'Twas Nary a Goose on Goosey Night

I am thankful this morning for waking up to sights of cleanliness and order (for the most part). No toilet paper strewn across bushes and tree limbs; no eggs splatted against houses or cars, no soap or shaving cream artwork displayed on various surfaces; no smashed pumpkins. I guess Goosey Night has become one of those things you talk about -- "remember when...?" -- but don't really carry out anymore. I am all for traditions -- this one, not so much. I'm glad we were unscathed. The only mess I need to clean up outside is the one left behind by my kids' yard-playing yesterday, which I forgot all about until I looked out the window this morning. Oops.

Today is Halloween. My kids are excited. I'm excited. I do like Halloween, even now in my 30's. Oh, I know there's much controversy surrounding it, especially among Christian circles. It's pagan, it's satanic, it's evil -- so go the arguments. Sure, it has pagan roots ... but what holiday doesn't? Christmas does; Easter certainly does. Clearly Halloween ranks -- well, nowhere, really -- compared to our other major Christian holidays, but the point is there. I am not a pagan; I am not a Satanist. While I do feel that there is definitely a line between harmless fun and playing with fire, I enjoy seeing my kids dressed up in little costumes and having a great time. And, going a step further, what other "holiday" do you know of that allows you to go door-to-door to other people's homes? To cross that invisible divide of "personal space" without the cops being called for invasion of privacy, at worst, or nasty neighborly looks, at best? Christmas caroling, maybe, but not many people do that anymore. But what a great thing for people -- and for Christians -- to do, having this "excuse" to get out and greet the neighbors. Last year, Don actually embraced this whole-heartedly and used it as an effective ministry tool. He's a talker and used the opportunity to chat with the people we met, telling them who he was, what church he was from. Sure, it has pagan roots -- but seeds can be planted in any and all situations, even Halloween. Even Aidan picked up on this, telling me yesterday that he wants to carry around a stack of tracts in his bag (he didn't called them "tracts" -- I forget what he called them but it was cute, something like mini-Bibles) -- and whenever he gets candy at someone's home, he wants to take the candy and give them a tract back. How cool is that for a 5 year old?! These are just my thoughts. But anyway ...

I loved Halloween as a kid. I loved the scheming, the planning, the creativity -- meeting about a month before with my best friend Luanne, brainstorming our costume ideas, raiding her attic (there were great treasures up there), scouring the neighborhood for the homes with the best decorations (in our little minds, the better the decorations, the better the loot to be had!). We mapped out our route; we counted the days. Finally "The Day" would arrive, and as soon as we got home from school and transformed ourselves, the first order of business was paying a visit to my grandparents' house. They ooo'd and aaa'd (well, my grandma did -- ooo'ing and aaah'ing was not something my grandfather ever did), gave us kisses and hugs and candy, and then we returned home. As soon as my mom parked the car, we jumped out, ready to hit the neighborhood, and didn't return until it got dark. After dinner, we emerged outdoors once again, making sure no house remained unvisited. Then, at an hour that seemed like midnight to us ('though which was probably only 8:00 a.m. or so), we made our way home -- tired, cold, weary, but triumphant. Our ritual continued as my youngest brother and I changed out of our costumes, put on our pajamas, and then -- oh, how I remember this so vividly! -- sat on the living room floor, with my dad on the couch and my mom on the chair, and we dumped the contents of our bags into our respective piles. We all inspected the loot and called out bids for what we wanted. Then the trading commenced. I adored Mounds bars and would willingly give up my Nestle Crunches or Hershey bars for Jim's coconut treats. We were in unspoken agreement that my dad would get all of the candy bars with nuts in them (except for Snickers -- I love them), as well as any and all Clark bars. My mom, sadly, is allergic to chocolate (can you believe that??!!) so we lovingly departed with items such as Bit O'Honeys, Good 'n' Plenty's, and -- her all-time favorite -- Necco wafers. Since I couldn't stand the latter two, I had no problem relinquishing them to my chocolate-deprived mother.

Halloween brings wonderful memories for me -- of warmth, of love, of community, friendship, sharing, thinking of others, carefree childhood, excitement, mystery, anticipation, and creativity. I love the fact that God is bigger than anything, for only God could redeem something tagged "pagan" and turn it into something pretty beautiful.

Goosey Night, and other oddities of the day

It's been an odd sort of day. Not bad, by any means, but just the sort of day that you go through in chunks. The first chunk came my way this morning at 7:30 a.m. (yes, a.m.!) when my friend dropped her son off to hang out with us (I refuse to use the words "play date" because then I am bound to purchase a mini-van) -- she had to work and her husband is out of town. Her son is a year younger than Aidan and they get along well. They played with cars from the CARS movie, they watched Super Why on PBS, and they generally tried to do "big boy" things in order to keep little Grace away (oh, like that would deter my little keeper-upper). One funny thing I overheard was their conversation during a game of mini-basketball:

"What grade are you in?" asked Aidan.
"First grade," replied our friend (who is really in preschool).
"Really?" said Aidan, with excitement. "ME TOO!" Then he paused briefly. "I'm in kindergarten first grade." Yes, like there's a difference ...

At mid-morning (which by then felt like I needed to start thinking about making supper) I left with Aidan and his friend for my big guy's dental appointment. On the drive over, we had to pass our church. Aidan exclaimed, "Look! There's our church!" Our little friend responded (it's his church too -- thank goodness they didn't bicker about who has more ownership of it), there was some chit-chat in the back seat about it, and then suddenly Aidan burst out, "Praise God!" That cracked me up. Aidan absolutely loves going to the dentist and we were talking it up all morning, about how cool it is and the neat things you get, in order to convince our little friend that it truly is OK. I'll see if anything rubbed off when I talk to his mom later. $80 later (ouch!) my boy's teeth are spotless, but I was informed that orthodontic work is possibly imminent. Yippee.

This afternoon I took the kids to the dollar store to purchase a few items for his class's "Christmas Project" for underprivileged children. What is it about that dollar store?! Something always strange happens when I walk in there -- if it's not one thing, it's another. Usually it's just something bizarre that I've observed; this time it was closer to home. The store was packed with last-minute Halloween shoppers and my kids were antsy, so all I wanted to do was just get out of there. By the time it was my turn to be helped in line, I was so frazzled by all of the chaos and people and noise that I wasn't thinking. I paid for my stuff and charged out of the store. We then walked the length of the strip mall to the other end to purchase Halloween candy (the selection at the dollar store was awful), and just as we were about to enter the store, I realized that I left my dollar store goodies behind in my mad rush to leave. Man! What a pain. We quickly bought two bags of candy and then went all of the way back to get our forgotten bag.

It was gone. In those very few minutes, another customer must have picked up the bag and walked out with it. I couldn't believe it. Well, yes, I could ... but now what? I had no more cash left in my flimsy wallet, and these things are due at school tomorrow. Thankfully there are kind souls in our midst, and the manager told me to get the items that I had purchased and just take them. Thank you, dollar store people!

Now as I am sitting here typing, I hear the ice cream truck cruising up my street. In October?!

My mom called me a short time ago, having looked out her window and felt she should inform me that my children are playing in a garbage can. We have toys galore outside, plus a sandbox and a little cottage ... and they have to play in a garbage can? I guess it could be worse -- it's only the can that we use for yard clippings and grass cuttings. But still ... a garbage can??!!

Tonight is Goosey Night. Some folks call it "Mischief Night," but around here it's always been the former. Back in the 1970s, when I was a little kid and my older brothers were just that -- older -- I remember them dressing up like commandos, armed with soap and toilet paper and shaving cream, heading out under the cover of the October darkness, wreaking havoc on the neighborhood with their friends. Over the years that tradition had waned a bit, and by the time I got to be their age no one really did that sort of thing anymore. But there are those Chosen Few who probably still feel called to the task on this, the eve of Halloween so ... tonight I'm taking in my pumpkins and my scarecrow, just in case. Too bad I can't park my car in the garage for safekeeping. Bummer.

After dinner tonight we're hoping to carve the largest of our pumpkins and set it aglow with a stub of candle, or a tea-light (whichever I find first). Tomorrow will be a fun day for us all, trick-or-treating after school with our cousins and then later after dinner in our own neighborhood with Daddy, who doesn't want to feel left out. We're just going to pick out a few key houses -- our immediate neighbors, a few that we've walked by with over-the-top decorations (Aidan wants to see some close-ups), my aunt and uncle. We'll finish off the night with It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! and then (hopefully) head off to bed. We'll all need it.

What a day. I'm tempted to break open the new bag of fun-sized Snickers a day early ...

How long will my kid be a kid?

Ah, emotional highs ... spiritual mountains ... they don't last forever -- the feeling of it, at least. I get that -- it's OK. I felt good -- really good -- writing my blog post yesterday. Then I made an apple crisp, to bring the sweet autumn goodness to our Book Club gathering last night. I learned that the making of my grandmother's famous treat takes as long -- to the minute -- as Richard Scarry's Mother Goose Sing-a-Long. I opened the oven door and deposited my creation on the center rack just as Mother Cat finished singing to Huckle, "Sleep, Baby, Sleep." Cool. Good to know for any future baking endeavors.

I was brought back to reality yesterday afternoon, scratching my maternal head. Every day when I pick Aidan up from school he is compelled to show me everything that is inside. Usually there's a drawing, or some craft, as well as a few worksheets that he tackled that day. Yesterday, after we completed our ritual, he said to me, "Mommy, I have homework tonight!" He seemed happy about the prospect -- it's a "big boy" thing to do, I guess -- but I was a little confused. Homework? In Kindergarten? He doesn't even go to school for an entire day. Surely homework isn't justified yet. What exactly did he mean?

Sure enough, as I pulled out another piece of paper from his bag, I saw the word "Homework" stamped on the top right hand corner. Theoretically, it wasn't a big deal: it was a single sheet of paper with the words "Color and Draw" at the top. There was a big letter "B" and a small letter "b" and a picture of a boy, all of which need to be colored. Below that were the Famous Lines which I remembered oh-so-well from my own kindergarten days:There was one for the uppercase "B" stretching across the page, like above, and then another one below that for the lower case "b."

Like I said, it wasn't a big deal. This activity probably took him about 5 minutes. That's not my point. My point is this:

He's only five years old!

He's a kid! A little boy! He still calls me "Mommy." He still sleeps with his little teddy bears. He can't live -- or sleep -- without Blue Blanket. What is this child doing with homework?

I overheard two of the other moms in the hallway talking about this, as we waited for the class to let out. They were not pleased. One woman said she was reading about this "issue" -- starting homework at such an early, early age -- and what they're finding is not that the kids can't do it (because clearly they can), but that they experience "homework burnout" at an early age. In other words, you're basically setting them up for a fall later on. For burnout. And we adults know that burnout stinks and it has no place whatsoever in the world of children.

I am not a teacher. But something about this doesn't sit right with me. I think of my nephew, who will be 10 years old next month, who doesn't bring a backpack or book bag to school, but rather a small "carry-on" suitcase (of sorts), complete with a pull-handle and wheels, because it's so stuffed with books and hours of homework that he has to wheel the thing to and from school due to its astronomical weight. He's only 10 years old, a young boy, wheeling his homework around because he can't lift it, tackling 2+ hours of homework a night. At the age of TEN. I think I had two hours of homework when I hit high school ... not at that young age.

What's going on here? What am I in for with my son, and daughter? Is it just me, or are other parents' antennae whizzing out of control with these vibes? Are there red flags popping up? This is all new territory for me ... but it's territory I'm not all that comfortable with.

Now, a Journey with Hope

We went to Virginia this weekend to meet with a man who was recently consecrated a bishop within the African part of the Anglican Communion. OK, I probably summarized that in a very poor way, but I'm not exactly sure what's "proper" when it comes to these kinds of descriptions. No matter -- he's a great guy, very pastoral, and someone Don's had a relationship with for years. The person we had to meet with -- a person who was, in a sense, waiting for us on the path, waiting for us to get there.

I won't go into all the details of our two-and-a-half hour conversation, but there's one word to describe the feeling we walked away with: hope. We weren't expecting to walk in there feeling one way and walk out feeling the opposite. That kind of drama is found in novels usually. Instead, the internal transformation was subtle, gentle, and caring. For me, it felt like I was playing some kind of existential pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game for the past many months, blindfolded and spun around and groping my way through the blindness, having no idea where I was or where I was going. On Saturday, through the wisdom and insight of our friend, and having gone through our own steps toward healing, I felt for the first time that even though the blindfold is still on, in some regard, there were huge, gentle, loving hands that had reached out and grasped my shoulders, stopped my spinning, and pointed me in a direction toward that tail-less donkey. The feeling of relief at being "righted" was almost palpable.

Do we know what the future holds? Of course not. Are we completely healed? No way. Were we affirmed in our calling, in what we experienced, that we were not crazy and that what indeed took place was harmful and wrong, and supported in who we are? Yes, yes, a million times over. For so long, we've worked and tried to minister within a box, a structure, a parameter that never let us forget that "this is how it's done." But now we have seen a corner of the veil lifted, a glimpse that there are creative alternatives to that nagging box, that millstone. We don't serve a box; we serve God. Are we ready to walk through the curtain? No. But we do know what we have to do, at least for the next few steps in drawing closer. And now to have that confidence, that bracing up and being pointed in the right direction, that rainfall of manna, is priceless. I think -- I feel -- that something pretty amazing is going to happen ... but in God's time. We're not ready yet. But we will be.

Hope ... grace. We're smiling again.

The Joys of Big Brotherhood

We are leaving tonight for Virginia. I am scurrying around like a rat after ... whatever rats eat ... in preparation for my brother's overnight stay as he watches my kids. The sheets are changed; the bathroom has been scoured; I even broke out the Febreze for that extra-special-freshness that my kind-hearted brother deserves. Of course, being the procrastinator that I am, I left the worst chores for last: the Kitchen Hole. A while ago we turned off Sesame Street and I told the kids to go play, hoping desperately for a day like yesterday -- one of those good, good days when you're happy with your decision to have had children. The Patron Saint of Well-Behaved Angelic Children (is there one? There must be -- there's one for everything, it seems) must be smiling on me, for we're on a good streak here.

I was vacuuming the kitchen floor, in preparation for a good hosing down, so I couldn't hear what was being said by the kids in their room. But when I turned off the vacuum, I heard Aidan's sweet little voice, speaking gently and lovingly to his sister. "Awwww," I though to myself. "Blessed art me among mothers!" I listened for a little while longer as I wiped down my stove, basking in the angelic glow emanating from their bedroom, but then that "blessedness" started to prickle as I heard more of what was going on ...

"OK, Grace, now watch me. See? Look where my hands are. Now you try it. OK, now lift your leg up here ... Good girl, Gracie!"

Forget playing sweetly together.

My son was teaching my daughter how to climb out of her crib!

Oh, what a day for this kind of lesson, with Uncle Jim coming -- a man who was promised that my children are fine in their room, that bedtime is a snap, that Grace cannot get out of her crib and what's more, has never even tried.

Maybe going out of state tonight isn't such a bad idea. :)

A Rough Journey is always easier with a good bagel

One recent Saturday morning, Don and I sat down at the breakfast table, ready to dig into our delicious bagels (mine with cream cheese) and coffee, while the kids were quietly doing their own thing in the living room. I wanted to tell Don about the dream I had the night before -- the kind of dream that seems to last all night long, vivid, real, and -- in the end -- exhausting. As I opened my mouth, he said, "I need to tell you about my dream last night." Haha -- seems like we're on the same page.

As it turns out, though, not only did we both have dream tales to tell, they were also about the same thing ... church. Here we go again ... a little nudging going on? If nothing else, it prompted us to talk about it, at the very least. I went first ...

Don was clearly back in the saddle -- collared and robed and ready for action. We were in Virginia, I think, checking out a church that was interested in calling him, and they asked Don to participate in the service. It was a huge church -- one of those funky structures that only a dream could conjure up: part colonial, part Ocean Grove Great Auditorium, part ... whatever. It was massive, multi-tiered, all wood on the inside. We parted at the door, Don going wherever the priests go, and I was left on my own (the kids were not in the dream). I remember that feeling of loneliness, having to fend for myself, feeling lost. I did get lost as I wandered around the church, trying to find my way to the sanctuary. Finally I found a door that lead to one of the upper side tiers and seated myself at the end of a pew, feeling the stares of everyone around me, checking out the new "pastor's wife." I remember those feelings in the dream: uncomfortable, unpleasant, unfamiliar. Interestingly, the whole "Episcopal thing" did feel oddly familiar -- the visual aspects, the liturgy, the expression. I did find an unexpected and odd sense of comfort in that -- but I guess 11 years of being in it is hard to erase, even in a dream.

I'm not sure what else happened in the dream, but I don't think that was the point of it. It was how I felt throughout the dream, what the unfolding events meant to me. When I woke up, I didn't feel invigorated, ready, comfortable, OK with being "back there." Rather, I felt unhappy. Nervous. Uncomfortable. The bottom line: I felt with certainty that I did not want to go back to that life. Kind of like I did my tour of duty and I'm done. I don't want to do it anymore. It didn't feel right.

Don's dream, interestingly, was almost the opposite. Usually in his "church dreams," he's either running from it or afraid of it or confronting it -- or people, antagonists -- in anger. In this latest dream, though, he said he was actually OK with it. He didn't feel that usual fear. He was wearing his collar and he said for the first time in a long, long time it felt good. I don't remember the particulars of his dream but I was surprised at his reaction. And, in all honesty, it made me a little afraid. What does this mean?

He shared with me some of his feelings of late. While he's really happy where we are now, he truly misses Anglicanism. He misses the liturgy, he misses all aspects of the expression of it. I did challenge him on it a bit: I said that with the Episcopal church in such a horrific mess, is he missing something that's more of a "theory" than what it actually is now? Perhaps that was an unfair question, but of all people I do understand what it's like to be in a place where you "miss" something like that, to such a degree. He's grieving. But he said that he was called ... and he just can't ignore that. But what do you do with it in the meantime? He also said, though, that even though he misses it tremendously, he doesn't want to go back to full-time ministry. We thought about the cost involved, and it's just too great. At least how it played out for us.

I don't know what all this means. I do think it's odd that we dreamed about the same thing that night, more or less. Those feelings are haunting, though -- I don't like it. I don't think I want to know what it means, really. But there's been a lot of these kinds of stirrings lately. And tonight, after dinner, Don and I are heading down to Virginia, to meet with an Episcopal Rector-turned-African-Anglican-Bishop ... it's way too confusing to explain. I'm not even sure what/who he is now, but he's been a friend of Don's for years and has been a tremendous support. He wants to speak with us and pray with us ... and I have no idea why or where this will lead. What will we talk about? How can we talk about things when we feel somewhat lost and direction-less at this moment? I'm kind of dreading this trip -- not only for the 5+ hour drive there and back, but for what might come out of this.

It's very strange, this journey of mine. Very, very strange indeed. But at least we have fantastic bagels to munch on.

A Good, Good Day

There are days when my kids clearly do not like each other. They practically spit each other's names out with contempt; they purposefully look for ways to pester the other. Somewhere over the years Aidan had staked his claim on a particular chair in the living room, his favorite haven, his spot to watch TV. There are days when Grace will go out of her way, just to stand a little too close to personal-space-boy in his chair, knowing it will erupt into loud protestations. And there are days when Aidan will insist he needs to play with the very toy that Grace just picked up, even though the toy is specifically designed for a toddler. There are days when Grace bites her big brother because he's gotten in her way; there are days when Aidan will shove his sister because now she is in his way. Yes, there are those days ...

And then there are days when their bond is the sweetest thing I have ever seen, when their adoration for each other is apparent, even when you can't see them, playing elsewhere in the house. I never know what kind of day it will be when we all wake up in the morning. Thank you, God, that today was the latter kind of day. The kids set up camp in their bedroom this morning, playing so quietly and lovingly together. This is what I saw when I walked past their room:Yes, I love these kinds of days. A lot.

What's on YOUR nightstand?

This might make you laugh -- it certainly did for me. Actually, it opened my eyes a bit to a very interesting difference between my husband and myself -- what we choose to read. Oh, I've known since the day I met him that he's not what you would call a "reader," and while I have accepted this major difference in our relationship, I do sometimes wish I could change that in him. Reading is such a huge part of my life, and I wish I could share it with him. It's not that he doesn't read (he'd never have gotten through seminary if that were the case!)-- when he's in a certain phase, as he's prone to do, he'll immerse himself in the topic du jour, reading material included. But it's a wasted effort to try to get him to pick up a fantastic novel or piece of fiction. "I'll wait for the movie," is his usual response.

This leads me to my chuckle this morning. I tackled the cleaning of our bedroom earlier, putting clothes away, dusting, and vacuuming. It's a small room -- about 9 feet by 13 feet -- and somehow we've managed to cram a lot in there. As I was dusting, I paused at the foot of our bed and looked at our nightstands, mine piled high with books and Don's haphazardly covered with magazines. Each nightstand is 13 inches by 13 inches, with our queen-sized bed sandwiched between, and the entire lot takes up the whole width of the room with an inch or two to spare. I was amazed at what those little nightstands could hold and instantly saw the very, very different personalities of the inhabitants of that room, displayed on those tables. I quickly grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled down the tables' contents:

My Table, on top:
- The Prize-Winner of Defiance, Ohio by Terry Ryan (our most recent Book Club selection)
- Days of Dreams and Laughter by L.M. Motgomery (a big, fat book that includes three stories: The Story Girl, The Golden Road, and Kilmeny of the Orchard)
- My God and I by Lewis Smedes (great memoir)
- Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult (highly recommended by a friend but I can't read it. While the writing is very good, the subject matter -- the assault of a 5-year-old boy -- is not something I can read about, especially before bed)
- Earthy Joys by Philippa Gregory (historical fiction, based on the life of the 17th century gardener to famous courtiers and kings, John Tradescant)
- Frank McCourt's trilogy, newly arrived: Angela's Ashes, 'Tis, and Teacher Man

Ahhh, but that's just the beginning. Under my little 13"x13" night table stacked neatly on the floor are:
- The Grouchy Ladybug (Eric Carle)
- The Walt Disney Treasury
- 7 stories of Bob the Builder
- Jesus Loves Me
- Bear's Busy Year - a book about seasons
- How Do Dinosaurs Say Good-Night?
- The Cat in the Hat (Dr. Seuss)
- Curious George and the Birthday Surprise
- A Thomas the Tank Engine Treasury

And what just so happens to be on Don's night table?
- Four issues of Stereophile magazine
- Two issues of Audio Advisor magazine
- Parts Express
- Making Music (magazine)
- Acoustic Sounds, Inc.
- Inside Connection (music industry)
- Markertek.com
- a large stack of paper printed from various audiophile websites

I guess there really is something to the old adage, "opposites attract." One look at our nightstands alone proves that theory correct.

So forget Capital One ... What's on YOUR nightstand?

A Resurrection of an era ... or two?

I'm not the biggest fan of Angelina Jolie (something about her just bugs me to no end), but when I stumbled across a photograph of her in one of her more recent films, set in the 1920s, I couldn't help but be blown away by the stunning, picturesque beauty of her character -- and more specifically, the costuming of her character. I think in that moment I fell in love with clothing from that era -- the design, the fashion, the close-fitting hats, the coats, even the hair. The complete head-to-toe picture is just so beautiful. What a fabulous era, the 1920s.

I then embarked on a fun little exercise and posed a question to myself: what era of fashion would I want to resurrect? I was born in the 1970s and had my fill of horrible hair and uncomfortable fabrics wrestled into some pretty dorky styles. I went through the '80s, which was a lot of fun for a girl, with the big hair and flamboyant clothing (but hideously embarrassing, looking back as an adult). I saw a bit of the '60s restored while I was in college, mixed in with the 1990s earthy, granola, grunge theme (that I embraced whole-heartedly). Then in my early married years a bit of the "better '70s" influence seeped in, only to find that now -- gasp! no! -- I see, again, the '80s making a very unfortunate comeback (just walk through Target and you will see what I mean).

My point is this: history repeats itself, not only in ... well, history, but in fashion as well. For good and for ill. OK, so I now have the power to resurrect a fashion era ... so what will it be?

Let's get back to Angelina Jolie and the gorgeous clothing from the 1920s. I love, love, love this outfit:
The hat, the coat (oh, that stunning coat!), even the gloves and shoes ... yes, I believe this is the era that I would want to resurrect. Even the beaded, feathered, turbaned flapper garb would be a blast, as well as the day-to-day outfits as worn by Ms. Jolie (or whoever her character is). I would wear this in a heartbeat. A return to true classic would be lovely.Or ... how about we go back a few hundred years?

Oh, wouldn't this be fun? The jewels and diamonds and gold-and-silver thread all sewn together into sumptuous gowns ... ruffs made of the most intricate starched lace imaginable, as if woven out of clouds ... shoes and headpieces encrusted with jewels ... oh! What fun!

This is Queen Elizabeth I's original christening gown (below), apparently re-discovered in Sudeley Castle during a "spring cleaning," almost 500 years later. How cool is that?!

OK, so I'm leaving out the shorn heads (in order to better fit those hideously ornate wigs), the white lead pancake make-up (and the illnesses and madness that went along with it), the bone-crushing corsets, and the total weight of clothing on your body ... COMFORT is not a word that goes along with this era of fashion. But oh, how cool it would be to resurrect this for, say, a week. Just to try it out for a while.

What's your vote on an era to resurrect? The Edwardian period (also very fun, but more formal)? The June Cleaver era of the 1950s (drag out those aprons, ladies!)? I'll stick with the Golden Age of the 1920s and hit a few vintage clothing stores along the way -- I would love to see this come back. However ... I must, in all honesty, admit that, with my daunting task today of scouring the house from top to bottom in preparation of my sister-in-law's overnight stay Friday into Saturday (so we can travel to Virginia sans kids ... more on that tomorrow), I am more than happy in my current outfit: cotton/knit stretchy, comfortable pants, a long-sleeved cotton/knit t-shirt, and sneakers. No flapper dress with hose and heeled shoes while dusting and vacuuming; no starched ruff, bejewelled gown, and corset while on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. Some things aren't so bad. :)

Ye Olde Corner Store

I love living in a small, old neighborhood. While it does have its negative moments (like two nights ago, when our next door neighbor, Chatty Cathy, and her equally conversational friends had a gab-fest on their deck into the long, dark hours of the night, keeping my parents awake, until my mom finally got up and shhh-ushed them out of the kitchen window), it also has some very pleasant ones. The houses are tightly packed together, the folks are generally friendly and won't ignore you when you walk by, offering a nice "hello" or "can I pet your dog?" or "what cute kids!" With Halloween around the corner, houses are decorated left and right with items ranging from the ghoulish, to homemade, to giant blow-up structures (the kids like these the best, with Grace always asking to see the "siwwy spider" or the "swilly punkins"), bringing excited smiles to both the kids and myself. Our neighborhood boasts a wide array of inhabitants, and only in our neighborhood could/would this next event happen ...

We are blessed to have an old-timey "mom-and-pop" corner store right up the block from our house -- an old-fashioned general store, of sorts, that carries everything from candy and cigarettes to deli items, dry goods, and hot homemade dishes. Everything you could ever need is in that tiny store. I'm not sure how long the store has been there -- perhaps from the 'Teens or the '20s, since most of the homes (including ours) were built during that era. The current owner has been here for 23 years, and I remember (and loved) the former owner too -- an old man named Fred and his wife who revitalized the store from the owner before him. My mother recalls the old proprietor before Fred, when my parents first moved into their apartment upstairs when they were married, 49 years ago. The store was horribly run-down, with inches of dust covering the shelved items. Thankfully Fred turned the place around, and we've called it "Fred's" ever since.

I've been making weekly trips there to purchase fresh cheese and turkey for our sandwiches and quesadillas, as well as the occasional half-gallon of milk or other item that I've run out of. I like supporting our local mom-and-pop, and the kids get a kick out of what, to them, is the equivalent of a time-machine. The owner is very friendly, and gives my kids a free licorice stick or Swedish fish (my kids very, very rarely eat candy, so this is a big treat for them), or some other "penny candy" housed on the shelves behind the counter, just like Fred used to slip me a Tootsie Roll or a colorful, crinkly roll of Smarties over 25 years ago. Yesterday morning while we waited for our order, in walked the local fire chief -- or, I assumed he was a chief, because he was a fairly old man with lots of shiny badges all over his navy blue uniform shirt. Aidan was shyly awe-struck as he gazed at the man, who -- after a hearty "How ya doin'?" -- was engrossed in a conversation with the proprietor of the store, just like you're supposed to do in an old-timey corner store:

A conversation about his varicose veins.

Only in our neighborhood store ... ! He spoke of his treatment, the pain, his anti-biotics. He even pulled up his pant leg for greater illustration. That conversation went on for the entire length of our visit.

I truly love our neighborhood.

Dreaming with your eyes opened

A short time ago, one of the things I wanted to tackle was switching my bedding from the spring/summer coverlet to my cozy, warm fall/winter comforter. I love this comforter -- it was a wedding gift from my youngest brother and sister-in-law, 11 years ago, and it still provides the wonderful, warm body-hug every time I crawl into bed. It's a delicious feeling, and while it's a tad bit faded, it's still in great shape. Thankfully the new shade of light blue in our bedroom -- while not exactly the color I wanted -- still matches both seasonal bed coverings. Anyway, the comforter is now on the bed, but I had quite a time trying to find the pillow shams I purchased for it last year. We had them when we moved, I took them off and washed them in the spring ... and forgot where I put them. I am always amazed that despite the fact that our apartment is about 1/10th the size of our former house/parsonage, I still manage to misplace things. Thankfully I finally did find them in our front hall closet, where lots of things are stored, so now the picture is complete.

As I was making the bed and putting the shams on the pillows, I glanced up at the wall and saw one of the framed items hanging by my side of the bed: a vertical triplex frame with three 5x7 photographs that I purchased several years ago at an art/craft show, taken by a professional photographer -- a close-up of a stunning blue/lavender hydrangea, a picturesque old spring-house overrun by foliage and wild grasses, and another closeup of a red-and-yellow tulip trinity. Last year we purchased a matching frame (thankfully Ikea still carried it) and I selected three of my own photographs to showcase, including one of my favorites -- a close-up of a cluster of pale pink apple blossoms. The two frames hang on either side of our bed, with very pleasing symmetry.

Every time I look at those professional photographs, my heart -- or "something" in that vicinity -- leaps a bit. It touches a chord with me, it reaches something deep within and connects in a moment of beautiful understanding. It prompted me to think of some of my own dreams, things that I've woven throughout my life, some accessible and attainable and some not, bound to remain mist-like dreams forever. There are times when I get in a rut, when I feel that each day almost predictably rolls itself out in front of me, with the biggest piece of the pie devoted to chores and children. And that's OK. That's my journey right now. But I do have dreams, and I'm reminded of that from time to time, even when doing the most mundane of chores, like changing the covering on my bed with yet another turning of the seasons.

I thought, in the spirit of things, while my thoughts are pointed in the direction of dreams, that I might write a few of them down here, if nothing else than just to remind myself that my dreams are still here and they are a part of me, whether they are ever realized or not. Some of them might even turn out to be surprising:

- I would love to become an amateur photographer. The pictures in my bedroom hint at that dream, to study and hone the eye that I have for beautiful pictures. I marvel at the insight someone has to snap a simple picture of, say, a old, weathered door and somehow, magically, transform something so ordinary and forgotten into something artistic and unimaginably beautiful.

- I would love to learn how to play the bagpipes. I don't think my neighbors would appreciate that so much, but bagpipes are in me somehow. I've got Celtic blood coursing through my veins; I respond to the almost eery, haunting notes of the bagpipe in an inexplicable way. I think that is definitely an attainable dream.

- This dream will never come true, but it's been a part of me ever since I was a little girl, and will probably be a part of me when I'm 97 ... I want to be an archaeologist. Specifically, a Biblical archaeologist. When I was a very, very young girl, I remember seeing a book at my great-aunts' home about the Holy Land, and as I turned each page and savored each picture, I saw the Bible truly come alive. From that moment on, I've been hooked with a passion. The feeling one would get from unearthing a fragment of a pot from the time of Abraham would be almost transcendent. I suppose the closest I could get to this dream would be as a "summer volunteer" on a dig somewhere. I do know that, someday, I would love to hop on a plane (as much as I am terrified of flying) and tour the Holy Land for myself, to see first-hand those images in books that I can't seem to get enough of.

- I am itching to get Lasik surgery, to correct my poor vision. I recall those first feelings of panic as my world began to dim in 5th grade; I put off admitting this problem until I entered 7th grade. I'm not quite sure how I got through the annual school health check-ups, the eye exams (I remember memorizing the eye chart ahead of time in 6th grade), reading aloud what the teacher wrote on the blackboard. I've worn glasses ever since ... and hated them. I looked into contacts once, in college, but the cost -- and high maintenance -- was prohibitive. Lasik surgery ... how that would solve my problem! I have a bizarre eye disease called multi-focal coroditis (which does not affect my vision, thankfully -- it's just there) and every year I saw a specialist, just to make sure it has remained dormant and all is well. I spoke to him once about the possibility of Lasik surgery (I wasn't sure if I could even get it with my eye disease), and he said that while the disease wouldn't stand in the way, he was adamantly against it. Of course, it's my decision, he said, but in his expert opinion the procedure hasn't been around long enough, for, say, a few generations, to know how it will affect me when I turn 85. "Your two eyes are all you have," he said, "why would you want to risk them?" That point has stayed with me ever since. But still ...

- I think it would be fascinating to be a sommelier -- an expert in the world of wine. This new world was opened up to me last year when Don and I went to Le Bec Fin in Philadelphia for a sumptuous, surreal, once-in-a-lifetime dining experience. When we selected our seven-course adventure, the sommelier came to our table, surveyed our selections, and somehow -- out of all the choices in their cellar -- picked the perfect wine that would complement the array of courses. That blew me away. The world of wine fascinates me to no end. I would love to explore it.

- Would it shock you to know that if I believed in reincarnation, I -- this off-the-charts introverted girl with low self-esteem issues -- would want to come back as an actor? Yes, indeed. I love acting; I love the idea of losing yourself for a period of time and becoming someone else. I was in a few musicals in high school and the charge I got from those experiences -- the rehearsals, the adrenaline rushes, the costumes and make-up and flurry of backstage activity, the complete transformation -- was astounding to me. It was addicting. Yes, I would most definitely wish to be reincarnated as an actor.

- I want to own a house some day. But not just any house ... a large, old, historic home that my husband and I can restore. Don and I both share an intense, blood-churning passion for architecture and houses; it's almost unearthly. Sometimes, in my darker God moments, I struggle with this, knowing that God created me -- created both of us -- with this incredible, inexplicable passion ... so why would He not wish to have this fulfilled in us? Why would He give us a gift but then not allow us to do anything with it? I know -- it's an almost ridiculous line of questioning. I'm only 35; who knows what will come in the future. I just hope by then I'm not too old to enjoy my dream, if it does come about. :)

Ahhh ... dreaming. It's fun. It's a little bittersweet, too, wondering if some of this will ever happen. I have more dreams, more ambitions, more goals ... but for now I am a 35-year-old stay-at-home mom, who struggles with house-cleaning, who loves to cook but can't always do it, who has snatches of personal fulfillment throughout the day such as reading before bed, writing down my thoughts in this blog, crafting our church's newsletter. I wonder which of these dreams might be fulfilled some day ...

Is the Tex-Mex pumpkin a winner?

So ... how did our bizarre Tex-Mex-Pumpkin-Mush-Patties turn out? Delectable ... or Detestable?

Here's what Don had to say:

"You can make it again, and again, and again. They were fantastic!"

Yes, surprisingly, they really were fantastic. With a side of refried beans, they made a great dinner.

Stay tuned for more pumpkin goodness ...

Pumpkin Feast: A Fantastic Find or Utterly Unpalatable?

If I didn't have kids, I would be a fabulous cook. I would whip up delicious, unique, interesting dishes at least 4 nights a week. OK ... not only would I have to be childless, but I'd also have to be job-less in order to have the freedom to do this. And I'd also have to be fairly wealthy to afford these ingredients, I suppose. Hey, this is a dream, so I can think big ...

I recently received the autumn issue of Family Fun magazine, full of great ideas and, in this issue, some interesting pumpkin-themed recipes. Tonight I'm making Tex Mex Pumpkin Patties, which include sautéed corn, peppers, and onion (in cumin and chili powder), bread crumbs, shredded cheddar, pumpkin mush (from a can -- I'm not that hard core), and ricotta ... so what do you think? Gross ... or delectable? Interesting ... or avoidable?

I'll let you know later tonight. :)

Play-by-Play: Super Boy in Action

Ever since Aidan was old enough to walk (or, rather, run), one of his favorite Daddy-games was what he calls "crash." Our almost-two-year-old boy would run toward his Daddy, leap into his outstretched hands, and go soaring as his super-strong Daddy lifted him upward and over, depositing him with a "crash" on the couch behind. Over, and over, and over, and over ...

Aidan is now over 5 years old ... and "crash" is still one of his favorite games. I'm amazed at Don's strength, now lifting a 44-pound boy, up and over, onto the couch behind him. I was asked to take his picture last night, so here is what a Super Boy looks like in action: The thrill of success -- flight accomplished. I hope he holds on to that joyful imagination for a long, long time.

An Irish Christmas in October!

Oooooo ... I can't contain my excitement. I'm giddy. I'm beside myself. Someone has given me a tremendous gift ... a gift just for me.

Last year, our friends Pam and Darryl invited Don and me to a concert held at a local community college in PA, known for its great conferences and concerts. It was an Irish women's group called Cherish the Ladies and it was fabulous, fun, engaging evening. I might as well have been up on that stage myself with the way my blood felt, coursing and tripping and River-Dancing through my Emerald Isle veins. I'll never forget that evening.

Well, the other day Pam called, having recently received the college's concert/conference schedule for the year, and her voice on the answering machine was about ready to burst with excitement at an opportunity we just couldn't miss. In two weeks, a two-day event will be held for writers, featuring another Irishman: Frank McCourt, famously known for penning Angela's Ashes. I was instantly excited about this opportunity, and after a long discussion today about our workshop options, here's how our two-day adventure will unfold:

Friday afternoon: a Q&A with Mr. McCourt, followed by hors d'oeuvres and a book signing.
Friday evening: keynote address by Mr. McCourt himself
Saturday morning: opening session -- “Face First: Writing Memoir versus Writing Fiction”
Workshop #1 (Journalism): “Blogging and Beyond: Telling the Truth with Humor and Grace”
Workshop #2 (Creative Nonfiction): “Shaping Creative Nonfiction: The Truth of the Matter and the Matter of the Truth”
Workshop #3 (Nonfiction): "You May Be the Writer, but Who Do You Want the Narrator to Be?"

Somewhere in there is a buffet lunch, hopefully with an array of caffeinated beverages so I can get through all of these workshops -- I haven't exercised my brain like this in years! What I found to be interesting about the choices I/we made is that they're all focused around nonfiction and journalistic writing, rather than novels, short stories, poetry, playwriting, etc. I realized that while I devour novels and enjoy the others as well, I don't actually write any of that myself. I do, however, write nonfiction, as it turns out! I have a blog; I am the editor of my church's newsletter. Wow! It may not seem like a big deal, but it fascinated me. Maybe some day I'll add "memoir" to the list. :)

I can't tell you how thrilled I am about this. I am excited to be getting away, by myself (although I know I'll miss my family -- this solo journey will be a first for me!). I'm so happy to be spending some time with my friend, someone who enjoys literary things as much as I do. Yes, it will be difficult emotionally to go back to PA -- I'm resigned to the fact that I think it will always be a bittersweet (heavy on the bitter) journey into the Keystone State. But this opportunity is ... well, it's an early Christmas gift, just for me! Not for Don and myself, not for me and my family ... just for me. How do you thank someone for that? This is more than a grace-snack. This is putting a spring back into my proverbial step; it is reviving a part of me that has withered up; it has given me hope. Yes, hope. I'm not sure exactly how or why, but that's the word I need to use. Hope.

Life is Good.
I've made a discovery. I truly love to write.
Thank you, my friend, for showing that to me in this way -- something I would never do for myself.

Is it Saturday already? Again?

Seems as if I've already titled a previous post the same way. Seems as if I've been jumping from Saturday to Saturday and not quite sure of the events in between! That's OK -- I've been busy, busy and enjoying it.

My first newsletter (for this church, at least) is just about finished and I'm pretty thrilled with it. I'm still in shock how big it is -- 20 pages! -- but when you've got a lot to say ... well, that's what happens. It has gotten to be a little cumbersome, with all of the reorganizing and editing, and since it's all done on Microsoft Word (rather than Publisher, etc.) it does tend to get hairy, but it's working. My goal is to put the finishing touches on it over the weekend, get the final draft back from my pastor and cross my fingers that he didn't cover it with red pen marks, make any final changes, and then start printing Tuesday afternoon! Wow. Then I get to do it all over again in a month for our winter issue. I'm happy, though. For me, this is truly fulfilling.

Don's working this morning, having snagged a little side gig of carpentry work from a customer last week. He was at their McMansion, installing a massive TV and other accouterments, when he noticed that the towel bar in their bathroom was broken. Little did he anticipate their over-the-moon reaction when he took 30 seconds to fix it for them, and they promptly showed him things around their home that needed fixing. At $30 an hour, he can fix whatever he wants, says I. So this moonlighting pocket-change, plus all of the overtime from the past two weeks, and an eye-popping tip from a customer the other day (who just happens to be a relative of Thelonious Monk) ... Looks like we'll either have a comfortable Christmas or Aidan's tuition for the month of December is taken care of!

I realized this morning that I saw much more of my husband when he was a priest than now, as a regular working-joe. I never would have thought that in a million years. Put that in the "pro" category of going back into the ministry! haha! :)

For all of my own labors, I rewarded myself last night by watching Marie Antoinette -- alone, as Don was at band practice. It's a Sofia Coppola film, so it was definitely on the artsy side, which was fun to watch. I don't care for her much myself -- while she's definitely gifted with an artistic eye, I'm not quite sure I've ever seen someone (at least in that field) who lacks as much charisma and personality as she does. But what am I saying ... do I even know her? No, of course not. Just my impression. The film was OK -- incredibly decadent and opulent and major eye-candy, which was a fun indulgence. Kirsten Dunst's American accent kind of drove me crazy, and it was definitely draggy at points. But overall ... I liked it. I think my favorite part of the entire film was just knowing that it was filmed on location: Versailles. The same halls and walls which enveloped Marie Antoinette centuries ago ... wild.

So now it's time to start my day: I have kids to dress and brush up, I have myself to dress and hair to dry and teeth to brush. I have dishes to put away and some marigolds to pull out in the yard. And even though yesterday -- October 19 -- was warm and disgustingly steamy, I think it's time to take the air conditioners out of the windows. Yes, it's been glorious being buried under the mountains of words and clipart and newsletter things. Tiring, yes; eye-sore, yes; finger-cramped, yes. But wonderful.

Writing: A Jealous Mistress

I've been neglecting my little blog of late, and its jealousy is apparent, for the words flowing from my tapping fingertips have gone elsewhere for a little while. I have recently taken up the mantle of "editor" of our church's newsletter, and that -- as you can imagine -- has taken up a tremendous amount of my time, leaving neither time nor words nor brainpower for any leisurely romp with my blog.

Church newsletters are fun and I'm no stranger to them. In our second church I was compelled to do something about their stapled sheets of 8.5x11 paper, called a newsletter, so I designed one from scratch. Those were three very fun, brain-stretching, creative years. I was sad to give it up when we left the church, but now the opportunity has presented itself once again. When it comes to involvement in ministry, I am not a leader, period. I am not one who looks for a role that will put myself in any semblance of a spotlight. I am a person who likes to work behind the scenes, one who is given a task to fulfill. Plus I love to write ... so there really isn't any ministry that suits me quite as perfectly as a newsletter editor. This one has taken quite some time to get off the ground, since I'm rather new to the church and (obviously) I'm not married to the pastor this time around, thereby losing that "in" that I once had. But no matter -- I'm having fun with it. Although I have to admit, trying to focus on layout and writing with two kids demanding my attention is a bigger challenge than the newsletter itself, and it does create some rather tense short-tempered moments ("You have 200 toys, for pete's sake; can't you find something to play with for five minutes??!!"), but we're working it out.

In other news ...
- I finally went to the doctor yesterday, finding a moment to take care of myself after playing Florence Nightingale for two claustrophobic, exhausting weeks. My parents are gems, taking on their own demands of the day, including a long, tiring chemo treatment, as well as fitting n the care of my kids while I got a check-up. My dad once again played chauffeur for Aidan to and from school, a treat that Aidan never tires of. In fact, when I picked him up for the first time last week, since Grace was well enough to leave behind with my parents, his face fell when he saw that it was me picking him up, instead of Grandpa. Gotta love that Hallmark moment ... Anyway, I have a few infections that I'm fighting, the biggest of which is a sinus infection. I dropped almost $50 at CVS yesterday (our insurance stinks!) for drugs and sprays and drops, so it had better do the trick ... fast. I'm tired of feeling miserable.

- Aidan is learning to spell, and I love this with a passion. Every day, all day, in the car, in the yard, in the house, I hear his little voice: "Buh-buh-buh ... ah-ah-ah ... t-t-t ... B-A-T! Mommy, BAT!" Three-letter words are flowing out of him at a rapid pace, and he's begun to branch out into four-letter words (thankfully, the good kind!). He has also discovered something abstract which has fascinated him to no end: silent letters. He is enthralled with them and wracks his brain to figure out which words have them. "Mommy, 'KNOT' has a silent 'K,' and if it wasn't silent, it would be 'K-NOT' and that would sound funny." If he discovers that a word he though the could spell does indeed have a previously unknown-to-him silent letter, his face lights up with delight. He also loves their daily class activity -- the letter of the day. They are up to "V" today, and every day we come up with as many letter-words as we can. I challenge him a bit, coming up with some difficult words for him to try out, and he loves the challenge. I am truly loving these fun exchanges with him, especially in our car trips to and from school.

- Grace is getting more audible by the day, too -- Don thinks it's from the steroids she took for the croup. :) That made me laugh -- his reasoning: it can pump up muscles, so did it pump up her brain? I think he was partly being funny. It's been a joy watching her develop, and especially now listening to what she has to say. One thing that makes me laugh is that she can now tell me what her brother has done to her, so Aidan no longer has that protection of a tattle-free little sister. "Aidan push me!" or "Aidan hit me!" She's a funny little thing.

- We went to our friend's ordination on Sunday. MAN ... that was a hard, hard day. I'm still trying to digest my conflicting feels about that day and can't quite write about it. It was beautiful for them ... tough for me. More later on that one. That was a big, smarting step in my journey -- one I had to take, but one that tore at the bottoms of my feet.

Time to move on with my day -- more coffee to imbibe, hair to dry and wrestle with (yes, I'm still wrestling with my new 'do), kids to dress, medicine to take, an anniversary dinner to plan for tomorrow (my parents' 49th!!), dishes to wash, laundry to fold (I have no idea where I am on the chore chart -- I'm still catching up from my nursemaid days), corner store to visit ... but first things first: COFFEE.

Is it really Saturday?

It feels like it's been weeks since I've paid a visit to my little blog, but that just goes to show what my days have been like. Little eternities. Grace has gotten over the worst of her croup (that word still makes me chuckle) -- the fever's long gone and I am so glad she's finished with those awful steroids. It's not that she reacted too badly, but she just wasn't herself and was very unhappy for those three days. But I will say that they did their pharmaceutical trick, because she's breathing better and coughing a little which means everything is loosening up a bit. I think it will be several days yet before she gets her strength back.

Aidan's fine, although still a bit weak and pale. Yesterday was a big day for him -- he went on his first field trip with his class to a local family-run farm. I had to accompany him, which was nice -- we don't get to spend much one-on-one time, and I know he liked having me all to himself. We went on a hayride around the farm, made a pit-stop at a pumpkin patch where we each picked a pumpkin to take home, and then after the ride we had fresh donuts and apple juice. We finished the outing by visiting and feeding the animals -- goats, sheep, llamas, and even an alpaca (shaggy creatures -- hard to believe their fur is worth so much). On the way home we stopped at a toy shop to purchase a gift for one of Aidan's classmates, who was having a birthday party that evening. Since this was Aidan's first attendance at a birthday party held at a "party place" (a Chuck E. Cheese kind of deal), I wasn't sure what "unwritten NJ rules" I needed to abide by, as the mother of a now-party-going boy. I called my sister-in-law for advice, and when I heard how much you "normally" spend on a child ... well, sometimes I think we're living in the wrong state, as far as our budget is concerned. Yikes. We lucked out by finding a cool, budget-conscious, somewhat inexpensive toy, and Aidan had a fabulous time at the party. No one could ever say he's a shy kid.

Today is a low, quiet day. My nephews are upstairs at my parents' house and will be spending the night, so Aidan quickly disappeared this morning to spend time with the boys. That leaves me and Grace, and my poor little one isn't quite sure what to do without her constant playmate. We ran some errands to pass the time and now she's listening to her favorite CD ... yes, the one that includes "I'm in the Lord' s Army" (which, coincidentally, is playing right now -- I couldn't have planned that better!). Don is working overtime this morning, and even though I hate his absence, he is making extra money -- can't argue with that for too long. As my sister-in-law, "that's Christmas money right there!"

As for me ... I'm still not well. I'm surviving; I'm getting through my day; I'm mobile. But I'm not feeling great. My mother is convinced I have a sinus infection and need to see a doctor. I'm starting to agree with her ... but when do I get to do that? When does a mother with two kids and a husband who works a lot get to take care of herself? I'd have to coordinate my doctor's appointment with a free spot in my parents' day so they could watch the kids ... it's not easy. But I don't think I can put it off much longer.

Tonight, though, is a fun night. We're going out to dinner with friends, and we're herding our kids together by sharing a babysitter. This is a bit of a make-up attempt for missing the big NY outing last weekend. Who cares ... going out is going out and I can't wait.

So today I'm laying low, puttering around the house and conserving as much energy as I can for tonight. I started weeding out Grace's clothes in the closet -- I think we're finished with sun-dresses for the season, and I have fall/winter stuff to hang up. We have only have two closets in the house, one for each bedroom. My stuff takes up one entire closet, while Don and the kids share the closet in their room. Weeding and transplanting are essential with limited closet space. I made a nice little pile of the dresses she won't wear anymore, only to find that she dumped the whole thing on the floor. Oh, the fun of doing chores with a two-year-old in tow, who feels quite obligated to un-do whatever you've done ...

Daddy's Girl & Married Woman

Last night, during the commercials for Kitchen Nightmares, I was thumbing through the latest Ladies' Home Journal that my mother gave me. After checking out their feature in the Beauty section,"How to Grow Out Your Hair" (yes, I'm there already ... after two weeks of short! Sad!), I came across a title that caught my eye: "Did You Marry Your Father?" OK, as weird as that sounded, I had to read on ...

Basically the article said that if you had a good, happy, healthy relationship with your dad while growing up, then "studies show" that you are more likely to look for those same fatherly traits in your husband-to-be. In a British study, women were shown an array of photographs, and "Daddy's Girl" more often than not chose the photograph that most resembled her father.

When I finished reading the article, I looked up at my own husband, who was sitting on the floor, surrounded by tubes and fiddling with some wires. I thought of my dad and my relationship with him, especially while growing up. I always had a great relationship with my dad -- still do. In my youth, my mom and I butted heads quite a bit, probably because we were both stubborn and she was home all day (thankfully I grew out of that phase!). But my dad was mellow, funny, affectionate ... that's not to say that my mom isn't funny or affectionate (she certainly is), but my dad's just a very different person. OK, situation solved: I have a great relationship with my dad.

So much for the study. My husband is nothing like my dad. While my dad is (or rather, was) blond with blue eyes, Don has brown hair and chocolately brown eyes (his eyes always remind me of Hershey kisses). Their skin tones differ completely, with my dad sporting a more fair complexion while Don's Italian roots come out in an olive tint to his skin. While my dad comes just under 6-feet, my husband towers over him at 6'3. My dad has a somewhat thin build (size L), while Don is very big and broad (size XXL). My dad has small feet, while Don's surfboards check in at size 13.

So what does this mean? Nothing, really -- it's just interesting. I chalk it up to being a redhead -- we're in a league of our own and therefore don't follow the "rules" of these scientific studies. Oh, I'm kidding ... well, partly. I remember reading somewhere that redheads are constructed a bit differently than any other group -- different muscle structure, different brains, and a certain gene that gives redheads a considerable higher pain threshold. Don't quote me on the muscles or brains (I think I recall my friend Jeff, a fellow redhead, telling me that, after seeing a documentary or something about it), but the gene-thing isn't a mystery. Interesting stuff.

So dad, the next time you look at your son-in-law and realize you aren't looking in the mirror, don't take it personally. :)

A Dr. Postscript

It's 5:04 p.m. -- it's hard to believe I actually made it through the day. I can't say I've gotten any better as the day progressed (in fact, just the opposite is more likely true) but at least we've made progress in Grace's condition. But, oh, the journey to get there ...

My first hurdle was getting through to the pediatrician. I waited until 9:05 a.m. to call for an appointment. Busy. After trying for close to 10 minutes, I finally got through to the phone menu ... only to hear it say something along the likes like "We're not open now so please call back during regular office hours." Ummmm ... what? They were supposed to have opened 15 minutes ago! After trying for another 15 minutes -- only to receive busy signals -- I finally got through to a nurse. The soonest available appointment was 11:45 a.m. That's a horrible hour for her, so close to naptime, and rest is what she needs. But what can you do ...

Thankfully they saw us right away but it turns out she has a very bad case of croup. Croup? Do people still get croup? It seems so ... I don't know -- so "Anne of Green Gables":

"Oh, Anne, do come quick," implored Diana nervously. "Minnie May is awful sick--she's got croup. Young Mary Joe says--and Father and Mother are away to town and there's nobody to go for the doctor. Minnie May is awful bad and Young Mary Joe doesn't know what to do--and oh, Anne, I'm so scared!" ...

"Don't cry, Di," said Anne cheerily. "I know exactly what to do for croup. You forget that Mrs. Hammond had twins three times. When you look after three pairs of twins you naturally get a lot of experience. They all had croup regularly. Just wait till I get the ipecac bottle--you mayn't have any at your house. Come on now." ...

Minnie May, aged three, was really very sick. She lay on the kitchen sofa feverish and restless, while her hoarse breathing could be heard all over the house. Young Mary Joe, a buxom, broad-faced French girl from the creek, whom Mrs. Barry had engaged to stay with the children during her absence, was helpless and bewildered, quite incapable of thinking what to do, or doing it if she thought of it.

Anne went to work with skill and promptness.

"Minnie May has croup all right; she's pretty bad, but I've seen them worse. First we must have lots of hot water. I declare, Diana, there isn't more than a cupful in the kettle! There, I've filled it up, and, Mary Joe, you may put some wood in the stove. I don't want to hurt your feelings but it seems to me you might have thought of this before if you'd any imagination. Now, I'll undress Minnie May and put her to bed and you try to find some soft flannel cloths, Diana. I'm going to give her a dose of ipecac first of all."

Well, I don't have ipecac, and croup does still seem to me to be so ... 19th century. The pediatrician, after confirming the croupy situation, was concerned that -- because I waited so long -- pneumonia might be settling in. Usually they like to treat croup on the third day of illness, before it gets this bad, but it was far advanced now on Day 5. Ooohhhh ... now don't even think of going there, lady! Grace had no symptoms other than fever on Day 3, and if I did call I would have been told to stay home and ride it out. So after the visit, instead of going home to a nice warm bed (for me) and crib (for Grace), I was sent to an MRI place for chest X-rays to rule out pneumonia once and for all.

Poor little Grace was a trooper. Maybe I should say "pooper" because, as Murphy's Law always dictates, she just had to fill up that nice, clean diaper while we waited for the x-ray. The receptionist said they had no area for changing her, but I did have some time before they were ready so I walked outside and changed Grace in the back of the car. And of course, since by now Murphy's Law is working overtime, the technician stuck her head out the back door and said in a horribly obnoxious tone, "Are you done yet?" with frown, down-turned mouth, and all. Oh, that's just nice ...

The end result is this: no pneumonia (thank God!), bad croup, 3 days of steroids (our girl will be pumping some iron!) and a humidifier -- that should do the trick. Steroids could make her hyper (oh, joy) and I'm starting to wonder if Aidan chugged some of it on the sly, the way he's tearing around the living room like a maniac. I guess he's making up for last week's lethargy, having it all come out in one frantic burst of unearthly energy. Dora the Explorer is on while Grace is so far hyper-free and sacked out on the couch, thumb in mouth. I'm heading for the loveseat myself, for being upright for too long is a rather unpleasant thing. My lovely sister-in-law came over earlier with her famous (and delicious) chicken and broccoli casserole, fresh dinner roles, and a pumpkin pie (thank you, thoughtful friend!). The oven is heating up, I'll put the casserole in, Don called and is on his way home ...

Oh, this autumn so far is a doozy ...

A Day Trip ... to the Dr.

This is going to be some day -- I can feel it in my bones (and in my head, my sinuses, my aching body, my eyes). After a restless night, I woke up officially sick, fever climbing above the 100-degree mark. I feel awful, really -- like I'm stumbling around in some aching fog. My kids slept in until 7:45 this morning (a treat!), so I was able to take a hot shower, take my cup of steaming coffee, and collapse into a chair. Jack jumped up next to me and snuggled, and for 10 quiet, blissful minutes I put my head back, sipped my coffee, and stroked my dog's velvety brown head.

Grace woke up moaning, her fever back up to 102.5 already. But what alarmed me were the shocking noises coming from her chest -- tight, painful, constricting, fog-horn sounds as if she was struggling to breathe. I've never heard anything like it. She followed me into the kitchen as I went to get her some juice, and she moaned/cried/honked the whole way, finally falling to the floor (gross) and just laid there. I was on the verge of freaking out -- could she breathe? Why did she fall to the floor? What's happening? Turns out she was fine -- she just wanted to lay down, but that sound bothered me to no end. I took her upstairs to get my mom's opinion, crying as I climbed each step out of fear for her and feeling rotten myself. It took all of my energy to forget about my own ailments and focus on Grace. Climbing the steps while carrying a heavy baby was exhausting.

Our doctor's office opens at 9:00 a.m. so I'm just killing time here waiting to make the call. This is going to be a battle for me -- my natural inclination, when I'm sick, is to crawl under the covers and crash, shutting out the world completely so I can hibernate. It's not that it's a conscious thing I do; it's not. It's just what my body does on its own as it takes over. But obviously I can't do that with two children to care for, one of whom is sick as well. This will definitely be an all-day discipline for me, taking what medications I can to function through the day but denying that urge to shut down and ignore everything.

Looks like this will be yet another TV/video day. Yuck. My parents are wonderful, having offered to drive me to the doctor, agreeing to take care of Aidan's transportation to school. What would I ever do without them?

Oh, what a start to the day ...

We all need expectorants

This coming Sunday afternoon our church's intern is getting ordained. He toiled through four years of seminary, he spent a year's internship at our church, he jumped through every hoop and cleared every hurdle necessary for this big day in his life: ordination. Answering God's call on his life to be a minister. Being faithful and doing what he needed to do to get to this point on his journey. Ordination.

I've known about this scheduled event as of a few weeks ago when it was announced and was looking forward to it. I was planning on asking my parents to watch the kids for us, since it starts at 2:00 p.m., right in the middle of nap time. I was looking forward to attending this big event in the lives of our new friends; even Don was asked to participate by singing a solo of his own composition. It's going to be beautiful.

But now I don't want to go. I just took a look at the ordination service -- the order of worship -- and it knotted my stomach. Not that it was bad -- it wasn't. It was well thought out, and beautifully appropriate. It's going to be a meaningful afternoon. No, the knot came because it reminded me of Don's ordination, and the two of us just starting out after years of seminary, climbing a huge mountain and finally reaching the summit. I remember Don's ordination day vividly -- the colors, the smells (those Episcopalians pull out all the stops for big events like that), the cathedral, feeling loved and affirmed as we were surrounded by family, friends, and other clergy. It's an incredible feeling, standing on top of the world like that, your dreams unfurled before you like some magic carpet.

Just reading over that ordination service for our friend made my eyes well up with tears. The grief was profound. I know it has nothing to do with me -- this is their day. Just because we were beaten up by "the church" doesn't mean that's what they'll be walking into. And yet my experiences have tinted everything I look at, everything I now experience, everything I sense. I don't think I can go to this service, as much as I truly want to, for their sakes. I want to support them, I want to stand up and affirm their calling, I want to be a part of their dream, I want to be a part of the family of God as we send them off, together. I want to.

But I just don't think I can. Is that selfish? Do I have to step outside of my own grief, my own shredded dreams, and just "do it" for the sake of our friends? That is going to be really hard to do. I know I wouldn't be able to sit through that service with a dry eye, that's for sure. It's a mystery to me how Don will be able to actually get up there and sing, knowing that was him up there just 8 years ago, and now he's installing TV's and other ridiculously expensive toys in ridiculously expensive homes. There's a "Great Commission" for you!

I'm still not sure what to do ... but thankfully it's a week away. I guess that's the last thing I needed to think about today. With it being Columbus Day today, I had Aidan home with me, and Grace is still quick sick -- fever fairly high and now developing some tight, "croupy" symptoms which is making me a little nervous. Time to break out the humidifier, make a quick run to CVS for an expectorant, and pray that she'll lick this thing. If not, I'm calling the doctor tomorrow.

Kids sure have a way of getting you out of your own self, don't they? Kind of like a built-in expectorant. They don't let you linger too long on your own stuff. Maybe that's a good thing.