afraid of humans. He sees things in colors). The back of the book reads (in part):

Here Is A Small Fact.
You are going to die.
1939 Nazi Germany. The country is holding it's breath. Death has never been busier.

Some Important Information

it's a small story, about:
a girl
an accordionist
some fanatical Germans
a Jewish fist fighter
and quite a lot of thievery.

and inside, "That was when a great shiver arrived. It waltzed through the window with the draught. Perhaps it was the breeze of the Third Reich, gathering even greater strength. Or maybe it was just Europe again, breathing. Either way, it fell across them as their metallic eyes clashed like tin cans in the kitchen. 'You've never cared about this country,' said Hans Junior. 'Not enough anyway.'"

So,
them there's my words for Overly Wordy Tuesday, the precursor for my day of quiet blogging. Please feel free to leave your words below... see the clever place to do that? I do love to read...

She will be Greatly Missed-- POST 100

Friends, we are gathered here today to say goodbye.
Many noticed the way she started keeping to herself more often, plagued with a crippling phobia that she was unable to shed. A mental illness that made her fear the warmth of friends and hide behind layers and layers of clouded perceptions. She will never know how much she was loved or how greatly we will all miss her.

Now is the time to look inside and ask ourselves, how many times did I take her for granted? How many times was I annoyed when she sang so loudly, or heatedly argued with me when I had other plans for the day? Did I curse her when damp grocery bags ripped? Did I blame her when I found myself in a sticky situation? And how many times did I shun her-- blocking out the love she had to give? I'm sure several of us even accused her of causing our own imperfections.
Yes friends, I think we will all miss her, regret our lack of appreciation and will long for the days gone by enveloped in the warmth of her love.
Sleep well, our dear friend and forgive us for taking you for granted.


Today's Monday Mission over at Painted Maypole is to write a post in the style of an obituary. I wrote a Eulogy, but I think it's close enough.

Five Children and Counting, People!

Alright, Kathryn's got me all wound up with her post about stupid people and their thoughtless remarks-- So post number 99 (you hear that Flea, I catch on quick to this counting thing, don't I?) is a serious soapbox, whinging ramble-- get out now while you can!

I am a mother of four boys. add a little girl, but I had 3 years of being a mom with four boys.

I wore that title like a badge of courage-- with pride.


I didn't have one stinking easy delivery.
The first was 24 hours of hard labor with forceps, the second was long but I managed to have a little control throughout-- well, until I nearly bled to death and they whisked me out to surgery while my poor husband held his (first) few-minute old baby.
Baby 3 was in a military training hospital and I just want to say right now, for the record, Doctor in training that checked me to see if I was dilated anymore? I'm really sorry for the Linda Blair impression and I'm sorry you felt the need to cower in the corner for the rest of the delivery, but back labor hurts and you really should time your checks (and cut off one half of your monster-sized hands) before touching a woman that's already twisting her head all the way around. deep breath
Baby 4, I was determined NOT to lose it at any more doctors and made many pre-labor plans to be sure it would go my way. But my doctor, who had agreed with my plan, had no control over the nurse from hell. Hard labor was much faster, and if I had known it wasn't going to go on for 12-24 hours like the others, I might have been braver and not begged my husband to get me away from that mean witch. But once again, I went into Post Partum very disappointed with myself.

I had four sons that I worked hard to get.
And then the comments came. Like Kathryn mentioned, they're always in front of the kids.

So, you trying for a girl?
No, you trying for a brain?

Patricia Heaton (Everybody Loves Raymond) once said that comments like that irritated her because she thought it implied her family was incomplete (she also had four boys).

Can I tell you how complete my family was with four boys?

That must be yes, because you're still here.

We danced to Disney. We sang.
Baby 2 could sing the entire first verse of the Star Spangled Banner--perfect pitch-- at the age of 3 (we lived on an Air Force base, where it's played daily over the loud speakers and Sept. 11th had just happened).
We frequented the library and the kids knew what a wolf fish looked like before they were three (now that's a skill that will carry you through Kindergarten).

I had my share of good times, like the time I went to answer the door and the two boys in the bath (yes, I know) played sinking ship and bailed all of the water out of the tub. When that water ran out, they moved on to the toilet. When I shut the door and started heading down the hallway, my feet went "slosh slosh slosh", a sound not frequently heard inside. Those boys were fast.
I also experienced the grocery shopping nightmare every mother should have at least once. The one where a child pulls something from the bottom of a pyramid display (WHY do they build those in a place where kids frequent?!)

I've cleaned every bodily fluid you can imagine off of places they shouldn't have been, and extricated children from places you wouldn't imagine they could fit. 'nuff said.

I have sat crying in emergency rooms for two skateboard injuries, high fevers, jaundice etc... and cheered for brilliant (my opinion) musical performances by trumpets, bass, drums, guitar, cornet, and the tuba.

I've taken on men bigger and meaner than me (yes, they do exist) when they threatened my children's self esteem and respectfully offered my polite "Yes Sir" and "No sir" in Motor Vehicle Court standing next to the teenage driver from hell.

I was feeling like my life was pretty complete. But you can't tell a store clerk that.

No, I stand there with my mouth gaping open at the audacity of the last question asked and watch as they move on to the next customer. I mumble all the way home.

Comments like:

"Wow, those are a lot of kids." and "You know what causes that don't you?" (Yes, which is why I try to do it as much as possible, so could you please hurry it up, you're cutting into my baby-making time here)
Oh, and the one I've enjoyed most over the years is, "My, quite a gap between your first and second, isn't there!"
Now, what if I had miscarried several before getting baby two? I didn't, the Hubby had to do a lot of sweet talking to get me to go through THAT experience again. How unkind would that comment be?

These lapses in judgement probably aren't intended as badly as we accept them.

In fact, most of the people offering up their stupidity are doing so as a gesture. Proof that they aren't judging the freak show happening before their eyes (you know, the woman with the amazing nine-armed octopus grabbing at every candy displayed on the 5 shelves at the check out with the cashier staring at the bar code on the shampoo as if it will tell her why the price isn't scanning).

And while we fume and think of the comebacks we should've given during dinner or throughout and entire episode of CSI, they've long forgotten that they ever saw a frazzled woman in the store with four hairy little boys hanging from her every limb.

Just last week I was standing behind a woman in a shop on base. I had heard her voice several times saying, "Don't touch that." "Get down from there." "I told you to stay by me", but it fell on me like elevator music.
I knew it was happening, but really paid no attention since it was my 30 minutes and 21 seconds of child-free shopping.
While I stood in the line to pay for my items, I only vaguely noticed that the woman and two boys were in front of me, and her friend was purchasing her things. About the time she said, "I'm just going to take them outside while you finish up and then when you're done, I'll come back in", I realized that she had been struggling to keep these two little boys composed.
I hadn't really noticed them before then, but now the woman had burst into tears and was trying to laugh it off telling her friend that going out with them just stresses her out...

I felt so bad for her. I stepped closer, put my arm around her and said, "I don't think I have ever left the commissary NOT in tears."
She thanked me.

What I wanted to tell her, but didn't because then I was feeling stupid standing there with no children, was that her boys hadn't disturbed my shopping at all. I thought their little faces were adorable and they were just doing things little curious boys do. She couldn't see the joy or wonder (and mischievous grins) on their faces because she was worried about how they were behaving and how it would effect others around her (something I do and live regretting EVERY single night since I became a Mom).

So, Moms (and Mom's to be) (and women waiting to be Moms) unite!
Let's be proud of our shop destroyers, and these wonderful little guys who talk too loud and play at inappropriate times.

And the rest of you...

If I don't know you, it's NOT o.k. to ask me sensitive questions about my personal relationship with my husband (ie: insinuations that maybe he's NOT the father since the child has a different hair color) and you really should be concentrating on the price of that shampoo instead of educating me on acceptable birthing numbers. And now if you'll excuse me, the planet still has a couple of square feet that needs to be filled....

Thievin' Thursday

The way I see it, between Thievin' Thursday, Scrolling Saturday, Wordless Wednesday and Monday Missions, I only have to think a couple days a week-- AND if I'm feeling grey, I just skip those days.
I am thief-ing an email I sent to the Sexy Guy while he was deployed.
This email was sent to him between one titled "I'm Done" and "Church wasn't so fun today".

27 May 2007 19:48:46 BST
a story in pictures
One afternoon, a silence fell upon the house (rare, I know)


The End.




Bonus for those of you that are still here:

How could you NOT know something was wrong???? I can't get five minutes alone in the toilet, but this woman apparently had two years of uninterrupted time.

I TOLD YOU I'D MISS IT!

Welcome to POST #103, Wordless Wednesday...
after missing my 100th post, what's left to say?
Is that...the sun? Yes, it was...in November. 2007.

ADDENDUM: um... disregard previous rant and shouting title. My dashboard was wrong, and after a few draft deletions, I am back at 97. Stay tuned for what I am sure will be a riveting 100th post (snort!).

Shhhh!

I'm running away from home. Don't tell anyone, I need enough time to put space between me and these passion-suckers before they notice. I'm wondering how long it will take to swim across the pond.....

Well, the worst of the storm has passed us. You were all so sweet in your concern for me and my family. I was only worried about losing power to the computer, and I didn't (thus the new template). I don't want to be too flippant about the storm, some got smacked hard. Flights and Ferries were cancelled, train schedules disrupted, sea front homes were instantly in the sea. A lot of folks will be without power for quite a while, and wow, if you could've seen the commute (or lack of) through the Dartmouth Tunnel!
So thank you for your kind comments and for missing me the couple of hours I didn't blog.


So, on to Monday's Mission:

Pssst! Over here! Remember me? Ummm, I have been hearing you mumble under your breath. Things like, "You just wait, one day I'll be gone..." and "Everyday people are wiped off this earth, but not me... I just keep going and going and going..." and I'm wondering,
you will be taking me, right?

Remember when we first met, how you kept telling me I was beautiful? I hadn't had anyone look at me so lovingly in such a long time. You even took my picture with your silly little pink mobile phone camera. I smiled. Did you see me smile? I did.
And when you came back the next time, you stroked me. I knew you were hooked then...
but you didn't take me home.

The third time you came, you acted distant, kind of detached really... or maybe it was more defeat I saw in your face. You looked exceptionally tired and worn down. I know now that you were on the verge of a breakdown of sorts and that makes your visit even more special to me. Because when you were viewing life through a dimmed, broken spirit, you still thought of me.
But you didn't take me home. As you walked out the door, I remember thinking, "It's nearly Christmas and she's not taking me home. I'll never see her again".

I was wrong. The fourth time you came. You didn't leave my side. You were protective of me when other clumsy people came by to give me a look and when the crowds started to overwhelm me, you stuck your elbows out in a protective way. I knew then that I would be going home with you.
I loved how you cleaned me up (It felt so good to have a bath!), and put me upstairs close to you. I loved how you hugged me every time you saw me.

I don't know when you stopped. I was so happy being in a family again, that I didn't notice that I was only getting passing glances from you. You're so busy all of the time! You always have an armload of laundry, or a crying baby to soothe, or a timer on the oven or kid yelling "I'm DONE!" from the bathroom.

No wonder you want to sneak out in the middle of the night.


You ARE taking me with you, aren't you????

I'll Miss you all... Thanks for the Friendship

** **
I may be going away for awhile. I hope I don't suffer through withdrawals. I hope you're not left hanging (nail biting anticipation, I'm sure) about the tale of the marshmallows. But this week kicked my behind, and I am dead-dog tired (head hitting the keyboard here)-- this just shows my commitment to you, my blog pals. I've come, exhausted, into my cold little room to say goodbye.

We're expecting "The Storm of the Century", "The Worst Storm to Hit England in Years" etc...
We've been warned to stay away from the coasts, and of impending floods, high winds, hail, sleet and maybe even tornadoes. The world is ending over here.

Now if you're envisioning me (picture me a size 7 please) boarding up my windows and storing food in my attic, you're wrong (the size 7 was just the beginning.)
I will be in my cozy bed with the down comforter pulled up under my nose, next to the radiator I call my husband. The children's school lunches and book bags will be packed and ready for our drive through the 60-80 mph winds.

I am a realist.

Will this storm get ugly? Maybe. Will the trampoline blow into the side of the house again? Most likely. Am I gonna die? Well if I do, I'm not going without chocolate. and a good book.

What I am preparing for is the inevitable power loss we will suffer out here in the country.
No power means no water. No water means no heat but worse yet, no power means no... gulp... blogging.
And believe me if i miss Painted Maypole's Monday Mission, this storm is not going to be the only mean thing in East Anglia.

Hallelujah for Scrolling Saturday!

I can't quite say we've survived the sleepover--

the jury is still out on that one--so thank goodness for a day when I don't have to think!

I am however finding it increasingly hard to come up with anything worth reading a second time :-(

And the question for you today is (the comment section is just below-- see it there?):
How many times have YOU had to scoop marshmallows out of a toilet?


On to December, 2007

Friday, December 14, 2007

YIKES! The star skeleton in the Christmas Nativity

I almost forgot to mention, A2's Nativity was today! I have to hand it to the teachers. This group of Reception to 2nd Years were terrific. All behaved famously and no one forgot their lines. To top it off, there was the dearest little sheep singing his heart out without a single thought to the skeleton he wanted to be instead. I am proud of you A2!

He's the little guy standing next to the kid holding his nose... and that spot of light, could it be a halo?!
--Proud Mum

Be Afraid, Be VERY Afraid...

****


The sleep over has begun..... holy cow, what was I thinkin'?!

The day started by going to hospital--the Emergency Room (Pediatrics actually suggested it since they couldn't get us in until 10 am) for Miss Ky. She had popped the tendon out on her elbow...who knows how, but she was in a lot of pain. Poor little thing. She is fine now and using both arms like nothing ever happened.

A1 received an award today at assembly, but since we were watching Her Highness get x-rays on her arm, we couldn't watch him smile shyly as he was honoured for his great skills in Maths :-(

And if you think I've lost my ability to put a sentence together, let's do an All Things British day, shall we?

Before we moved here, I thought the guidebooks were all messed up. Places were called "Wells-next-the-sea".
Ummm, did you forget to put the "to"?
Oh, wait, there's "Southend-on-sea" as well.

People don't go to THE hospital here, they go to hospital. They go to Temple, and the kids take Maths... which is quite logical really. There isn't just ONE math-- you have geometry, algebra, Trig. etc... so they go to Maths.
And A1 received an award for his.

As much as I'd like to stay and ramble, I've already had three kids come in to tell me what new wound they've received, one getting a punch in the groin by J2... and A1's best mate, Harry has brought a tub of gummies and two bags of marshmallows to share-- I know where you live Jo (his Mum and my now ex-friend)!
Somebody shoot me now. Then take me to hospital so I can get some rest.

Thievin' Thursday

I'm too busy watching American Idol to actually come up with a thought-provoking post (cough...must be watching AI all the time then, you think?), so I am thief-ing an email I sent to the Sexy Guy while he was deployed (wow, my g-rating--see the bottom of the page-- must really be plummeting with THAT word).
This email was sent to him as he waited for word on whether or not he was moving. I had started the morning with : "Dad's on the move!" and ended up saying, "Never mind, Dad's in the Hurry-up-and-wait stage".


5 Sept: It's just a really long story (and it wouldn't be very entertaining if I shortened it). Shoot, you have no where to be, so I'll try and see if Ky will let me get through this.

So, I decided to BBQ. It'd be fun, I could BBQ while the boys played in the yard-- so I decided to move the grill to the front garden--via that long hallway. Well, I asked A2 to open the door for me and I tipped up the thing and started wheeling it---I was walking backwards. Well, long ago, I took the mesh fencing off the big pond and put it over the little one, thinking Ky was more likely to fall in that one. So as I backed up, A1 failed to warn me that I was about to hit anything (He didn't notice) and the spiky bits ripped into my leg (luckily I had jeans on and it tore a hole in them and just scratched me) and I went down on my hand-- hard. It's bruised today-- didn't know hands could bruise. I stood up, took account of my jeans (whatta drag) and began again. Well A2 then decides to help by moving the fencing in a way that Ky will not only drown, but she'll get skewered along the way-- so, when he leaves, I decide to rearrange the fence and gouge the top of my foot-- it starts to bleed, so I went in to disinfect it (how long ago did I have a tetanus shot?) while the baby cries and the boys are all put out about watching her.

Back to the BBQ.
I put the charcoal in, knowing I was really wasting my time since the top had blown off the grill during the storm and everything (entire bag of charcoal) had gotten damp. I struggled to get it going while J2 paced around me upset that he has to hold Ky. I scoop all the coals out and start with a fresh bag. It lights right up, so I proceeded to shuck the corn to get it ready. I have already snapped at the boys for huffing about watching the baby-- J2 said, "Well you said you'd BBQ while we jumped on the trampoline, but we can't do that if we have to watch her!" So I told him, "Fine-- I just won't BBQ, I can't do it all".
Well, he now has her in the grass. I asked A2 to please set up the table with all of the condiments, but as I open the fridge....

Another story:
Ky loves baby meat sticks-- isn't that funny? I never gave the other kids any, but she loves them, so I buy them. Well, let me correct that.... she loves the first three of the bottle and eats them like a wild animal, but the rest, she tears apart and throws all over the floor, so... I refrigerate the remainder......


When I went to pull out something, that danged baby meat stick bottle fell out and in my attempt to catch it, I batted it across the kitchen floor. I watched it bounce (whew, no break) (but the lid did come off), bounce (yikes, still no break though), bounce bounce bounce-- all the while splashing meat juice up the cabinets, chair and table legs.

SO, I tell A1 to leave the kitchen and I begin cleaning. I have the meat on the grill, so I am beginning to panic a little. I also have on my mind: There's laundry that's hung all day that needs to come in before it rains, and clothes in the washer that may sour if I don't get them out soon, there's a plastic chair blocking my pathway in and out the door and, is the corn burning out there on the coals?
.... and then A1 says "Ky made a poo!" and they all start "eeeeewing" (which makes me wonder if it's oozing).
I change Ky, set her in her high chair and throw snacks at her so she can eat while she screams at me, flip the burgers (they're ok) and turn the corn. I rush back in to start the broccoli and begin taking things to the table.

Anyway, in the chaos, A1 went to his room and played a video game, A2 started pestering me to eat, and J2 was sprawled on the couch watching tv while Ky yelled at me.

It was enough. I'm tired and can't tell you the last time I sat and played a video game or watched the tellie un-interrupted. I told them, "That's it!" and packed up the burgers & bell peppers, put the uncooked hotdogs back in the fridge along with the corn and broccoli and then I sat down on the couch and watched "Everybody Loves Raymond".

They ate cereal.

I bet next time I go to do something they want, they'll be a little more considerate...

yeah, you're right, probably not.

Wordless Wednesday-- My man in a t-38 --SEXY

I'm Prejudiced?!

It has been brought to my attention (which usually requires a brick up side of the head) that I may be showing a bias on my blog. A gender prejudice!

There seems to be more Miss Ky photos than of the rest of the clan.
But...

I have a perfectly reasonable excuse.




I am still primarily in charge of dressing child #5 (although I have to race my husband to it, since he's really enjoying having a little girl) and have NO INFLUENCE whatsoever with the others.



So, you can look at pictures like these:


























Or these: Camo and stripes go together, right?



What ARE you guys doing?







And that's even if they have clothes on. I have more photos of this guy in his underpants (and without) than I have of Miss Ky....





Otherwise, he's a pretty sharp dresser.




Maybe I should have a poll.....

Today's your Birthday...

----beeep----
(real high-pitched, sing-song voice)
"Hiya!
J the Grockle? I'm calling to RSVP for A1's birthday sleepover. Obnoxious Hyperactive Son would love to come, and I am so thrilled you invited him--especially after that little incident last year at the farm when he nearly bit his tongue off and you had to sit with him as he choked in his own blood (instead of seeing your precious little boy pet the farm animals). Oh, and don't worry about the incident at H's party, Obnoxious seems to be getting a little more coordinated, so I highly doubt that he will trip and crack his head at your party. One last thing though, he is having issues with bedwetting. It seems to be only happening when he drinks anytime after noon and especially with fizzy drinks. Could you please limit his drinking without the other kids knowing--I don't want him to get embarrassed. Thank you for inviting him. He loves A1-- probably because A1 is just about the kindest child anyone could ever meet.
(real high pitch here-- the voice goes waaaay up on good byes--even the men do it) Biyeee!"
----beeeeeeeep---------

This post style was brought to you (by the ingenious Painted Maypole) in the style of an answering machine message. Check out her Blog for more great Monday posts ideas.

And Happy Birthday, to my "Sweet, sweet Petunia" (a silly name we gave him as a wee guy-- it's from Veggie Tales). The boy who always runs back to give Mum an extra hug. The boy who loves his sister dearly. The boy who slipped in shyly as I was weeding my way through the nightmare face-lift on the ol' Mac, to ask if I was the one who picked out the craft gift for him. "I really like doing crafts and coloring and stuff", he said in his soft voice with his dimpled grin.

This blog's disclaimer: Obnoxious child really isn't obnoxious, but how funny would this message be if I said "Perfectly Friendly, although accident-proned Son loved by A1"?

Mothering Sunday or, The Plague is Coming!

Happy Mum's Day to you celebrating it. Mothering Sunday is held in March, usually preceded by a Saturday where Tesco's are bursting at the seams with frazzled men and their children. I was foolish enough to go in for scones yesterday and dang near didn't live to see my breakfast in bed this morning.

The first March we were here to experience the bombardment of adverts for the upcoming day, we were the very tired parents of a non-sleeping five-month old. I dashed about madly to get cards for our three mothers and spent hours contemplating the best British-type gift for the cherished women in our lives. Reflecting back, I remember thinking, "Has this holiday always been in March? I could've sworn it was in May." The Hubby never corrected me, but looked as bewildered as I was.
Imagine our surprise when we finally figured it all out-- and I was two months early for "our" holiday (I think I still mailed them late though).

This year, I'm better rested. I know now that I should buy my Mums cards on Monday (they'll disappear quick, these people don't mess around in changing holidays) to mail to the U.S in May.

This year I received breakfast in bed (oops, it was Fast Sunday),
and some of the most beautiful cards ever made (in my opinion). Mother's Day is getting better.



I used to dread Mother's Day like the plague and I'll tell you why (gee, must you?).

Every Mother's Day falls on Sunday-- strange coincidence, I know.
As a family, we strive to keep the Sabbath day holy-- pretty much like Biblical times, meaning: we don't work and don't want to be the cause of somebody else working.

All Mother's Day Brunches are on Sunday.

While happy Mother's all over the United States are washing crab legs down with champagne, I am bathing four very different kinds of stinky little critters that want to give me grief on everything from the clothes I've laid out to who each critter has to bathe with.

I've showered (before the dawn of time), fixed my hair hastily and dressed in the clothes I should've thrown out on my 5th wedding anniversary, but by the time the little beasts are fed, bathed and dressed, I look like I've been in a fight with a wet dog.

I do all of this while my husband attends church meetings. He then arrives (looking pretty scrumptious in his pressed, puke-free suit), five minutes before the meeting is to begin so that we can jointly tie--I mean safely hook--each wriggly, angry mini-monster into their car seat...while the teenager exudes attitude. ('nuff said)
We then begin the 2 1/2 hour drive to church.
Alright, I might be exaggerating on the time taken to commute to a building a few blocks away, but when children are screaming in your ear, time seems to go more slowly-- like "I think I remember that last ice age" slowly.

Next, I sit in a church meeting listening to MAN after MAN speak about how wonderful his mother was.
You know her.
She was the lady that NEVER raised her voice at the children, always had a clean, warm home and delicious meals on the table that said MAN would never have dreamt of saying, "I don't like that! Can't we just have chicken nuggets like billy's family?".

I am shrinking further and further into my wrinkled, Mork & Mindy-style cowl-necked sweater (or did I buy it during the Three's Company run?) wishing for the roof to collapse.

Can it get worse? Of course it can!

The children are dragged up front to sing about their Moms, "Mother, I love you, Mother, I dooo--hoooo", all smiling lovingly at their perfectly pressed mothers. But mine....

My children have memories like elephants. They remember that I made them eat their greens the night before. They remember that I shouted at them before breakfast when they dropped a baseball on the baby's head...and when they dumped the bath water all over the floor while playing "sinking ship", and when we were getting in the car and again when they darted out of the car into a busy parking lot.
Yep, there is love just oozing from their smiles..NOT.
They look like someone pinched them. They're NOT singing, they are just looking terribly uncomfortable.
My scowling kids are given flowers to hand out to the mothers in the congregation. Luckily they don't try to pretend I'm not there-- in fact, now that they're waltzing through the aisles with flowers, they are each quite happy. One gives me some. Now I get to take home a beautiful reminder of Spring, WHO's LIFE WAS CRUELLY CUT SHORT TO COMMEMORATE THIS BLOODY, HAPPY HOLIDAY.

Um,
sorry about that.

That was past Mother's Day. Present Mothers Day is Mothering Sunday in the U.K.
For some reason, it just works better here.
The Hubby, who was scheduled to work, got a call before we left for church saying his shift was cancelled. He looked scrumptious in his pressed, puke-free suit-- but even better, he had bathed the kids while I dressed in something purchased in this decade.
My kids honored me. They sang. J2 even participated in a duet.. with a smile... directed at me! I came home with a potted flower, picked out of the box by the child that knew I liked purple.

I am feeling so fuzzy that I want to share this day with you, regardless of what month you observe it. Since I can't mail you a Mum's Day card, I am sending you flowers. Daffodils from my front garden. I even knocked the bugs off... you're welcome, and have a great Sunday!!