Me Time

Chocolate On My Cranium has started a great writing prompt called, Wordful Wednesday and this week the theme is Love for Self. Here is how I'm trying to better love myself.

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Nap time. Quiet time. ME TIME!!!

I live for "me time," that time of day when everyone is supposed to leave me alone and let me do something that I want to do. Me, selfish me. I don't always get this time, now that my kids are older and I'm juggling every one's schedules, but I still live for it.

About 3 years ago I had quiet time down pat. I had my kids perfectly trained, and for years had been getting a guaranteed 2-3 hours of quiet time every day. I would feed them lunch, clean them up, let them play while I cleaned the table and kitchen, and then off to bed I would send them to sleep or read to their heart's content. Then I would run to the TV, turn it on to my favorite program, which was whatever happened to be bearable to watch, and then I would run to the kitchen to make myself a yummy and rather large lunch. Grabbing my plate, a napkin, a tall glass of water, and usually the ketchup bottle, I would balance my way to the couch and there set up permanent residency until my precious 2-3 hours were over. Ahhhh, sweet Me Time, just letting my brain melt, stuffing my face, and not doing a darn thing.

You'd think with all this free time I would be happy, content, and energized everyday. But I wasn't. I still felt like there was never enough time to do things that I wanted to do. I still often felt trapped by motherhood. I still had a long list of things I would someday like to do but knew I never would. *sigh* If I couldn't get any of this done with my relatively long quiet time how was it that so many other mothers around me were accomplishing so much? Most mothers I talked to were envious of my long quiet/me time and wished they could get the same. But they were the ones going to the gym, playing musical instruments at concerts, starting in home businesses, and making lovely scrapbooks while my photos moldered in a box somewhere.

Then it hit me. It hit me smack dab in the gut. I had been calling quiet time "Me" time. But what was I using that time for? TV and food. Therefore I was defining "me," myself, with TV and food. Judge Judy, America's Test Kitchen, and old Matlock reruns with copious bowls of nachos and Yukon gold potato oven fries were what I was defining myself with. No wonder I never felt satisfied, no wonder I wasn't happy, no wonder that I constantly found myself lacking. But if I didn't want to define myself by TV and food, what would I define myself by? I was going to have to think about this for awhile.

I made a list of things I wanted to define me and these were at the top of my list: service, love, education, creative. Starting there I started using more and more of my "Me" time to redefine "me." I started writing letters to loved ones, making meals for people in need, reading classic literature, practicing my creative writing and art again. Suddenly I was feeling much more like me than "just a mom." It was wonderful. Emphasis on was. Sadly, in this past year I have fallen back into that pit of defining myself with TV and food. Why? Why would I do something that bears no fruit and makes me feel sluggish and fat? Because the devil on my shoulder likes to whisper in my ear, "You deserve it, you need some down time to just relax. You don't have time to do something creative. Cooking for someone else will just make a mess and they probably don't need it anyway. Besides, as soon as you start something the baby will wake up and ruin it. You deserve to just relax and do nothing for a second or two." But what the devil forgets to tell me is, "You will feel lazy and sluggish. You will be discontent and grumpy. You will gain weight, loose brain cells, and soon you will be mine!"

So, once again, I'm working on flicking that little devil off my shoulder. I'm trying to reclaim my right to choose what will define me. I'm trying to put the ME back in "me time." It's a lot more work, but I think I'm worth it. Don't you?

Forgive in Time for Turkey

Forgive in Time for Turkey

"I've really never had a problem with forgiveness. I think of it this way, if I can forgive my dad for abusing me and my mom for abandoning me then I can pretty much forgive anyone for anything. Except... well there are some old friends of ours that I don't think I will ever be able to forgive. My husband forgave them years ago. For some reason he doesn't seem to mind what they did to me, to us, but I can't see how anyone could do what they did. They were supposed to be family and family just doesn't do that sort of thing to each other."


I sat curled up on the other end of the sofa from my dear friend Samantha as we sipped warm mugs of anise herbal tea. Samantha had quite the life story. As a child she was raised by a loving but alcoholic mother who tried to protect her daughter from men by making her look ugly. She instilled in her daughter a belief in God's love, a desire to learn, and a sense of beauty in all things except herself. She taught her daughter beautiful old ballads that the girl would sing to comfort herself during the days when her mother would disappear and the booze took over. Samantha loved her mother but was never able to reconcile the choice her mother made when she took her brothers and left her alone. No, it was worse than alone. Her mother, who tried so hard to keep her from the advances of men, left her with the one man who could hurt her worse than anyone, Samantha's father. A father who remarried an awful, abusive woman. A father who sexually, physically, verbally, and in every other way imaginable, abused his little girl until she reached the age of 16 and went to court to legally remove his rights to hurt her.


Despite all of this, Samantha had grown up to be successful, loving, never giving up on her dreams or the dreams of others, always ready to scoop a needing body into her arms to give the love that she had never been given herself. Knowing all this about my friend I had to find out what could have been so horrific, so evil, so cruel, that she couldn't give these singular friends the same forgiveness that she granted to all the other awful people who had tried to break her down.


"It was years ago. Daniel and I were newly married and trying to start a business together. We had these dear, wonderful friends, Todd and Rainee, and we were like a family. In fact we had made a pact with each other to that very effect. They knew my history and they took me in and told me that they would be the family I never had. And I believed them. Well, the four of us decided to go into buying a house together. We put everything we had into it. We were going to start a business together and run it out of the house. Everything was going just fine, I mean we had some ups and downs but nothing more than anyone should expect. I had a bad bout with my depression, but they had seen my depression before, they knew what to expect. And then, just months after getting the place all put together, they decided that it wasn't going to work, that they couldn't live with us. They bought us out of our half of the house, just like that. Just like that they were able to dump us. And they had the nerve to say they still wanted to be our friends, our family. How could they? Danny forgave them right away and they seem to still want to be friends with us but I can't do it. They seem shocked by my actions. My actions. As if they should be understood and forgiven for what they did. Families don't do that to each other. They don't stab you in the back and leave you out in the cold. I mean, I know my family did, but we weren't a real family. Our friends, and Daniel, and I had promised to be the best family to each other, to be there for each other no matter what. I know you are from a big loving family. They would never do something like that, would they!?!"


I had been listening with sincere concern, thinking up words of comfort, and several mean things I could say about her awful friends, trying to feel her pain and be ready to validate it, until she got to the part about my family. At that moment my pursed and thoughtful lips exploded with a force of ironic laughter that burst from the very depths of my gut. In that split second the concern I felt for her plight was dissolved in a fit of hilarious understanding. As scenes and memories flooded my brain in a matter of milliseconds I saw her mistake. Her big fat mistake. Because Samantha had never had a real family she had built up this ideal image of family life in her mind. She thought that real families never hurt each other, never break each others hearts, are always there for one another and never let you down. Ho boy, was she ever wrong about families.


Seeing the shock at my rude laughter on her face I choked and coughed as I tried desperately to stop that I might explain myself to her. "Oh, Samantha, is that what you really think family is all about? If only you really knew, you would see that your friends were acting just like real families do. You think my family hasn't ever had major fights, backstabbing, even disowning each other at times? Of course we do. We are all human, just because we are family doesn't mean we don't make mistakes and mess up royally on a daily basis."


Samantha stumbled over her words as she tried to grasp what I was saying, "But... you... your family, I mean, you are always... you love your family, you've told me so... how could..."


"Samantha, it all comes down to Thanksgiving."


"What?" I think she was starting to question my sanity and future validity as a friend.


"Thanksgiving. We, families, are always hurting each other. Why I could tell you stories just from my own wonderful family that would stand your hair on end. Oh, the ways we've hurt each other! But, because we are family, we have to forgive each other,because we know that every year we are going to have to sit down at that same table on Thanksgiving and face one another. It really is the only reason that families forgive each other for the awful things that we do to one another. You've forgiven your parents because you never have to see them again. And, sure, you can dump your friends and never forgive them, but me? Not me. I have to forgive because I know that I can't escape my family. Eventually I will have to face them for something. Whether it be a wedding, funeral, in court, at Christmas, or over the Thanksgiving turkey, I will have to be in the same room as my family and in order to survive that constant contact I have to forgive them. I mean, sure, something big might happen and it might take me several years to be able to forgive, but eventually I will want to sit at that big turkey table again and I will have to forgive in order to do so."


Samantha sat quietly for several seconds, taking large gulps of her tea, probably to help wash down all that she was trying to digest in such a short moment. Then she said, looking at the floor as if reading a cue card, "I... I guess I have a letter that I need to write." Then her eyes lifted and met mine with a new light of joy in them. "I'm sorry to leave so soon, Liz, but I really need to go. I don't want this to be my mistake any longer than it has to be. Who knows, maybe someday I will want to share Thanksgiving with my friends again, but I need to let them know I forgive them first."


With that she gave me one of her billowy, rose scented hugs and disappeared through my door. I smiled as I watched her go, and then I picked up the phone to call my sister. It was about time I called to apologize for the mean thing I had said to her last year. I hope she forgives me.


Time for another Scribbit WriteAway contest. This time she is giving away a year's supply of Suave products. I'm really hoping to win because I could probably buy a new car for the amount of money I spend on mousse to tame my frizzies every year. The theme is "Thanksgiving brought to you by the letter F." Hurry, you only have till midnight to get your entry in.

Wonder Women

Zoom! Pow! Crash! Zing!

Faster than a speeding bullet, using her sonic-boom voice, zapping everyone with her laser beam eyes, Wonder Woman is on the scene. She grabs one villain by the straps of his overalls, lifting him into the air with one hand, while at the same time extending her stiletto heeled boot to prevent another from running past her. Then she goes in for the kill, lassoing the leader with her rope of truth and asks, "What the heck is going on down here? I asked you guys to watch Dora just one more time with your sister so I could take a shower. Is that too much to ask? How am I supposed to fight crime and save the world today if I can't even take a little shower? Now, put the Dora DVD back in the machine and stop all this fighting!"

Super heroes are made every day by radioactive slime, the bite of a bug, random mutation, ancient/alien lineage, the possession of a powerful artifact, or by the very natural melding of genetic materials in a body which creates new life. Some scientists theorize that the combining, splitting, and specializing of atoms that happens in a woman's womb during gestation must 'cause the abnormalities or, as some like to call them, "gifts" that often manifest in the human female species after giving birth. Specialized hearing, "voice of death," rearward visual capabilities, lie detection sensory, and an uncanny ability to stop tears of others are just a handful of known post-natal abilities that we have on record.

At first governments were concerned that such unique abilities might pose a threat to regular civilians. Talks were being held to argue the need for contraceptives and sterilization methods to prevent the rampant spread of these phenomena. These measures were deemed unnecessary upon further study of the situation. It soon became obvious that these super humans came with their own set backs, a natural Kryptonite, if you will. It was found that, along with the super powers, these women also developed super inhibitors such as morbid paranoia: a fear of fatal catastrophes harming their loved ones at all times, hyperbolated guilt: an unfounded belief that self satisfaction can only be had at the cost of vital comfort to their loved ones, and bad body image: a feeling that they could never go out in public wearing the skin tight spandex that all super hero costumes are made of causing them to wear sweat pants which aren't conducive to flying or telepathic travel.

Despite these hold backs, Wonder Women everywhere continue to amaze and astound their children and husbands on a daily basis with their amazing feats of knowing it all and being able to fix almost anything.

Wonder Women, where ever you are, what ever you are doing, we salute you!

This is my last minute, bounce baby on my knee, as I type one handed entry into Scribbit's WriteAway contest. The theme is Wonder Woman. =)

Ah ha!

Michal from Relishing Motherhood is having a writing contest. She has graciously extended the due date for procrastinators like me (though I think childbirth is a purty good excuse to use this time).

The Topic: An Ah-ha Moment of Motherhood. Tell about a time when something really clicked for you and you saw motherhood in a new way. Or when you felt enlightenment in regards to your role as a mother or how you should handle a situation in your family. Or when you had an epiphany about your own mother.

Calling On Mom

"Hi, mom? It's Liz. I'm just calling to, once again, apologize. Remember all the times I complained about the haircuts you gave the boys when we were little? Yeah, I always just assumed you didn't know what hair was supposed to look like. Now I know that the "concentration camp" haircut is the only kind you can give a squirming 3 year old boy. I'm sorry!"

"Hi, mom, it's me again. You were SO right. Life isn't fair, and it never can be no matter how hard I try. I was sure that I could prove you wrong when it was my turn to be a parent. I now realize that the only thing I can give my kids is that same piece of knowledge, "Life isn't fair." Sorry, mom."

"Moooooom, she hates me! Was I this mean to you when I was six? If I was, I'm sorry."

"Mom, how did you keep the boys from killing each other, or keep yourself from killing them?"

"MOM, HOW DID YOU DO THIS WITHOUT GOING COMPLETELY INSANE???"

As a child I dismissed much of my mother's actions as those of the bizarre alien race of "parents." I figured she just didn't understand kids and so I tried to be patient with her. As a teen I learned that mom was good at listening to my problems but was annoyed that she never seemed to have the "right" solution. When I first moved away from home I considered myself as finally being free from her silliness. I could now rise above my mother and show her how life was supposed to be lived. Even in the early years of marriage I considered myself wiser and smarter than my mom, secretly hoping she was watching my good example. Yes, I was vain, vain and stupid. But then a funny thing happened. I had kids.

Now I constantly seek out my mother's holy wisdom. I am forever asking forgiveness for the vain ideas of my naive past. Suddenly my mother is my anchor, my guide, and my friend in this twisted world called parenting. Now I realize that I am doomed to seem silly, stupid, irrational, and useless to my children for many years. I understand now that my only hope to see true respect in their eyes is to wait for them to have children of their own. When they do I will wait by the phone for that wonderful day when they call to say, "Mom, you were right," to say, "I'm sorry," or call to ask me for help. Until then, I'll just call my mommy, because she understands.

No Turning Back

The following is my entry into Scribbit's Write-Away contest for June. I have this nasty penchant for sumbitting my entries too close to the deadline, and this one is no exception. The deadline is tomorrow, so if you want to enter too, get typing! The theme this month is "Going places."

No Turning Back

Oh great, Patti is going to be sick. She better not barf. I can't believe she still won't give me the window seat, she isn't even going to look out. She looks green.

"Ha ha ha ha, hey girl, your friend looks like she is going to puke! Ha ha ha!"

Stupid drunk man, why doesn't his wife make him shut up? Oops, maybe he is handicapped, or on a special medication. Still, that lady should tell him to stop laughing at us, it isn't Patti's fault she is sick.

"Lizzy, I'm going to be sitting back here with your dad and Bugga. Can you help Ben with Joseph?"

"Sure mom. Joseph, buckle up. Hey, Ben, wanna trade seats? I want to sit near the window."

Ben takes one look at Patti, another out his window, and quickly shakes his head. Darn! Anna has her earphones on and I swear she isn't looking at me on purpose.

"Ha ha ha! Haven't you ever flown on a plane before?

I put my head back and close my eyes, trying to ignore everything around me. I'll just ignore Patti, and that stupid laughing man. I'll ignore the fact that we are leaving New York and all the friends I've made. I'll just ignore the fact that dad is getting worse and that I'm worried about him making this flight. If I just close my eyes none of this will be real for just a moment. It feels so good to ignore..."

Rrrrruuummbbbbblllllleeeeeee. The plane is taking off. I continue ignoring everything, even that obnoxious man, but I open my eyes to look past Patti and out the window. Here we go! Going to Idaho, back where we started, back to family, back to an easier place for mom to be a single mother, back to the place where there is a cemetary plot, next to Grandma, waiting for dad. There will be new adventures, new friends, a new landscape, and new problems. I'm excited, scared, and numb. I always wanted to travel, but this isn't traveling, really. This is survival, and that is different. We aren't just leaving a place, or people, we are leaving a way of life, and things are never going to be the same, ever again. This is a one way ticket for our family. The trip will continue and each of us will take many different paths, but none of us can go back to where we were and ever have it be the same. Maybe if I explained all this to the laughing man he wouldn't laugh so hard...

These Shoes Were Made For Walking

And that's just what they'll do. One of these days these shoes will make me walk away from you.

I'm walking away from blogland for a week, or until Monday, which ever comes first. =) I will feel bad for not coming around and commenting on your blogs, and I'll miss the ego boost I get from your lovely comments everyday. But I'll be back. You know I will. Until then, I recommend that you read these lovely posts from Scribbit's Writeaway contest. These were the ones that I had such a hard time picking from (Besides the winner and the runner ups. If you haven't read the runner ups, please do, they are great).

The Shoes That Brought Me Here (The circle of life in shoes)

Sole Defining (A moment that is just too perfect)

The Line (Insightful, educational, and my favorite line is: "living above the shoe line")

Allergic To Weddings (Funny)

Daddy's Girl (I can't help but love this one because of my own memories of my father)

Until Monday...

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

I am the judge! Well at least for the month of May thanks to Michelle at Scribbit. When I first started blogging and found Scribbit I knelt in front of my computer and did the Wayne's World "I'm not worthy" kowtow, so I'm sure you can imagine how honored I feel to have been asked to judge one of her fabulous WriteAway contests. I love this contest because it's about more than just getting free stuff, it is about writing. Don't most of us bloggers start blogging with a desire to improve our writing, and to possibly be discovered by some super publisher and offered a million bucks to write a book about our diaper escapades and trying to feel sexy with baby puke running down our back and dinner on the stove? Or is that just me?

This month's contest theme is shoes. I love simple subject themes because it means you can do so much more with it. Like a verbal Rorschach test, we get to see what one word means to you. Because I'm not entering I don't have to worry about trying to make a coherent piece of writing and get to be lazy and just do a list. Here's what comes to mind when I hear the word, "Shoes."

1. Saturday evenings polishing my church shoes with dad. He had these great shoe polish bottles that had little sponges on the tops of them that us kids could use. We would polish our shoes while we watched him shine his the old fashioned way, right down to the spit shine. I loved it when he would let me take the rag to buff the toes of his big black dress shoes. Just seeing a little round tin of Kiwi shoe polish makes me lovingly think of dad.

2. The fake black Converse style shoes with the metallic star painted on the side. Man I was so HOT in those things! I'm so glad my parents and sisters never told me what a dork I was back then. Ignorance really is bliss, that is until you are watching home videos with your boyfriend and suddenly realize how NOT hot you were.

3. I sit in church and stare at women in stiletto heels and just wonder, "How on earth do they stay up in those things?" I am even more amazed at the pregnant woman, holding a baby on her hip, that still manages to wear those things and not trip. I'll just stick to my 2 inch thick Dr. Martin soles, thank you very much.

4. I have a lizard tattoo on my foot and when I wear the right shoes all you can see is its curly tail and I love that.

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5. Baby booties are so cute, but they are never as cute as baby feet, so I don't buy very many baby booties.

6. Shoe shopping with kids... This is on my top ten list of tortures I must endure, and its right up there with going to the dentist and talking to Bobter (and that's all I'm sayin' 'cause for all I know he might read this blog and I'd be in big trouble).

7. My feet would scare a pedicurist. I'm not big on shoes so I'm barefoot most of the time. I also have a toenail picking problem. This means that my feet are wide, dirty, calloused, I have cracks all over my heels, have little to no toenails, and often am missing my pinky toenail all together. Some things are not meant to be painted cherry red, and my toenails are one of those things.

8. I love to have my feet tickled. It doesn't tickle me, it just feels really good.

9. My husband tickled my feet and it was one of the first things I ever loved about him.

10. I store my shoes in an old wooden pie carrying crate that my father stole from the Navy shipping yard back when he was in the Navy. Target will never sell anything that cool.

Edited to add (how could I forget this one?): #11. My mom's leather, or leather like, knee high boots. I think she has had them just as long or longer than she has had me. They have made me realize the fluctuations of fashion as some years they were SO embarrassing, and other years I would sneak them to wear to school. They were the first, and only one of the few, expensive things she ever bought for herself and they are still going strong even after being worn almost every Sunday in winter for all these years. Mom, I want you to give me the boots when you die. Ok?

So, what do you think when you hear the word, "Shoes"? I can't wait to read all the entries!

Writing Boards

My first two children were funny in that they both wanted to learn how to write their name at 3 years old. This was exciting but also troubling because it is hard for a 3 year old to write. It is even harder for a 3 year old to accept failure. And even harder than all that is a 3 year old's ability to be patient while erasing any mistakes. Upon my daughter's first try, and therefore her first writing-temper-tantrum-meltdown, I quickly realized that I needed to do something to make it easier for her so she wouldn't give up. This led me to make writing boards for my kids. I printed out the following pages, glued the first two and last two together, back to back, (I also glued another sheet of paper in between them to make it thicker and prevent images from the back appearing on the front, but you could also just print them on the front and back of a page of cardstock), took them to a print shop to have them laminated, bought some dry erase markers, and VOILA! Now my kids could practice writing their name as often as they wanted. There is also a full number/letter page, a shape tracing page to help kids learn basic pencil strokes, and a fun page for making faces. My kids LOVED these. Now when they made mistakes they didn't even have to tell me, they just swiped the mistake off with their finger or a napkin and kept going. They were great for in the car, at church, in waiting rooms, any place. And it was great seeing how confident my kids were in their writing when we eventually went back to paper. Oh, and I've also made these for other children for birthdays, and if you made them big enough you could even use them for placemats at the table.

Great Literature Part I

My shelves are stacked with Dr. Seuss, Sesame Street Library, Childcraft Encyclopedias, ScoobyDoo and Spongebob, easy readers, chapter books, and many many other books for children. I love them all. Lately, though, I have been trying to focus on great literature for kids. I know that anything that gets a kid to read is great (hence my ScoobyDoo books). Pablo's first love of reading came by way of Garfield and Calvin and Hobbs (which I personally consider great comic book literature. If you don't believe me just go read some and check out the vocabulary that Calvin has). However, after the love of reading is established I think the next step is developing a love of great literature. Many people disagree on what makes great literature, and that is fine, so please do not think that the way I think is the way you should think.

~ To me, great literature uses words for their sound and beauty rather than for their ease of understanding. This teaches vocabulary, and in a roundabout way teaches root words or use of Latin in our language, which in turn makes language, and foreign languages, as a whole more interesting and accessible to the mind. Every word needs not be defined when reading to a child. If they ask then you can explain the word, but most children will learn by context much as they do spoken language, simply by hearing the word used often over time.
~ To me, great literature poses real life choices that are difficult to make. Great literature will show real life consequences, good or bad, for the decisions made. Great literature also portrays real life values of forgiveness, justice, mercy, love, faith, hope, integrity, friendship, joy, humor, etc.
~To me, great literature will take you out of your small sphere of experience without taking you out of real life. It should be an adventure but an adventure that is possible for the reader as well.

Now, lest any of you should frown on my all too restrictive requirements, let me state that great literature is not the only kind or literature I feel is worth reading. I believe that myths and legends are important for teaching about ancient culture, ancient religion, and for opening the imagination. Fantasy,mystery, romance, and thrillers are fun for escaping from reality, though I firmly believe they should be used in moderation. Plays are important reading for building up the visualization abilities of a reader. Poetry should be read for literary rhythm and memorization.

I love any and all forms of the written word, but I worry about the lack of great literature being used in these modern times. Long ago the Odyssey was read as a great adventure story. Now it causes most people's brains to hurt (including mine) to try and read it because our brains are not used to archaic words and wording. Shakespeare is rarely enjoyed to it's fullest because people are not practiced in the art of nuance and wordplay. And many consider great literature to be boring when no one is kissing, being blown up, or falling into a magical realm because we have lost our taste for subtlety. Others dislike any story with real life situations because they are too sad, which can only make me wonder if the distaste for reality has any correlation to the increase in depression we find in our society these days. We often look for semblance between the books we most love and our real life. Is it any wonder that people are dissatisfied to find that there husband isn't a prince, that no vampire will whisk them away from dirty diapers and kitchen, that no wizard will come and save you from your wretched family life, and that your new job is not going to lead you to overthrow a major government conspiracy?

This is why I feel it necessary to raise my children with a love of great literature. But how? With movies, computers, comic books, and Harry Potter to compete with, how do I dare hope to get my children to love great literature? And how can I accomplish it with my lack of energy, my kids being in public school and "done with learning" by the time they get home, and without feeling like I am forcing them or fighting them (heaven's knows I need my fighting energy for other things), and all while still having time to eat ice cream and watch my old movies?

Thus begins my great experiment. Stay tuned for part deux.

Pleasant Unexpected Surprise

I know, I know. I am grounded and not supposed to be here yet. "Because I'm the mommy, that's why!" Well, I have to check my email every night so that I don't miss an appointment or make someone mad at me. Last night I received a very pleasant surprise. I was picked as 2nd runner up to the winning entry of Scribbit's Write-Away contest this month. I'm very happy and a bit embarrassed. I whipped my entry out in 20 minutes in order to make the deadline and right after sending it I of course found many mistakes. And to think I'm always telling my brother to read, reread, have someone else read, and then someone else, and then read it again yourself before you consider any written assignment to be done. Ah well, too late now. Thank you, Melissa, for overlooking my mistakes and for liking my entry enough to notice it. Thank you, Scribbit , for holding such a wonderful contest and for giving me this button to add to my sidebar (I know I've been given the button before but I was too new to blogging to understand how to put it in my sidebar).

Now, I'm going to turn off the computer and get back to my grounding before the kids see me. I don't want to give them any ammunition for the next time they are grounded. =)

The Next Twenty Years

The Next Twenty Years

(Written as an entry in Scribbit's writeaway contest.)

Like a hand reaching out in the darkness my future reaches out before me. I can choose to sit in a corner and wait till someone turns on the light, I can panic and stumble around the room screaming for help, or I can calmly take one slow step after another until my hand makes contact with something solid, something to guide me just a little further towards the switch. I choose to calmly move forward. New obstacles in life are like unexpected items on the floor. Sometimes they are painful and quick, like a stepping on a small Lego with my bare foot. Some are more dangerous like a sharp table corner that can bruise or even trip. Some could be fatal, like an open stairwell. Still, I choose to move forward, but with care. I make contact with a wall and use it to guide me. It makes the trip easier. But then the wall is gone for a time and I'm left to search again.

None of us knows what the future holds for us. Even those with the best beginnings can have the hardest endings. Goals are set, plans are made, dreams are dreamed, yet reality holds our fate in it's fickle hands. Death is around any corner, failure is possible with every foot step, and heartache keeps the time. Yet still, I choose to move forward, hand outstretched and feet sliding slowly along the floor. At one point I feel a hand take mine and together we search the darkness. We are still blind but no longer alone. If I fall he will catch me, if I get scared he will hold me, and I will do the same for him. It is better and we continue to move forward. Then little hands pull on my clothing and soon I realize that I am no longer free to move as fast. I now have a little train of children following me in the darkness. I yell out warnings of upcoming objects to save them from the pain I feel. Sometimes they listen, sometimes they don't and we must stop to make it better. It is a slow process and I often wonder why I bother. Why don't we just give up and learn to live in the darkness? Yet, occasionally there are bits of light that seep through the cracks, not enough to see by, but enough to fill us all with hope as the light reveals just a bit of color in our world. So, we make a game of it, seeing how long we can go without injury, play guessing games with the objects we find, taking pleasure in each new experience, and laughing about the past obstacles.

Our dream is a world filled with light. Our goal is a place without shadow. The detours are endless, the pain is always there, but the hope, the adventure, and the possibilities are the reward. I still make my plans, set my goals, and dream my wild dreams, but I don't depend on them because I know that walls are found in unexpected places, hands are lost in the dark, and sometimes we must stop to help one another or we just need to rest. So the plans change, the goals are reviewed and renewed, and the dreams are still dreamed. We choose to move forward.

And The Calories Go To...

Dirty Chocolate Giveaway results are in. Cookie just finished reading all the entries and here is what she says:

The entries ranged from endearing to outright educational. And the winner is....

Wonder Years: Rosy Heaven (Cookie says: Very unique, very true, GREAT JOB!) -I had to laugh though, because as she was reading this she scrunched up her nose and said, "SPINACH?!?!?!" I had to assure her that I had had strawberries in spinach salad before and it was very good.

Here are the other entries (with Cookie's comments in parenthesis):

An Ordinary Mom: The Cookie's Out Of The Jar (I liked it. It was funny. And I also say that, Yes, they do teach a lot more in Kindergarten than expected.)

Scribbit: Pad Thai Is a Beautiful Thing (Trying new recipes can be a big flop and I think you were brave for trying this.)

The Bitter Ball: A Favorite Day In Kazakhstan (I can't believe you actually ate that stuff!)

Chocolate After Supper: The Day The Ice Cream Didn't Melt (I wish my mom did that!)

What About Mom?: Pizza, Pizza, Calzone (Very interesting recipes.)

Thanks to all who entered. As Cookie was reading I heard outbursts of "No way!" and "Hmmm," and "Yum!" and a few giggles too.

A Bit Of Beauty

A Bit Of Beauty
by Liz Vance

Her knuckles were raw from washing so many clothes. Sweat threatened to drop on the garment she was scrubbing as it tricked across her bent and tired head. The aches in her body made her feel 40 years beyond her actual age, an age she had trouble remembering. It didn't seem possible for one so young to be so burdened. While most young women her age were thinking about fancy dresses and handsome men our exhausted servant was busy mentally willing herself to continue, to stay standing, to finish just one more day on her feet.

"Two more petticoats. I've almost done with this one. Just two more. Breathe. I can do two more. I will pretend they are one and it won't seem to take so long that way. Oh, my back... NO! I won't think of that. A cool breeze, yes, I will pretend there is a cool breeze fanning my neck... Just two more, I can do two more." The thoughts ran desperately through her head. Intent on finishing her work she didn't hear the skittering of small rocks behind her or the huffing of one whose breath was no longer good. The hunched old woman had to cough and mutter, "Ehem… loverly deary, would you, eh… would you mind..." several times before the weary servant even knew she was there.

Trying not to be cruel, but miserable in the interruption, the young woman turned her head away from the burden in her hands to acknowledge the old hag. "I'm so sorry, mum. What can I do for you?"

The old hag tried to giggle but it came out as more of a wheezy cackle as she rummaged through the ratty layers of her shabby shawl, muttering fragmented excuses and apologies, "Oh, I'm afraid... You see, silly old woman that I am... I'd do it myself, only... Well my back is so bent... It's so very little and your hands are already wet, you see... Would you mind?" Then she held forward a rust and soil stained handkerchief that she had finally pulled forth from some hidden pocket.

For several seconds the young woman just simply stared at the offered cloth. Her tortured body seemed unable to process the thought of one more piece of work. The hag gave another wheezy giggle and a small cough that brought the young woman from her fatigued trance. "Oh no. Doesn't she see how tired I am? How can she ask me to do one more thing on top of all that I have obviously just done? And why should one so dirty, as herself, care about the cleanliness of a hanky?" She almost started to cry as the thought slowly and painfully swam in her head. It made her tired eyes hurt even more, but she forced herself not to cry, knowing that she couldn't afford to loose the energy that crying would require. Unable to say anything, in fear of collapsing, she stuck out a trembling hand and accepted the handkerchief. Its wrinkles were stiff with dried sweat, the corners frayed, and the young woman doubted that any amount of scrubbing would make much of a difference. As it touched the water the cloth went limp and then she began to rub it across her bar of soap.

"Carefully, deary, please be gentile with it. It is a very special piece of cloth you hold in your hands. It has done a lot of work itself and deserves to be treated kindly."

Denying herself the luxury of a sigh she tried to humor the woman so that she could quickly send her away. She relaxed her grip on the kerchief and pretended it was some of her Mistresses most delicate silk as she gently dribbled soapy water onto it and then swirled it in the water of the cold, rushing river. Thinking her mind was simply fatigued beyond repair, it didn't surprise her at first when the cloth began to change color. Believing herself to be going a bit addled in the mind she held up the now brilliantly white handkerchief and smiled. How funny it seemed that her imagination could be so strong as to have made the hag's rag look like the cloth of a fairy? The cloth was so delicate it seemed translucent and it was edged with lace the likes of which she had never even heard of. There were trees and birds and lovely symbols weaved into the lace, and the thread used to make the lace seemed to change color, ever so subtly, as she moved the cloth between her hands.

Laughing at her own fancy, she held the handkerchief out to the old woman and told her to lay it on a clean bush to dry in the sun. When she realized the cloth was not being retrieved she looked up to implore the old hag to leave her to her work, only, she found the rocky shore deserted. She would have assumed it to have all been an hallucination, brought on by her exhausted state, if not for the ethereal, white cloth still laying on her outstretched hand.

"I'm sure that this will disappear in a moment as well," she sighed; but there was a dreamy smile on her face as she pushed herself up from her crouching position, and walked to the line of bushes by the trees, to lay the cloth to dry.

Almost an hour later, she had finally finished the mountainous pile of laundry. She gathered up robes of fine organdy, soft linens, colorful silks, enough items of clothing to keep her well dressed for years. Only, none of the items would ever adorn her lean frame. She owned only two dresses, neither of which was fine, colorful, or soft. The pile of lovely vestments in her basket was meant for the family of those she served, had to serve. Her father owed a wealthy man so much money from bad gambling that he had had to give her up as an indentured servant to pay the bill. A bill so high that she was bound to serve for 7 years before she might be able to call her life her own. Trying not to think about this, she shouldered her load and started to turn towards the footpath when something caught her eye. It was the white handkerchief. She started to smile at it's loveliness but caught herself and, instead, forced a frown on her face. It shouldn't be there. It should have disappeared like the old woman did. She decided, since it must be an image of her own imagining, that she would leave it there. After all, why bother to pick up something you know doesn't exist? Yet, before she could get her basket to her shoulder again, she found she was smiling again.

"Ah well. If I'm going to go crazy I might as well do it with a lovely kerchief in my pocket." She giggled, for what must have been the first time in a year, and carefully took the handkerchief from the bush. She folded it lovingly, admiring the fine lace images as her fingers indulged themselves with stroking the soft, delicate fabric. Pulling out her own clean kerchief, she wrapped the beautiful cloth and placed it in her pocket, taking pains to position it so that it wouldn't get crushed. Still smiling, she reached down to pick up her basket and couldn't help but smile just a tiny bit more as she realized that the basket didn't seem quite so heavy as before. She thought of the old woman and was surprised to find that her memory didn’t seem to recall the filth, and the haggard wrinkles seemed to have smoothed into soft lines on her face. In fact, everything suddenly seemed to be brighter, warmer, and more pleasant. As she walked up the path her feet stopped dragging, her back seemed to straighten, and she wondered if she could still whistle.

This story is dedicated to my sister who constantly shows me the magic of beautiful things even though I rarely listen. Thank you, sis!

Sounds That Scare Me

Sounds That Scare Me

It was a typical night, all the babies were asleep and I had finished making my nightly rounds, turning off lights and checking the door locks. Three children were sleeping down stairs and the baby was across the hall from our room in her nursery. I tend to have trouble sleeping but this night I quickly fell into a restful slumber. Some time later I woke with a start. Lifting my head up, I wondered what time it was. It was so dark outside it could have been anywhere from midnight to 3 in the morning. I lie back down and am almost asleep again when I hear a grinding noise. I jump quickly out of bed because I know that sound, it is the sound of a chair being moved across the kitchen floor. My 3 year old son has a habit of waking up in the middle of the night and he is not the kind of boy you want playing in a kitchen with knives at night. I rush into the kitchen, fully awake now, only to find it empty. Sure that my son has run back to bed I chase downstairs to catch him, only he isn't awake. He is peacefully slumbering in his bed. Now my heart starts to race. If it wasn't him, who was it? Instantly I have images of menacing men hiding in my childrens' rooms. Wishing I had a baseball bat, and running into each bedroom, I check the kids, then I check each of their closets and make sure all the windows are still locked before running upstairs. The baby is upstairs so I take the steps two at a time. Who ever it is had better not go near my baby! I am unarmed but I don't bother about this because I am a mother ready to defend her babies to the death. As I rush to check the front door I see my husband in the corner of my eye as he sleepily shuffles to the bathroom. Why isn't this man loading a gun or strangling some masked man right now?

Yawning he drawls, "What are you doing?"
"Check the baby, check the baby!"
"A-what?" He asks as I'm checking more window locks and he scratches his belly.
"I heard a noise, didn't you hear that noise?"
"You mean when I passed gas? I was wondering why you jumped out of bed so fast. It wasn't that bad. You mean you..."

He spares a second or two to chuckle sleepily at my shocked face before closing the bathroom door on me. Before going back to bed I yell through the door, "Noises like that need to come with a warning!"

I still get spooked by unidentified noises, but now I make my husband wake up and help me label the sound before rushing out of bed in the late, dark, night.

This has been submitted to Scribbit's October Write-Away Contest. The theme this month is "Thing that scare me."

Scribbit Write-Away Entry (Late as usual)

Things have been a bit hectic over here with the start of homeschool and potty training so I haven't had much time to write or blog. This is why I am going to "cheat" and recycle an old post for the Write-Away contest that was created and is hosted by Michelle of Scribbit. The grand prize is a purse that Michelle hand crafted herself (She sells them here). Wish me luck!

Making Room For Real Growth

I don't have a green thumb, by any stretch of the imagination. I bring in stray plants that follow me home and I beg, plead, and promise, "I'll water it everyday, I'll fertilize it, I'll re-pot it when it gets too big, I promise! Pleeeeease let me keep it". In about 5 weeks I have a brown twig sticking up out of a little pot of moldy mud. My main gardening fault is that I have no stomach for the butchery that is required. I plant my little row of carrot seeds and happily watch their little green shoots popping up from the ground. Then I read on the back of the seed packet that I'm supposed to "thin" them out (which means pulling up and killing more than half of my new little babies that I worked so hard to plant). I can never bring myself to pull those innocent little shoots that hold so much potential. I leave them there, hoping that the seed packet was just joking, and give them lots of water. After about a month I still have a pretty little row of green shoots, but they seem to have stopped growing. In reality I have actually prevented every single one of my precious green shoots from reaching their potential and might as well not have planted a single one to begin with. I also have the same issues with "pinching back". I started to buy the pre-grown tomato plants from Home Depot so I wouldn't have to suffer the death of young shoots. But the instruction card tells me that I must "pinch off several inches" from the top of my beautiful plant. I look at my strong looking tomato plant and I reason to myself, I can't pinch it, what if I kill it? I'm sure the first wild tomato plant wasn't "pinched back" and it survived. So I allow my plant to grow without limits, I will not be responsible for holding this energetic plant back in life. It grows to amazing heights and I am proud that I broke the social mores of gardening. It grows, and grows, and yet there is only one tiny tomato on my behemoth bush, and it never turns red. Covering my face with my hands, I weep because what I thought was plant freedom was really just undirected and unused energy going to waste. So, after all the useless deaths, and wasted fertilizer, have I learned my lesson? I have been growing an avocado tree (you know, where you stick toothpicks in an avocado seed and stick it in water) and it is actually getting somewhere! I did research on how to grow them this time. I got to the dreaded part of "pinching back" new growth and... I put it off (it still makes me queasy, I know I'll never be a plant surgeon in this life), and put it off a little more. Then, just a few days ago, I took a deep breath, placed my fingernails around the top of my lovely, fragile plant, gave a little moan of apology, and pinched. I almost feinted. Every day I have watched my plant, waiting for the amputation to cause gangrene and then the death of my little guy. To my amazement, my plant suddenly has leaves! It had grown "leaves" before but they were supper tiny and are just barely noticeable going up the stem, but the two tiny leaves under the amputation just started growing, and fast! I am starting to realize that sometimes we have to cut back in order to have the energy to really produce anything of real worth. I am starting to look at my own life and I am seeing many areas of my life that maybe need pinching back, or thinning out. Am I choking myself, or expending useless energy, when I could be producing valuable fruit? Well, watch out world, Lizzy has her gardening gloves on and a pair of pruning shears and she is ready to GROW!

Another Writeaway Contest Entry

Here is another entry for Scribbit's monthly Writeaway Contest. I am hoping to make the deadline with this as I send it in very very last minute (Sorry about that Michelle). Wish me luck!

Collecting Ideals

Miss Abigail collects Teddy Bears. She has since she was eight years old. Stacey Lane collects boyfriends and plans to keep on collecting even after marriage. Mickey Harrison still has every Lego set he has ever bought, each in its original box. Grandma Clara’s house is wallpapered in Beanie Babies and she is still accepting them at every Christmas and birthday. That imp down the street, little Joe Ricks, likes to squish spiders on paper and keeps each and everyone of them tacked up on a cork board in his room. And me? Dare I tell you? Aw, why not. I collect lizards, but please, I beg of you, don’t tell anyone. I made that mistake once and I’ll never make it again. Tell someone what you collect and soon you’ll have so much of it, it’ll ruin the fun of it.

People all over America are collecting something. Oh, I’m sure they do it in other parts of the world, but I don’t think it is as prevalent or as desperate an action as it is here. I think it may be because we are all so affluent here, and everyone feels they have the ability, and therefore, the right to own lots of… something. Now I think that is why it is so common to collect here, but I don’t give this as a reason for why we actually collect. There are so many reasons for collecting I’d have to write a thesis paper to cover them all. You know, it isn’t even an exclusively human action, either. Animals, too, have their own reasons for starting collections. Squirrels and crows have been found collecting hoards of shiny objects for no apparent reason than that they are pretty; while Bowerbirds collect bones, glass, and all manner of things in order to impress and catch a mate. So what is the human’s reason for collecting?

Usually I tell people that I collect lizards because I think they are cool and “Lizard” has been a nick name of mine for most of my life. However, when I look deeper than the obvious I find a much more philosophical reason for owning lizard earrings, bracelets, t-shirts, broaches, and even a tattoo on my foot. I realize that I was collecting proof of an identity. If I couldn’t make it as a “smart chick,” or “artistic,” I could always make do with a “that crazy lizard girl” title. And if you thought about it, I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to guess that little Joey Ricks only squished a spider on paper to see what it would look like; but after the reaction he received from his sisters he went in search of more spiders just to prove how “gross” and “freaky” he could be. Grandma Clara has often thought of getting rid of all those Beanie Babies, honestly she has. Yet, every time she reaches up to take one off its shelf she just can’t. She has lost a husband, all her children are grown and gone, and she rarely gets to see her grandchildren, but those beanie babies are hers and they won’t leave her. Mickey Harrison’s wife has teased him about his storage bins full of untouched Legos, his children have begged him to let them play with them. He never explains why because even he doesn’t realize why he keeps them. In a moment of deep thought he figured it was because he had married and started a family at a young age and he was just holding on to his childhood. I wonder if he would ever connect it to that day when his father gave him his first little Lego set. I wonder if he remembers the way his heart pounded as his father actually got down on the floor with him to “Play Legos” and how neat and methodical his father was about building that Lego space ship and then carefully putting all the pieces back in their box so as not to loose any of the small pieces. Does every one of his Lego sets represent a moment with his father that he wished he’d had again? And while Stacey can tell herself that she only collect boyfriends because she can, well, I think we all know better and we all pity her for it. As much as I dislike Teddy Bear collections, and really I do, I will never be able to fault Miss Abigail for hers. If you ask she will shyly shrug her shoulders and reply, “They just make me happy.” So they should, for the first five bears in her collection were given to her as tokens of honest love, and who wouldn’t want to collect love? Still, I can’t stop myself from wishing she would collect the kind of love that doesn’t take up so much space, or collect so much dust.

Now, as I hold these ugly wooden Oaxacan lizard earrings that someone gave me over the box to Goodwill, I hesitate. Then I remind myself that my identity is not in those earrings, those earrings are not me. I still hesitate, then, finally let them fall into the box. I turn off the light and leave the room. Guiltily I sneak back in and steal back my own earrings, my own ugly piece of identity. Oh well, maybe next year I will be ready to believe in me.

(**Disclaimer: To friends and family, while I know people who do indeed have the collections I mention here I must state that I know for a fact that they do not collect them for the reasons I mention here. This is merely a piece of introspective fiction. Though the spider and lizard parts are true, because those are mine.)

Jumping For Joy

What, me? Moi?

No, no, no, it couldn't be. Didn't my secretary inform you that I never win anything? Oh, really, you are too kind. Thank you, thank you. I just don't know what to say. I didn't prepare a speech because I honestly didn't think it would be me up here, accepting this lovely winners button. Um... oh gosh.... Okay, first I'd like to thank Scribbit for holding and putting together such a fun and creative contest. I'd like to thank The Lazy Organizer for picking my entry. I'd like to thank my family, without them I wouldn't have had anything to write about. I'd like to thank my wonderful husband for tolerating a very silly and excited wife who was jumping up and down in her bathrobe shouting, "I won, I won! The Pooping wooden Moose is mine. I won."

Seriously, I feel like the father from A Christmas Story when he wins the leg lamp. It's a pooping moose, for silly sake, but I won it and THAT is what matters right now. So, "Not a finger!"