Ready...Go...Get Set!

Blogger Buh-Bye!

2011-04-27T21:35:00.000-07:00

Hey friends - This is it! I'm moving on, or growing up, or something...

Please join me over at my BRAND NEW WEBSITE, just hatched, thanks to the love and support of good and patient friends (you know who you are. Give Bucky a kiss for me.)

www.AdelleGabrielson.com

There's a new blog post up today - be sure to leave a comment and let me know what you think!

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Thank you for being here for me - hope to see you over there, soon!

Gratitude Part II

2011-04-25T19:21:00.000-07:00

Our first Easter with a yard - and what a yard. Glory hallelujah, but I love my lawn, and my apple tree, and my callas and my maples. My roses and my pots and primroses and every last little green and growing thing. We've come a long way, baby.

Eight years - but it was worth every blade of grass. I crawled around on my hands and knees, seven months pregnant with Scooby, putting each of those 14 roses in the ground. And some of them, two or three times (couldn't make up my mind. So accomodating, roses!) There were many seasons when I couldn't bear to even go out there - the weeds, up to my eyeballs, chased me away.

But little by little, shovel by shovel, wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow, we conquered the wilderness. Would I do anything differently? I don't know. I just don't know. There is something about the labor required that makes enjoyment of the result all the sweeter.

Gratitude Monday: Life

2011-04-24T19:07:00.001-07:00

It was a great day. So thankful that the sun decided to come out after all, and that we shared it with close friends. It's been a busy busy spring for us - lots of party planning and hosting. As such, we chose to celebrate Easter with a BBQ instead of a fancy dinner. I must say, Gabe's chipotle adobo cheddar burgers were just about the best thing I've ever tasted. And homemade fries - both sweet and regular potato. Amen and hallelujah.

But, most of all, I'm ecstatic and thrilled beyond words and with lots of tears that Sophia Hope chose Easter to bless us with her little, yet extraordinary, presence. What a way to celebrate the risen Christ than with a birth. Welcome to the world, baby girl. May your days upon this earth be richly blessed, as ours shall surely be by sharing them with you.

Five MInute Friday: The Hard Love

2011-04-22T08:04:00.000-07:00

It is Holy Week, and vainly have I been trying to instill a bit of this holiness, this knowledge, into my little charges. Something meaningful that they can grasp and hold on to. To get that seed planted upon their heart where it will grow and develop and one day, carry them when life bites back.

The most recent question at hand was “Why do they call it Good Friday?”

Ah yes, that one. Strange, that. What’s good about it? It was a terrible day. He suffered, He was brutalized, He was shamed. The world went dark that day – how can this be called “Good?”

My sweet children – it’s true. Terrible things happened this day. Terrible, but still wonderful. Because on this day, on Good Friday, the curtain was torn in two. No longer do we need to stay back and let someone else advocate on our behalf. The Holy of Holies is yours. It is mine. We can be in the presence of God whenever we want, wherever we want. That, my little sons, is why today, amidst all the horror and suffering - today is Good. It’s the first chapter in a very, happy ending.

I was crying as I said this. You can’t feel so strongly about something without it bubbling over into your voice. They were silent a moment, my captured audience, wearing sneakers and eating French fries in the back seat.

I waited for their reaction. To hear how my words touched their heart.

And then it came:

“Can I watch Dinosaur Train when we get home?”

And that is Hard Love…passionately loving and believing and seed-planting and oh, so rarely ever getting to enjoy the harvest in the now. Someday yes, but rarely in the now.

Preoccupied, Part II

2011-04-21T15:51:00.002-07:00

Perhaps it's because this all is happening simultaneously with my 20 year high school reunion.

Faces from the past are popping up everywhere. I'm having trouble thinking of people as who they are now, not who they were then.

I certainly hope they do the same for me.

For Pepperdine, I'm going back to a place that no longer exists. What once was, isn't anymore. Neither am I. Neither are they.

Same goes for my reunion. I'm reading their stories and browsing Facebook pages and trying to process that he's a dentist. She's a motivational speaker. He's a happily married father of four. She lost her first child.

But I look at them and all I remember is who they were then.

I am not who I was, I'm being remade, I am new...

Thank God for that. If only we could just get together in a room and get to know one another as we are now. If only there were no past to filter through, no history, no memories - good or bad - to get in the way of the current person.

I want to hear their stories and create a new picture - and then, then tell me who you were. Then we'll overlay the picture of the past with the picture of the present and we'll laugh at how the lines no longer match up.

Please don't judge me by the silly, foolish things I once said and believed. Please don't remember me for being boy-crazy and loud, for my crush on David Hasslehoff, or Tom Cruise. Don't hold it against me that I read Sweet Valley High and cried over Richard Marx and had big, mall-hair and idolized Duran Duran.

I'm not who I was. Really.

Preoccupied.

2011-04-19T13:01:00.001-07:00

I know I haven't been around much. Preoccupied. You see, in just two weeks from today I'll be driving back to the place I spent four of the best years of my life. Oddly enough, I haven't been back since.

I'll be reconnecting with old friends.

I'll be reacquainting myself with a dramatically changed campus.

I'll be getting up in front of a room full of people and pretending that I am a grown-up who knows stuff.

And I'm going All. By. My. Self.

Which is weird. Very weird. I never go anywhere alone. Most certainly not without my better half (also known as my 6' tall security blanket).

I'm a little freaked out to be doing this without him. Driving down is no big deal - I did that plenty 'o times back in the day. But doing this very big thing...by myself. I'm not that person anymore.

I'm not a "self."

I'm a "we."

I wish it were different but sheesh - this event is right in the middle of the school year and we've got Fun Runs to run and homework to correct and baseball to play. Somebody has to hold down the fort.

Graciously, he's willing to do that while off I go to the big blue ocean, to reconnect with a life I hardly remember.

I know it will be lovely - to be responsible for only my own self for four whole days. No one's butt to wipe on the potty, no one's dishes to load. No one's face to swipe clean and no one to shuttle back and forth. That I won't miss.

And there's the ocean - I'll be staring at it, walking in it, breathing it in for four whole days.

I just wish I were going as a "we" instead of "me."

Gratitude Monday

2011-04-18T09:10:00.000-07:00

Dinner al fresco.
Family movie night on the couch.
Water falling on the patio.
30 more bulbs in the ground and one more planter filled.
All 576 (or so) rose buds and the anticipation of what’s soon to come.
Champagne and friendship.
Beaming brides, scrumptious savories, and a cake that turned out perfect.

I'll Love You Forever

2011-04-15T02:40:00.001-07:00

I was awake for 20 minutes or so before I finally gave up. The moon is near full and that always seems to lead to disrupted sleep.

My head started writing. Why does the good stuff happen in the middle of the night, in the dark? I thought of a new introduction to an article I'm working on and didn't want to risk losing it between now and morning. Resigned, I got up to write.

I've been up a while now, yet these are the first words I'm actually getting down. The naughty moon isn't just taunting me tonight - I had no more than reached the end of the hallway when I was imperiously summoned.

I'll tell you - it's been awhile. This surprises me, in fact. I've not been hauled out of a sound sleep for a small boy in dinosaur pajamas in a long time.And to be honest, I'm a little sad about that. These nighttime raids wreak havoc on my rest - but they are one of my most precious acts of mothering.

He wanted nothing more than a kiss on a tender finger. And a little rock...so we did, a bit awkwardly off the edge of the bed, this boy over half my size yet still needing his mother in the middle of the night, in the quiet dark, for a bit of human touch. He curled his head into my shoulder, his hands clutching precious Blue-Blue to his chest and we rocked. Back and forth, back and forth.

And in my mind I whispered:

I'll love you forever.
I'll like you for always.
As long as I'm living,
My baby you'll be.

Gratitude Monday

2011-04-10T13:05:00.000-07:00

That the weekend that promised to be so insanely busy didn't turn out so bad, after all.

For the sunshine (if not the air temps).

That Scooby not only made contact with the ball, but managed to do so twice, and scored as well. In only his second game EVER!

For 30 stolen minutes in sunshine with s just-wakened (and therefore, super snuggly) boy, listening to the wind, eating oranges off the tree - paying attention to forgotten details, with a three year old guiding the way. Look, a plane! Look, a rose bud! Look, Mommy, birds! What's that squirrel doing? Why do the leaves wave like that? What's that? What's that? What's that?

A whole afternoon, just me and the boys. And it was fun! We went to the garden center and they each chose a six-pack of their own to plant.

Scrappy chose red - "impatients"

A Scooby loved the bright yellow marigolds (planted in the honorary Brockman planter).

There was something a little sacred about helping small hands place tiny plants in dirt. Like bestowing a precious family heritage - this is good. This is important. Dirt, and life, and green - a precious communion with the Creator.

And for Mom, who bestowed the same family heritage on to me and my brother, who has shared it with his children as well.

Tacos for dinner, movies on the couch. It was a great day.

And last but certainly not least, dinner for tonight is already in the crock-pot. I Super Mom. Roar!

(Just give me my five-minutes, K? Tomorrow I'll go back to feeling like a frazzled mess, I promise.)

Five Minute Friday: If You Met Me

2011-04-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

Prompt: If you met me…

You would notice, as so many do, that I have no front teeth. They fell out six months ago, and it is annoying to bite everything through the side of your mouth. My mother constantly fusses at the food on my face, but hello?! What else am I supposed to do?

You probably heard me before you saw me. I talk loud. I act loud. I live loud. When I get excited, which is often, I forget about volume control. And I’m always talking. Either I’m imagining myself to be a sword fighter or kung fu ninja, or I’m telling you about arthropods and arachnids and carnivorous plants.

If I’m not talking, I am drawing. Superherods and castles. Ceraclopsian Blackwings. Dragons. Sharks. Or folding – bits of paper into fantastical shapes and leaving them all over the house, forgotten, until my little brother touches one with a pinky and then I am righteous indignation and territorial.

If we talked awhile, you might notice that I have a deep conscience of bigger things – things bigger than most second graders think about. I think about these things, in the rare moments I am quiet and in the dark of my room. I think about grace and forgiveness. I think about God and His eternal presence.

I might argue with you. I speak my mind, usually before thinking of the consequences and I hold tight to truth and logic and my own way. Mom says that this will serve me well one day, but right now I had better stop or I’m going to start losing privileges.

If you met me you’d notice that I don’t follow the crowd or do the same thing the same way twice. If walking across the room is required, I’ll bounce. If brushing my teeth is required, I’ll do it standing on one foot. If getting in and out of the car is required, I’ll do so as if I were climbing a mountain, or leaping from a jungle tree, or stealthily sneaking up on an enemy.

If you met me, I think you’d like me.

Simple Things

2011-04-06T15:40:00.000-07:00

Skies of shiny, sunny blue
Clean car, no crumbs
Windows down, volume up
Singing to my very own tune (and no one telling me to stop)
Stiff breeze, hot mocha, empty bench, and fountain
Sweaters moved to the back of the closet
Summer brights moved to the front
Branches swelling, pollen swirling, buds abounding

Daylight lingering on the patio, as do we

And, did I mention?
Skies of shiny, sunny blue…

Three. Twenty. Thirty-Seven.

2011-04-03T20:23:00.000-07:00

If you’re all alone
when the pretty birds have flown
Honey I’m still free
Take a chance on me
Gonna do my very best and it ain’t no lie
If you put me to the test, if you let me try

I couldn’t have been more than three. It was one of those rare moments of childhood that felt like all the rules were being broken at once, and therein lay its magic and its permanence.

I was fascinated with the glossy black envelope that held the vinyl album. Vivid rainbow letters I could recognize but not pronounce. My parents brought it home and we played it on my older brother’s record player. Or perhaps he had bought it with the money he saved from delivering newspapers. I remember him making money. I don’t remember him ever spending it.

His wood-paneled bedroom was always cool. He was so much older than me, it was everything that seemed grown up and forbidden. He was man enough to sleep alone in this dank basement bedroom while the rest of us were upstairs. I had an Easy-Bake oven and Barbie’s town house in my bedroom. He had a Hi Fi and a bean-bag chair.

The bedspread was navy - I was on top of it, jumping up and down (usually forbidden). Mom was bopping like a go-go dancer and Dad doing a great Bill Cosby while the walls were vibrating from the bass.

All of us, singing at the top of our lungs and slightly off-key, the volume turned up as high as we could stand it.

Well I could dance with you honey,
if you think it’s funny
Does your mama know that you’re out?

Seventeen years later, in another basement, this time under the Imperial College of London.

It was called Belushi’s, I think. They didn’t care that we were, most of us, only 20. We went there for the music, and the cheap food, and the Snakebites (but my mother never knew that bit).

Gold had just been released; Bjorn and Benny were smiling down from posters in every tube stop in the city. Friday nights would find us in the basement - the air was thick with smoke, and dim. And no matter how tired I was, or who I was talking to, when their songs came on I had to go and dance.

A foolish bunch of melodies that tied me to my childhood, even now weaving their way into the adult I was becoming. They were anthems for those cold and rainy days on that little foreign island.

Friday night and the lights are low
Looking out for the place to go
Where they play the right music,
getting in the swing
You come in to look for a king

Another seventeen years goes by. The red SUV is covered in cracker crumbs and finger prints. The memory of London fog now blinded by the California sun. Mom is gone, and so is her laughter. And yet – as the boys and I make our daily trek, our favorite playlist is on the iPod. They fight over their favorite songs, but there are a few on which they agree…

Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you?
Mamma mia, does it show again?
My my, just how much I’ve missed you

All of us, singing at the top of our lungs with the volume turned up as high as we can stand it.

On, and on, and on.

Gratitude Monday: Bloom Where You're Planted

2011-04-03T13:31:00.001-07:00

The rains have passed, the sun has returned, and everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, is waking up around here.

Growing so fast you can almost stand and watch.

An explosion of color is only weeks - maybe days away.

Last year's transplants, that waxed and waned in the summer heat, spent a good, long, wet winter putting down roots. A lesson to be learned perhaps?

This time, I have a frame with which to enjoy it. I'm so thankful for my finished back lawn and patio.

He speaks my language...

2011-03-30T19:16:00.000-07:00

Those of you around the left coast will know...it's been raining cats and dogs and ponies. For two weeks straight (that's unusual for our desert clime) it's been raining. Rivers and culverts were flooding.

My yard was DROWNING. Weeds were taking over - but it was too wet to do anything about it. The lawns were both a big, hairy, swampy quagmire.

You can't mow wet grass.

On Saturday he pulled weeds in the rain. An entire, gi-normous, yard-waste can full of weeds.

I stayed inside and kept warm.

Monday the sun came out again, and the big, hairy, lawns laughed as we came and went. Still too wet to mow, and besides, the yard-waste can was full.

Today was pick-up day, and I just got this email:

To: Adelle
From: Gabe
Subject: I love you

"I'm saying I love you in two differnt languages."

And this picture was attached.

remeberRED: Kindergarten

2011-03-28T23:09:00.000-07:00

Every morning, my long, thick hair was comb-parted and neatly halved into matching, curly pigtails.

Every afternoon I would blithely clamber from the steps of the bus clutching my metal Barbie lunchbox, the remains of peanut butter and jelly happily lingering on my cheeks. What was left of one pigtail clung desperately to the only surviving elastic. The other hung tangled around my ears.

"Plays with gusto!" my teacher wrote on my report card that year.

"Talks out of turn." Always. (Still do.)

My school was new, an off-shoot of the Montgomery County School District, growing so rapidly that a second elementary school was required to house the many children of Virginia Tech's young, brainy faculty.

Harding Elementary was one, enormous room that was divided into classrooms with movable walls. I remember only snapshots of that first year. We had students and professors come from the college - one visit brought gigantic cockroaches on leashes that we walked like so many poodles up and down the playground. I remember running the sidewalk, hood on, coat flying behind like a cape. We were activating our Wonder-Twin powers. We were G-force. We were in the Land of the Lost.

John-Paul, a classmate, wore bright blue Nike sneakers with blue rubber soles and white knee socks. He was beautiful.

We napped on beach towels brought from home. I picked mine out from the local K-mart. She suggested Strawberry Shortcake. I chose a pirate ship.

Hot lunches were fetched from the cafeteria. The lunch ladies, in ubiquitous flowered aprons and shower caps, handing us divided Melamine trays of mint-green. I would sometimes pass my older brother in the hallway. A fourth grader, he was too cool to notice the Kindergartener with the lopsided pigtails calling his name.

The walls were painted cinder block. The carpet was gold. The question we asked each other was not "What does your father do?" but rather, "What does your father teach?" and on Saturday nights we'd go to Gilley's for ice cream. I felt old and sophisticated with my Pralines N Cream, sitting among the college students who cooed over my pigtails that were, for once, in their appropriate and assigned places.

Gratitude Monday: Firsts

2011-03-28T08:19:00.001-07:00

There aren't that many "firsts" anymore.

First steps, first tooth, first smile, first laugh, first clap, first words...they came fast and furious for a while, but now, a bit more rare.

Last night I got to be there for the first time he wrote his own name. It was hard work - his "M" constantly usurped by the pesky "W." We practiced over and over: "up-down-up-down." And the "E" - just as mine were before him, a comb of slashes on the single pole - "1, 2, 3, 4, 5!" He would mark them off proudly, beaming. "It's perfect!" I'd crow - and it was.

Just one more first in a long line of firsts, and maybe not such a big one in the grand scheme...but, it was a big deal to me.

Five Minute Friday: Waking Up

2011-03-25T08:17:00.001-07:00

The Rules (in case you were wondering):

1. Write for only five minutes.
2. Link back to Gypsy Mama's Blog and invite others to join in.
3. Go leave some comment love for the five minuter
who linked up before you.

Want to join me?

Waking Up

The furnace kicks on and the smell of bacon fills the room along with hot air. I’m so comfortable I cannot move, drowning in the giant comforter.

I can hear the soft murmur of voices down the hall. My three man-boys around the table - one more man than boy, two more boy than man. They are discussing maple syrup, and analyzing its placement. One prefers to dip. The other to soak.

A chair protests as it is shoved away from the table. The beep of the microwave. The espresso starts to screech and I know that my quiet moments alone on this Saturday morning are coming to a close.

Three man-boys troop down the hallway like a herd of elephants. Or perhaps monkeys. They pile on the bed, the coffee and milk land on the table by my side and they are so happy to see me. And I’m so happy to see them.

Making My Children Miserable

2011-03-23T20:02:00.000-07:00

Life lesson #1: Say please.
My three year old is an expert at tantrums.

His face turns red, he produces spectacular tears, and generally has the pathetic, "I'm so abused" routine down pat.

The thing is, he doesn't throw tantrums about big stuff. He usually throws tantrums about little stuff. Stuff like "say please" or "no, you can't sleep with a golf club" or "no, you may not have a bowl of chocolate sauce for dinner."

Now, I could prevent these tantrums by merely giving him whatever it is that he's demanding. But that wouldn't make me a very good parent, would it?

I was shocked once, at a seminar, to hear someone say that my job as a parent is not to raise a happy child.

What?!

My job is to raise an obedient child who understands that every choice has a consequence - good or bad. And also, that he is wholly loved.

The funny part is - an obedient child is much more likely to be happy. An indulged child, conversely, is much more likely to be miserable. So often we associate happines with indulgence, when it's really quite the opposite.

Life Lesson #2: You are responsible for your own stuff.
My older son is quick to remind me, however, that the happy doesn't happen in the short-term. He claimed just last night that I make his life miserable ('cause I asked him to put his own laundry away and to empty his own trash can. I'm such an ogre.) He moaned about the unfairness of it all. That he would NEVER finish.

I tried to gently remind him that really, sweetheart, I'm not asking that much.

You have a warm bed to sleep in. Clothes to wear. Toys to play with. Plenty of food to eat.

Your life could be worse. We talked for a bit about what "worse" really means. I'm not sure he gets it yet, but that's ok, I've got plenty of time.

Life Lesson #3: You Can't Always Get What You Want
This morning, when I did not grant one of Scrappy's whims, his reply: "But I WANT it!"

The thing is, Lovey, life doesn't always give you want you want.

And most certainly not when you don't ask nicely, or at least say "please." Learn now, learn later, but love-of-my-life-litle-sons - you WILL learn.

I can teach these lessons now, or they can learn them later. And later will always hurt more.

Life Lesson #4: Life Lessons Aren't Any Fun
It is my job, after all - in bending these rigid wills, in shaping these selfish hearts, in forcing the inward focus outward, I'm coaxing them into better human beings. It will hurt. They won't like it.

Neither did I when it was done for me.

But better now than later. Better now when I can cuddle and kiss them and ease the consdequences of wrong choices - even granting grace as appropriate. Because adult consequences, at least those of this world, don't come with a whole lot of grace.

In the grown-up world, there aren't second chances, and saying "sorry" doesn't make it all better.

So, pardon me while I go make my kids miserable. I love them too much to let them stay this way.

Dress. Effortless.

2011-03-21T20:36:00.000-07:00

One of my life list goals is to wear more dresses (like Dianne). Why? Because of the effortless simplicity of the dress - with a dress, you're dressed. Period. Throw on a pair of sandals, a chunky necklace - done and done. Dress up, dress down. Effortless.

I'm a sucker for little details - like pin-tucking, draping, asymmetry and applique. Loving this season's offerings - here are some of my spring favorites:

(Note: if you haven't yet discovered Downeast Basics, featured below, you should go check them out. Loving the new T's in their Spring catalog...)

Luxe Jersey Crossover Dress
Ann Taylor Loft

Quintessential Dress
Max Studio

Draped Dress
Gap

Pleated drape dress
Gap

Le Petit Linen Dress
Downeast Basics

Fresh Flowers Maxi Dress
Downeast Basics

Cecilia dress
J.Crew

Gratitude Monday

2011-03-20T18:26:00.000-07:00

It's hard not to lose your focus on a weekend of incessant rain. Cabin fever, at least for me, sets in so quickly.

I went for the only alternative: just get out of the cabin. Mud, wet, laundry - who cares? Just go for it. As my great grandmother Velma always said...hands wash (and so do feet, heads, and three year olds.)

Something new: Five Minute Friday

2011-03-18T08:25:00.000-07:00

On Waiting

Hampered by their slowness, I wait, patiently and impatiently, at the crosswalk. They founder in puddles and hop to catch raindrops and all I can think of is that I want to be at my desk right now, conquering lists of emails and returning messages and whittling down the tasks. But I wait and I hide my worry and I can’t help myself – I smile.

They do not know the meaning of hurry.

They have no agenda, no places to be, nor things to accomplish. They are living in this moment, right here, right now, under the mottled sky and they are content.

For an instant, I feel a flash of envy and I wish I could be unhurried, too, but the moment passes and we shuffle across the crosswalk, foundering in puddles, jostling and shoving and moving towards the next thing on the list.

In the back of my mind I do not forget, that sliver of a moment, as I waited and wondered and tried to remember – what was it like before all of the hurry? When I was small and unfettered and lived in the instant, and foundered in puddles and hopped to catch raindrops and didn’t stop to wonder what was going to happen after that.

When is enough, enough?

2011-03-16T23:39:00.000-07:00

Last week was a rough week. I worked five days, 8 hours each day, as usual.

Both my kids had issues - one with his teacher, the other was sent to the principal. (When you work on the same campus where your kids go to school, you live their failures as well as their triumphs. Front row seat - there is no separation of work and family.)

I had bridal shower invitations to get in the mail, another shower to buy a gift for, prescriptions to pick up at two separate pharmacies in two different cities, I needed to set up for my mother's group and plan the agenda, Scooby needed his application dropped off for baseball, both kids need to be enrolled for summer camp/summer school and both applications need checks. We are leading a Bible study at our house on Wednesday and we don't have the lesson planned, we are leading another one in a month on Sunday morning, and we don't have that planned either. I'm teaching a class at Pepperdine in six weeks and all I have done is a bunch of reasearch. There's weeds swallowing my patio furniture, the laundry is overflowing the basket, the shower is growing aliens, the boys both need a haircut, there's a bag of apples in my garage that were supposed to become pies, but have now rotted, I have people coming over tonight and I have to get the cat hair clumps off the carpet...

And oh, by the way, I have no idea what we're having for dinner.

And there's this cavity I keep forgetting to deal with.

And and and and and ....

All I see are the things I did NOT do today. What I have yet to accomplish. What's still on the list.

My friend Amy pointed out...we pack four days into one and we still feel like failures. When is enough, enough?

And how are we supposed to know when it is?

Truly, I'm baffled. How do we find equilibrium - all of the things I'm expected to do are important - there isn't really anything I can cut out. I realize that this is the new normal.

So tell me, someone, anyone...when is enough ENOUGH? And how are we supposed to know when it is?

Thistles for Dinner

2011-03-14T21:09:00.000-07:00

It's the oddest thing, really. Who came up with the idea in the first place? I've always wondered.

They must have been really, really hungry.

There is nothing inviting about an artichoke. Anything, frankly, with "choke" in the name is kind of a culinary turn-off.

It's a California-thing I suppose. One of those regional oddities that doesn't appear much out of state simply because they only grow in Mediterranean climates. For the US, that pretty much means right here in my backyard. (You hate me now, don't you?)

I first remember eating them in Virginia, though. We would be sitting at the formica table in the kitchen with the blue and green teapot wallpaper and the avocado fridge. She served them steamed, with melted butter in heavy, brown pottery dipping bowls, with little stubby handles. Dipping anything is fun, when you're three.

I wonder how she even got them, fresh, back there, back then, in the days ehe could only get tortillas frozen or canned. Somehow, she did, and as anyone knows who's ever had a 'choke (done right) - we were hooked.

Even my kids, who fuss about chunks in their peanut butter and jelly, and find ranch dressing abhorrent, adore them. Twice last week found us fighting over the last of six I steamed for dinner, leaves piling up in bowls in the center of the table. Carefully cutting out the choke while the boys look on anxiously.

In that instant I am three again, and my mom is alive, and we are talking and laughing around the dinner table. Childhood and family, dipped in melted butter.

I love introducing the 'choke to out-of-towners. Unsupervised, they put entire leaves in their mouths only to find them entirely undigestable. No, no - we laugh - you scrape the flesh off with your teeth!

You do what?

Scrape them. Like this.

We demonstrate, and the looks on their faces make us laugh all the more.

Such a funny thing, really. But when you get to the heart - the precious, hard-gotten center that has a flavor that is beyond words...and a little garlic mayonnaise...

Well, you'll just have to find out for yourself.

Gratitude Monday: The Gummy Bear Awards

2011-03-13T13:30:00.000-07:00

I recounted the same story I shared with you on Friday to my mother's group this weekend. There were a lot of heads nodding, and, I'm pretty sure one mom was about to burst into tears.

I don't know why we feel alone. We just do.

But the truth is, we have a lot to acknowledge in ourselves, a lot to be proud of.

I would really liked to hear of YOUR triumphs - what did you survive this week? What did you do right?

Confession: I am a rather volatile person. I FEEL deeply. I'm very happy, or very sad. I'm rarely just there.

I get angry fast.

This is not a good trait for a parent.

So I'm giving myself a gummy bear for NOT yelling when I could have, for NOT losing my cool when I normally would. There are about fifty times a day when they aggravate me so badly I'm ready to pull out my hair - but I'm working really REEEEally hard to not let it get to me. I walk away. I put myself in time-out.

I pray. I ask for help.

I don't want them to remember a mom who yelled a lot. Nor do I want them to tune me out when I yell - cuz she does that all the time. IF I yell, I want them to know it's important and urgent, and listen up buster get your fanny out of the street this instant. That sort of thing.

So, I'm grateful today that I didn't lose my cool on Sunday. Not once
And I'm so very grateful that G was there to provide reinforcements when I had to run out of the room.

What's your gummy bear for today?

Worth Repeating: Two Fer

2011-03-11T23:57:00.000-08:00

Purely unexpected. Early in the genre of Vampire fiction - she published two years ahead of Stephanie Meyer - Sunshine is fresh. Let's just be clear, friends - I'm not a fan of the genre. I just liked this book.

One minute we're reading about a girl named Rae, who gets up at 4am every day to make Cinnamon Rolls as Big as Your Head for Charlie's coffeehouse. The next moment, McKinley starts alluding to something called the "Voodoo Wars" and you realize this isn't just some everyday normal life after all. I LOVED this book. Loved it. Gobbled it up, inhaled it. The kind of book where you need to hurry up and finish just so you can sleep again.

The road that went to what had been my parents' cabin was passable, if only just. I got out there and went and sat on the porch and looked at the lake. My parents' cabin was the only one still standing in this area, possibly because it had belonged to my father, whose name meant something even during the Voodoo Wars. There was a bad spot off to the east, but it was far enough away not to trouble me, though I could feel it was there.

I sat on the sagging porch, swinging my legs and feeling the troubles of the day draining out of me like water. The lake was beautiful: almost flat calm, the gentlest lapping against the shore, and silver with moonlight. I'd had many good times here: first with my parents, when they were still happy together, and later on with my gran. As I sat there I began to feel that if I sat there long enough I could get to the bottom of what was making me so cranky lately, find out if it was anything worse than poor quality flour and a somewhat errant little brother.

I never heard them coming. Of course you don't, when they're vampires.

Sunshine
by Robin McKinley

Oh the words in Sarah Addison Allen's books. The words!

The two giant oaks in the front yard looked like flustered ladies caught mid0curtsy, their starched green leaf-dresses swaying in the wind...Emily hesitated,then paid him and got out. The air outside was tomato-sweet and hickory-smoked, all at once delicious and strange. It automatically made her touch her tongue to her lips. It was dusk, but the streetlights weren't on yet. She was taken aback by how quiet everything was. it suddenly made her head feel light. No street sounds. No kids playing. No music or television. There was this sensation of otherworldliness, like she'd traveled some impossible distance.

Allen weaves "just enough magic into the narrative to keep things lively but short of saccharine."

The Girl Who Chased the Moon
by Sarah Addison Allen

Not alone.

2011-03-11T15:48:00.000-08:00

I have this nasty habit that, when things really go south, I withdraw and see only inward. My inner "You Stink" is hollering, and all I perceive is that I am alone, so totally alone.

I am alone when my almost four year old is wetting his pants. On purpose.

I am alone as I daily carry a screaming child across the parking lot in front of hundreds of other calm, well-behaved and quiet children and their parents.

I am alone when my kids are prancing around the house naked, and we were supposed to be pulling out of the driveway 10 minutes ago.

I am alone with the tantrums, and the battles of wills, and the sheer madness of it all.

The thing is...I'm not really alone. I know you are out there. I've run into three of you today. You all had your own stories - of boys and girls alike - strong-willed, stubborn little stinkers who are making us ask ourselves "shouldn't we have just gotten a dog?!"

You are super moms. We are super moms. My friend Chandra keeps reminding me...it was no accident that I became their mother.

God does not make mistakes.

We can do this. We were chosen. We were chosen to be the mothers of these hoooligans, and mother them we will, come hell or high water or pee on the floor.

We can do this. We must.

Because we're in this together.

When my kids really perform outside the box, I reward them with a gummy (gummie?)bear. We like Trader Joe's the best. I think mommies should get a gummy bear from time to time, don't you? For those nine times in a row that we did NOT lose our cool as we were sassed by our kids, or for remaining dispassionate in the face of their fury, or for doing four loads of laundry in one night. We need a reward system.

Maybe we should instate the Gummy Bear Awards - come brag on yourself once a week on Gratitude Monday and tell everyone why you deserve a reward! Maybe I'll even do a random drawing of everyone who comments that day and actually send you something....hmmmm...thoughts?

Estrogen Deprived

2011-03-07T19:22:00.000-08:00

Last night at the dinner table - during one of those rare moments where we were all actually sitting in our seats, and no one was under the table, or kicking someone else, or demanding more milk, more ketchup, another napkin, or a spoon, instead of a fork - Scrappy looked across at me and announced:

"Mommy! I am a boy."

He pointed at his brother. "He is a boy!"

And at Gabe, who was calmly eating his pasta, "And, Daddy, HE is a boy!"

He looked at me, smugly, and then pointed.

"You, Mommy, YOU are a GIRL!"

Clearly, his pronouncement was not in my favor.

I am so aware of that fact, my dear. So very aware.

I am aware of that when I fold laundry, I fold (ok, not fold, but wad up in a pile) three different sizes of Jockey shorts. Small, Medium, Large. We're like our very own Hanes commercial on my couch.

I am so very aware when I set foot in their bathroom. Seat up, floor damp. Yuck and double yuck.

I am so very aware when I am sitting on the floor (probably folding laundry, or wadding up underwear) minding my own business and I am tackled by a 36 lb missile. For no reason whatsoever.

I am aware that I am outnumbered here. So very, very aware.

This is the stuff...

2011-03-07T09:19:00.000-08:00

Hey look, somebody wrote a song about my life...(thanks Christy, for the video!)

Friday Favorites: Cake. On a Stick.

2011-03-03T20:27:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had a cupcake or other confection (wedding cake!) that was beautiful and exquisitely decorated on the outside, but bland and tasteless on the inside?

To be honest, I was skeptical at first. So many confections are super cute, but quite frankly, they aren't worth the calories and utterly lacking in flavor. When my coworker brought her Valentine's bouquet in to share, I assumed these would fall into that category. Cute, but tasteless.

I was SO wrong! So very, very wrong! I'm not a big fan of frosting - I don't really like cupcakes all that much (I can hear the collective gasp from Trish, Deed and Sun already). These little sweet treats by Creative Cake Bites are right up my alley - truly the yummiest little bon-bons I have ever tasted. AND, they are just so dadgum CUTE! Check out just a few of their options:

Cake bites, cake pops, cupcakes - just looking at the photos on the website makes me want to throw a shower or a party. A perfect favor! The perfect party dessert! Cake bite weddings! Birthdays! And, so reasonably priced at $20 per dozen (additional colors, $2 extra).

The flavors read like a Who's Who in Dessert Heaven - with options like Double chocolate (rich chocolate cake with dark chocolate frosting coated in milk chocolate and topped with chocolate drizzles) or their top seller, Red Velvet (Red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting coated in white chocolate). Uh-huh. That's what I am talking about. Gone Bananas (cake made with real bananas mixed with vanilla buttercream and coated in milk chocolate and topped with a banana chip and chocolate drizzles).

Creative Cake Bites also features seasonal flavors - this month I'm dying to try Italian Cream Cake (coconut pecan cake with cream cheese frosting, coated in white chocolate and topped with a pecan) and Mocha (rich espresso chocolate cake with coffee buttercream, dipped in milk chocolate coating and topped with a dark chocolate espresso bean).

Seriously!
Yummy cake!
On a stick!
Dipped in chocolate?
What's not to love???

Creative Cake Bites
http://creativecakebites.com/
creativecakebites@gmail.com

Job Wanted

2011-03-02T19:58:00.000-08:00

Charming, argumentative logistician. Acutely aware of justice, fact, and reason. Innovative and mechanically inclined. Ideally suited for litigation or architecture. Or architectural litigation. Somewhat skinny and underfed, but we're working on that.

Beguilling, dimpled dictator. Acutely aware of personal ability to sway, influence and compel. Inflated sense of size and capability. Prone to excessive backseat driving. Ideally suited for ruling, directing or perhaps, sovreignity. But we're working on that.

The Living Room

2011-02-28T21:01:00.000-08:00

A writing meme hosted by The Red Dress Club.

The couch was 1970's neo-Victorian. Dark green brocade, with stiff, fabric-covered buttons and carved wooden arms. It was the "nice" couch - not the plaid monstrosity we played on and created forts out of downstairs. This was the Company couch. With it, a big gold Laz-Z-boy. Cream and gold drapes - I loved the glossy, heavy cords that tied back those curtains, and hiding beneath the white sheers that filtered the light coming in through the Dogwood trees out front. Her favorite chair was a winged-back - gold again, cream, and dark pink. We pushed its' ottoman against the window for portraits - a static studio to record the progress of a growing family.

The Living Room, she called it, although really it was more like a parlor. Reserved for special occasions. Lovingly furnished and exquisitely designed. It was a beautiful room - envied, too, I daresay, for she had such a knack for color and style, even then.

And live it did, for all the most important occasions happened there.

Christmas was always in the Living Room. I would wake in the night and creep out to see piles of glossy packages and gleaming ribbons, gasping, he was here!

Family gatherings and parties. When guests would come, they were welcomed in this room first. Here the refreshments were served as we caught up and laughed. Where my grandfather brought his new bride, and they canoodled like teenagers in the fading light. Her smile, so gentle. She was loved.

Just off the kitchen, the Living Room smelled faintly of homemade lasagna or enchilada pie. Apples and cinnamon. Peanut brittle. The coffee table would hold trays of sausage balls and shrimp dip and fondue.

The end tables, ornately carved to match the couch, were double-decker and filled with my great-grandmother's china teacups. Dozens there were, at one time, each a treasure she brought home from places abroad.

The piano stood against one wall, in later years, and there we pounded away, mutilating Mozart and Bach. There was no television in this room - that was downstairs. This was the place for food and conversation. Friends and family.

I remember hiding on the stairs, peeking through the banister rails during parties. The room filled with guests and the German shepherd dog, Prinz, standing sentry at the top of the stairs, terrifying all who came in at the front door on the landing below. He was just a big, overfed baby, but they never knew that.

The Living Room was soaked in happy memories. That stiff, green couch the site of joyous reunions and tearful goodbyes. Those over-stuffed chairs, were they able, could play back a thousand bedtime stories and nighttime prayers.

Sanctified and set aside for that which was most important.

Living.

Gratitude Tuesday: Another Perspective

2011-02-28T20:06:00.000-08:00

The daughter of one of the teachers on the campus where I work had a bone marrow transplant last week.

This comes after years of struggling with cancer and more. She has every right to be angry - she's in her early twenties. A newlywed. She should be traveling and enjoying her youth, not spending it in a hospital room.

She has every right to be bitter. But she's not.

They keep a blog for friends and family only, and on that blog, I found this post:

Gratitude

Colossians 2:6-7

“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.”

I know we’re trying to keep this blog light-hearted, but I also want to be serious for a moment and write about a few of the things I’m grateful for since being here. We’ve probably all heard how it helps you to find little things to be grateful for even in the midst of hardship, but I can’t emphasize enough how much that is true. This morning I was out praying while walking the hallway (my power-walks have been rescheduled to evening since I’m now hooked up every morning at 3 am for extra hydration) and I was thinking about all these “little” things that I’m grateful for. First of all, I am so thankful that I’m being treated [at this hospital]. The nurses, doctors, and staff are amazing, both as medical experts and human beings. Yesterday, my doctor told me that my numbers are almost normal, which hasn’t happened in over a year. I’ve been able to feel fairly strong and eat well since being here, and though it won’t last forever, it’s a huge and unexpected blessing! Despite waking up multiple times a night, I’m getting 6-7 hours of sleep, which is unheard of for me during all of my last hospital stays. I got cute new covers for my [face] mask, one with butterflies and one with stars, which of course I have to switch out to match my outfit :). One of the psychiatrists did a progressive muscle relaxation session with me and my friend yesterday, which was very helpful and a great resource to use down the road for anxiety and nausea. The list goes on and on...

Baxter Kruger on "The Inner You Stink"

2011-02-27T23:09:00.000-08:00

From Baxter's Ongoing Thoughts...God in Our Image by Baxter Kruger, PhD. Theologian, professor, author...and fishing lure designer (just sayin').

The following "I am nots" were compiled from a list taken at a seminar in response to the question, "Have you ever heard the whisper 'I am not?'":

"I am not... welcome, not perfect, not good enough, not loved, not lovable, not understood, not deserving... not forgiven, not able, not tall enough, not pretty enough, not strong...not saved, not wanted, not special, not adequate...

Whether we are conscious of it or not, we all carry the burden of this whisper...

[But]...when we look at ourselves and face our ‘I am nots’ a wonderful thing happens. We experience the sheer acceptance of the Father, Son and Spirit. It’s almost funny. For we all know that the Lord knows us inside and out anyway, but we have a way of not thinking about his awareness of us, and our lives. But an honest look at ourselves makes us vulnerable to Papa’s love...what actually happens when we get honest is that we have nowhere to go. And when you have nowhere to go you become keenly aware of where you are—known, loved, accepted...You may even hear another whisper, this one laced with divine delight and humor, “Well, duh! And... You didn’t think we knew that?” We have been loved and accepted our whole lives, but not in our minds. And that is the problem."

I've decided that these whispers are basically emotional spit wads we hurl at our self-confidence. An inner civil war.

Kruger makes the point that, if They know us inside and out (and I love his emphasis on "They") then They already know what we are not! And They love us anyway! They accept these flaws and adore us in spite of them. What grace! What confidence there is that wholly unconditional love!

In the face of all my "I am nots"...I am still wholly loved by the great I AM.

(Hoping to have some guest words to share with you on Gratitude, but haven't been able to reach the author just yet...hopefully later this week!)

What's Not to Love? Spring Shoes

2011-02-24T19:44:00.000-08:00

Lucky Magazine just came out with the Spring Shoe Guide - here's my take on their top categories for Spring...

The Wedge
Need I say more?

M by Marinelli Rit Wedge Sandal, $59.95

Love the ruffle and the edgy platform with such a girly fabric.

Madden Girl Klenn Printed Wedge Sandal, $36.95

The Slingback
I love the pinky-silver color and kitten heel. So versatile!

Jessica Bennett Malone Pump, $49.95

The Espadrille
Meh? Not sure how I feel about a flat espadrille. I realize these were de rigeur circa 1980, very Miami Vice-chic, and a whole lotta you all are utterly devoted to Tom's, but...again. Meh?

Skechers Bobs Women's Earth Day Slip-On, $39.95

These are a little more my speed...

Boutique 9 'Malia' Espadrille, $54.90

The Pointy Toe
I'm thrilled to see the point-toe back on the runway. I say sayonara to the snub-nose toe. Give me roach-killers any day - they make my short legs look longer and are surprisingly easy to wear. Round toes be gone!

JONES NEW YORK Cecelius Floral Print Pump, $54.95

Unless, of course, it's a peep-toe, and then it's totally ok. Who doesn't love a peep-toe, and a purple one, at that?

Sergio Rossi Leather Peep Toe Pump, $199.95

Gratitude Monday: Signs of Life

2011-02-21T14:26:00.001-08:00

Cold. Rainy. Cold. Cold. Cold. Rainy. Cold.

That's the seven-day forecast. I needed some encouragement.

And my all-time-favorite... the weeds that are about to swallow my house...

This little blossom kept trying to steal my camera...and the show.

Lying by Omission

2011-02-20T20:39:00.000-08:00

Parenting books are quite helpful to the first-time parent. What to expect and when. Advice for identifying your child's temperament, soothing techniques, even dealing with over-helpful grandparents.

I think I went into this parenting thing pretty well informed.

I knew that, with children, I would be giving up a lot of rights and luxuries.

Sleep.

Money.

Free time.

I knew that being a parent would involve self-sacrifice. Of putting my needs below that of another. Always.

I think I even guessed that a hot meal would no longer be a given.

Dinners, so often (even now) involve Mommy Jackrabbit, hopping up and down fetching milk and napkins and an extra fork. And oh by the way, I wanted ketchup with that.

But like I said - I think I expected that. Goodness knows, I saw it in my own house growing up.

I expected a lot of things.

What I did not gamble on was that I would never again,

ever, ever, ever

have the dignity - nay, the luxury

of going to the bathroom alone.

Something to add to the parenting books? I think, yes. What to Expect When You're Expecting? Definitely.

You will never know the comfort of privacy ever again.

You will try, oh yes, you will try. You will bribe them with cartoons and snacks and make a run for the back of the house.

But they will find you. They ALWAYS find you.

Worth Repeating: Black Heels

2011-02-17T20:12:00.000-08:00

If for no other reason than to support a blogger who has gone from Oklahoma rancher's homeschooling wife to stratospheric celebrity, I had to buy Ree Drummond's book Black Heels to Tractor Wheels. City girl meets country boy, it is the story of her romance with "Marlboro Man." Ree spins a funny and romantic tale that I thoroughly enjoyed. From cow poop to wild fires, the same personal and funny style in which she maintains her wildly-popular blog makes this just as enjoyable to read.

"If Marlboro Man was wrong, I didn't want to be right.

Where would all of this lead? At times I asked myself and wondered. Despite having put my plans for Chicago on hold, despite my knowledge that trying to go one day without seeing Marlboro Man was futile, despite how desperately in love I know I was, I still at times thought this might just be a temporary glitch in my plans, a wild hair I needed to work out of my system before getting on with my life. Like I was at Romance Camp for a long, hot summer, playing the part of the cowgirl.

The time was drawing near, however, when Marlboro Man would take the bull by the horns and answer that question for me, once and for all."

The world is a lesser place today.

2011-02-16T21:39:00.000-08:00

But heaven...that's a different story.

Lyn Hamby left this world on Wednesday morning. She was surrounded by her family who gathered by her side to see her through.

Her passing has left behind a gaping hole...

Her son Michael, I think said it best: Lyn was loved by so many people because Lyn loved so many people.

Lyn just knew how to love. She loved with words and actions - she loved with her gracious hospitality and her exuberance and her infectious, oh, so infectious laughter.

We've been tied to the Hamby family by friendship for nearly 30 years. I married into those ties 13 years ago. Upon my first trip out to Maine, one of the most important items on the itinerary was driving to Connecticutt to meet (be inspected by) the Hambys. Lyn was so kind from the get-go (ok, they all were. I guess I passed muster). She was gracious and outgoing, her house was full of amazing antiques dating all the way back to Nathanael Hawthorne (their ancestor. I got to sit at his writing desk!).

She told me then that she was planning to buy a bed and breakfast in California.

Everybody says that. But she really did it.

Fifteen or so years ago she bought Fensalden Inn, on the Mendocino coast, and turned it into one of the finest, most gracious getaways on the Northern Californai shore.

She gave us a two night stay as a wedding gift. That first trip turned into annual treks and anniversary trips. We love the cypress and the seagulls. The waves amd the stillness and the calla lillies growing wild along the highway.

She hosted weddings, and murder mystery dinners. Every evening at sunset, her guests gather in the sitting room to watch the sun go down, and the goats at play on the lawn. Lyn would join us there, laughing and chatting, and suggesting all the best spots to go for dinner.

Her other son Chris and his wife Molli joined her there after a bit, and began to help run the place. They've had their own twist recently - after twenty-something years of marriage and a perfectly content family unit of two parents and two dogs, they discovered that they're expecting. This happy miracle caught everyone by surprise. Chris and Molli will stay on at Fensalden, raising Lyn's grandson there among the cypress and the seagulls.

As G said earlier this week..."Amazing how God works, in that as one generation comes to a close, another begins."

Yes, it is amazing.

If you are ever looking for a great place to truly get AWAY from the hustle and bustle, check out Fensalden Inn in Albion, CA and see Lyn's legacy for yourself. Mendocino wines, coastal breezes, fresh seafood and organic eateries...need I say more?

Red Writing Hood: Five Minutes

2011-02-14T20:21:00.000-08:00

This week, we want you to imagine that after you have died and your son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred.

Five minutes.

It’s all I have to give you. 300 seconds out of thousands of days, dozens of years, decades of memories – good ones and bad ones and plain old everyday ones.

Would I give you your birth? The moments when I gasped as they pulled you from my belly and first heard your lusty yell?

Or the day you learned to ride your bike – tall and proud and overjoyed at your new-found freedom and speed?

Or your wedding day - tall and proud and overjoyed as she walked down the aisle to meet you, and we watched as your eyes shone and dreams came true.

There are others – so many others – significant and immortal days. But we have pictures to tell you those stories. Photo albums and videos captured those moments forever.

I choose instead to give you this – one day in a thousand that was nothing special, nothing important. Nothing significant except that it was ours. Our family. One night.

Your hair is still damp from the bathtub. You hate the shower and begged for the tub, despite your long-legged gangly body not fitting in quite like it used to. I step carefully over LEGOs and forgotten origami, a sneaker and a few grubby socks. The jumble on the floor, what was once neatly arranged on shelves. You're a pile person, that much is already clear.

“I’m too hot for a shirt,” you tell me, but I know: it’s Yellow Blankie you really want wrapped around those sharp shoulders, like a faded, fuzzy cocoon. You curl your big feet under legs and fold into a ball, on your side, in the bed.

Eyelids droop. The smell of dinner still hangs in the air as I finish the last few pages of our book together. Done for the night, I mark the spot and close the book.

The light from the hallway falls across the edge of the quilt. Down the hall, your brother is still talking to himself, or to his toys. I’m not sure which. He’s not yet tired, but you are.

"Two songs?" It is our ritual. Two books, two songs, one prayer. You read yours first - something of Egypt or aphids or dinosaurs. And then I read mine - Peter and the Starcatchers, or Harry Potter, or Ivanhoe. Knights errant, soldiers valiant, cabbages and kings...it doesn't matter.

We lay for a moment side by side, heads on pillow, gazing out the window at the Japanese maple tree that stands outside. Since you moved to that big-boy room and that big-boy bed, I've told you her leaves are little hands, waving at you. At Christmas, white fairy lights hang from the eaves and cast a glow into your room. In the winter, stars shine through the leafless branches.

You ask if that is Ursa Major. I don't know, so I say "maybe."

I tuck the curtain back against the wall. Your brother starts to faintly sing "Twinkle twinkle little star" off key, to his teddy bear.

You are now in your nest, yellow blankie is with blue and red, and you surround yourself with them, their softness is your solace.

The rite ends with our secret farewell. A kiss on both cheeks. Double noggin. And two snaps.
Your arms hold tight around my neck for a moment longer than necessary. It hurts my back, but I don't complain.

"Goodnight, lovey."

"Goodnight, mom. I love you."

You roll to your side, facing the wall, and within seconds you’ll be gone. I'm tired and I look forward to the peace that waits in the other room. Grown-up TV, a glass of wine. I'm weary, but I try not to hurry. I know these moments are few, and precious.

I linger a moment and lean down to kiss you, breathing in for just a moment, satisfying some deep and perhaps primal urge to daily memorize of your scent. Shampoo and soap and 8 year old boy.

This is our moment – a night like so many other nights. It is not unique. It is not momentous. It is simply ours.

Gratitude Monday: Roll Over, I'm Crowded

2011-02-13T20:39:00.001-08:00

There were thirty in the bed
and the little one said
Roll over, I'm crowded!
So they all rolled over
And one fell out
Twenty-nine in the bed
and the little one said...

Roll over, I'm Crowded!

We spent Friday afternoon in Santa Cruz - what a gift! It was warmer over the hill, the sky was clear and perfect. We walked along the wharf, spending several minutes admiring the happy chaos of sealions on the lower levels of the pier.

Lots of barking and caterwauling. One would roll over on another, and they would squirm and twist until they found their comfy spot again. There was always one annoying wannabe who made the most noise. The others would lift their heads from time to time to shush him before going back to sleep.

This sweet pup was happily snoozing "nez a nez" with his mama in the late afternoon sun. At one point he ended up on the bottom of the pile, but mama howled and barked until the others wiggled out of the way.

There's something about the sea that restores. You breathe deeper, walk slower, stand taller in the ocean air.

I'm grateful for that Friday afternoon on the coast.

I Just Can't Help It

2011-02-09T21:30:00.000-08:00

Wise men say
Only fools rush in

What a week. The kids staged a coup both at home and at school. My three year old was sent to see the Elementary Principal. Yes, the Principal. Taking that phone call was really fun.

The other, well, he's having issues, too. Twice I was called by the school office in just one day.

Emotionally spent, I was numbly folding laundry tonight while one insurgent watched cartoons. The other was in the back of the house somewhere.

But I can't help
Falling in love with you

I went back with an armload of underwear and towels. They were on our bed, talking low.

Shall I stay?
Would it be a sin?

Man to man, they whispered. Speaking words like integrity.
Obedience.
Friendship.
Honor.

If I can't help
Falling in love with you

He's only 7 years old. Almost 8. But still - he got it. Wisdom was in the air and it was shared, bestowed from father to son in that brief moment; in this storm of an evening. A "patch of Godlight" right there in the master bedroom.

Take my hand
Take my whole life, too

I can't imagine facing these parenting mountains on my own.
It would be... insurmountable.
Thankfully, I don't have to.

For I can't help
Falling in love with you

Fourteen years ago I fell in love with a guy that wasn't anything like what I had imagined. Foolishly, I followed him across the country, and married him (much to my mother's dismay).

Thank God I did.
I just couldn't help it.
Still can't.
Every day, over and over again.

Guest Posting Today...

2011-02-08T23:54:00.000-08:00

Find me today over at (in)Courage...

Gratitude Monday: Antidote

2011-02-06T16:51:00.000-08:00

Bitterness.

Discontentment's best friend. Like a shadow, it creeps along behind, filling in the cracks. So subtle you never know it's even there until you are drowning in it.

Bitterness.

The unwelcome companion of sorrow and dissapointment. Of loss and waiting.

Bitterness.

Blinding, deceptive and selfish.

What then, is the antidote for such poison?

Personally, I think it might be gratitude.

Day in, day out, refocusing on the good. Even the little things.

I may not have everything I want, but I have everything I need.

Gratitude.

It unfetters the soul, unshields the eyes. What was hidden, revealed.

I may not have everything I want, but I have everything I need.

Gratitude.

Finding blessing in the midst of darkness. Suffering. Pain. Dissapointment. Still joy.

I may not have everything I want, but I have everything I need.

I've struggled long with discontent. At times, even bitterness. With expectations unfulfilled. It's not what I had planned. It's not what I expected.

Or simply, it's taking too long.

I may not have everything I want, but I have everything I need.

Over time, I find that the simple act of thankfulness, of gratitude, is the perfect contradiction for discontent.

Donna didn't ask for cancer. It's not what she had planned. Chemotherapy was not on the agenda for what she expected to accomplish in 2011.

Donna is in week 4 of the first round of her 12 week chemo infusions. How many rounds there will be, only time will tell. There is no road map, when it comes to cancer.

What God Hath Promised

Friday Favorites: Spring

2011-02-03T14:53:00.000-08:00

Don't hate me, but it's in the 70's here. This is why we pay these real estate prices, people! The weather is fantastic!

All summer long while the rest of the country was sweltering, we enjoyed the 70's and 80's. Now while everyone is hunkering down under feet of snow, we're pulling out the flip-flops and scheduling pedicures.

Me? I'm hitting the nursery tomorrow. Here's what's on our list:

Pink Japanese Dogwood
Cornus kousa 'Satomi'

Bountiful Blue® Blueberry
Vaccinium corymbosum

Black Tulip™ Magnolia
Magnolia x soulangiana 'Jurmag1'

Ice Cream

2011-02-01T18:50:00.000-08:00

My mother was a really good mom.

She made us wash our hands when we got home from school. We ate well-balanced meals, and, almost always, we ate them as a family at the dinner table.

She helped with our homework, sat with me while I practiced the piano, and one time, she made a papier-mache R2D2 costume for my brother using a garbage can as a mold and covered the entire thing with tin foil. It must have taken HOURS.

She made us do chores, within reason, but never called them that 'cause she didn't like the connotation. We kept our rooms clean, we brushed our teeth after meals, and when I couldn't fall asleep, she would sit on the edge of my bed, patting my back and singing to me, softly.

But, despite all that exceptional parenting, every once in a while she let me have an ice cream sundae for breakfast. Yes, breakfast. Chocolate sauce, peanuts, a cherry - the works.

I look back on this now and I'm kind of shocked. Would I ever let my kids have ice cream for breakfast, much less, a sundae?!

(I might add, on the morning after Thanksgiving, we always had pumpkin pie. But that's practically breakfast - eggs, milk, squash...)

You see, my mother was the queen of moderation. A little is a good thing. A little play, a little work, a little free time, and a little dessert. Sometimes, a little at very inappropriate times.

Did I grow up with unhealthy eating habits? Gosh, no. I remember far more the rituals that were good ones - the washing and the brushing and the dinner table and the balanced meals.

I had actually forgotten all about the breakfast sundaes when recently, they arose to the surface.

Last Friday, Scooby had finally met a reading goal that we had struggled wtih all month. It seemed like a good opportunity for a reward.

It wasn't breakfast, but rather, dinner.

Ice cream cones topped with gummy worms.

They loved every minute of it, and so did I.

Maybe mom's reason (excuse?) was the same as mine - just a chance to see her children's joy.

I wrote about a similiar experience a few years ago and am delighted to share that it was published by MOPS International last month. You can find the article online: "Random Acts of Niceness."

Do you have any random rituals that defy traditional parenting?

Gratitude Monday

2011-01-30T21:29:00.000-08:00

Friday night galas, party dresses and dancing (with the sexiest man I know).

Date night and dinner with friends (even if the movie was stupid).

Hot banana bread and cold Sunday afternoons.
Healthy dinners; movies on the couch; a boy on either arm.

Five pages filled in the space of an hour. Thoughts and ideas, coming to life.

Green grass where last year was only mud.

Daffodils who never remember it's still the middle of winter.
Six roses pruned, eight more to go.
Yard work and homework and yes, even laundry.

For all that we have been given, may we be truly thankful.
Amen.

What's Not to Love? Tangerine

2011-01-28T06:28:00.000-08:00

Ann Taylor Loft

Banana Republic

Even Target

This color is everywhere right now, and I'm in love. Bright and fresh, paired with navy and khaki and every shade of white. Crisp and so very spring. Happily, I walked into Marshall's last week and found a perfect tangerine blouse with petal detail down one shoulder. I'll wear it with dark-wash jeans and a khaki shrunken jacket. Love.

(click the photos above to see that store's collection)

A glimpse at yesterday...

2011-01-27T19:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my buddy Nichole, an exquisite writer who blogs at In These Small Moments, posted this yesterday, asking what we glimpsed in our own lives.

This was mine:

Wake up calls at 4:50am.
“Mom, is it morning yet?” No, oh no.
Crabby are we, the tired three.
Geography and pot roast, spelling bees over dinner.
A cuddle on the couch, wrestling boys on the floor.
The day over, flushed cheeks, tousled heads tucked into their nest.
I breathe in the soft spot on the back of their neck.
And it is good.

What's yours?

Facebooking the Enemy

2011-01-26T06:38:00.000-08:00

Just kidding. She's not my enemy.

But when I picked up and read the first pages of her book Cold Tangerines, I went cold and clammy all over. All I could think of was....Shauna Niequist went and published MY book!

I've often had my writing style compared to hers.

She even used the same John Lennon quote.

I was positively GREEN. Lime, olive, sage, puce, and army. With envy.

I didn't want to read another page. But I read the book anyway, and I was moved, and touched, and inspired. Like so many thousands of her readers have been. I even blogged about it.

I let go of my jealousy. Sort of.

Reading this hilarious post about one of my new writing inspirations/friends Kathi Lipp, brought Shauna back to mind.

So I've friended her on Facebook. Isn't that big of me?

Ironically, as I neared the end of Cold Tangerines (you don't read Shauna all at once. You read a bit and think about it for a while and ponder and muse and then read some more. She just writes like that.) I ran across this chapter in her book: Confession

She writes:

"On Monday night at housechurch, a very unfortunate thing happened. Before dinner, right at the beginning of the night, someone mention a friend of ours, and mentioned, offhandedly, casually, that this friend of ours is meeting with a publisher about writing a book. And then we talked about other things...While we talked, I was being absolutely consumed, eaten from the inside out with jealousy, like a million termites were eating out my bones and organs and I was about to turn to dust, hollow and dry. This was not a brief passing stab of jealously that slices for a moment and then fades back into all the other things you vaguely wish were different in the course of a day. this was jealousy like a house fire..."

So basically, this ISN'T just me. Maybe it happens to everyone - that point before you achieve your goals and the natural tendency to feel envy towards those who have.

What about you? Who wrote your book?

Gratitude Monday: Firsts

2011-01-24T08:16:00.000-08:00

First day over 70 of 2011.

First solo bike ride.

It was a good day.

Life List - 2011 Version

2011-01-21T06:22:00.000-08:00

I was astonished to find that I've actually DONE a few things on this list in the past year - we shot the family portrait (and survived). We finished the backyard (and it's gorgeous). We even have baseboards!

A new year is always a great opportunity to see what you're waiting for, and frankly, whether it's worth it. I've crossed a few things off the list that just aren't as important to me any more. One year later and I know it's not a novel I wish to write, but a book. Non-fiction - that's me.

I no longer aspire to run a 10k - the hip has taken care of that. Owning a boutique has lost it's lure. I really just want to write, and be read, and tuck a happy childhood into their pockets as they head towards the rest of their lives. It's as simple as that.

What a year tells me is that - the list makes a difference. Writing down the goals, seeing them in black and white, makes a difference. What's your list?

Complete a non-fiction book.
Publish. Something. Anything.
Get Gabe to Europe.
Be a redhead.
Cross the Panama Canal.
Own a convertible (again)
Paris in the Spring.
Ogle glaciers in Alaska (twice!)
Get a professional family portrait taken.
Learn to ballroom dance.
Finish a craft project. Just one. Any one.
Finish the backyard remodel.
Have baseboards.
Take the boys to Hawaii
Use my china at least once a month.
Light candles. Often.
Ride (horseback) in Hyde Park.
Paint something worth hanging on a wall.
Finish Penny before the cows come home.
Always make piecrust from scratch.
Create a backyard you want to take pictures of.
Remodel the kitchen into something open and gorgeous.
Enlarge the master bedroom into something open and gorgeous.
Kiss the Blarney Stone (it didn’t help.)
Wear more dresses like Dianne.
Search for seashells in the Bahamas.
Ski Breckenridge (again, with Gabe).
Make weekend family hikes a tradition.
Learn to use Twitter.
Blog daily.
Teach the boys to ski.
Visit the Musee D'Orsay
Lounge on a beach in Provence.
Drink chianti in a sidewalk cafe in Italy.
Amalfi.
Sip a vouvray on a balcony overlooking le vallee de la Loire.
Stand in the shadow of the Parthenon.
Memorize more scripture.
Worry less.
Laugh so hard my stomach hurts. More often.
Wake up to the sound of waves crashing under my window.
Take Scoob to Africa when he turns 12 and show him just how priveleged he really is.
Do the same for Scrappy.
Read the Bible, daily.
Read the whole thing in one year.
Bake cakes the old-fashioned way (from scratch!). Often.
Learn to use WordPress.
Become reknowned for my (insert name of one or two homemade somethingorothers)
Play with the boys. Often. Just play.
Turn off the TV and MAKE them go outside.

Beginning...

2011-01-18T21:44:00.000-08:00

Raise your hand if you have wedding china.

Now, raise your hand if you use your wedding china more than twice a year.

How about that special necklace, or dress, or jacket, or shoes that are waiting for the "right" occasion?

What do you have tucked away, out of sight, that is simply waiting for the right time?

I haven't been able to find it, but I recall Erma Bombeck telling a story of her mother (I believe) who had a beautiful silk slip that she was saving for a special occasion. Yet for years, there was no occasion special enough and she died, having never worn it.

What are you saving, and waiting for?

And why do we wait?

I think singleness has to be one of the most challenging states of being. So much of our society and culture revolves around couples, pairs, togetherness.

What about those among us who are doing this alone? For whatever reason, they didn’t find their perfect match - or perfect didn't turn out to be so perfect. They are waiting, or they are living. I’m pretty sure, if it were me, which one I’d be.

I have so much respect for my single friends, especially the women – I think it really is harder for them – who are living single whether by choice or by chance. So many have chosen to stop waiting and live. To buy the house, buy the not-sensible car, get the dog, adopt the child, or pursue a career that brings them joy. I even have one delightful friend who buys herself diamonds on occasion. Good girl!

I have struggled - always - with how to stop thinking about what’s ahead.

More often than not, now, I’m not looking forward to it - I’m worrying about it. The “what if’s” of my future crowd noisily into every peaceful thought I have. Maybe that’s the big change for me – the future doesn’t look so bright anymore. My deteriorating eyesight, the prospect of parenting two spirited teenage boys, AGING and wrinkles, and throughout all of that, the spectre of Hungtinton’s still remains. But it’s basically the same problem – the obsession for the future overtaking the present.

I have a ring my husband gave me for Valentine's Day a few years back. It's vintage, and made of garnets. I love garnets, oh so much more so than rubies. It's set with dozens of stones and I'm always a bit fearful that one will fall out and get lost...but yet...I wear it anyway. I wear it often.

I want to live my entire life that way - not just with one ring. I don't want to live in the when. I want to live in the now.

The china may get chipped, the jewelry might get lost, the perfect partner may never come, and illness and pain - they still will happen. But at least you will have LIVED.

What are you waiting for? And why?

Gratitude Monday

2011-01-16T15:31:00.000-08:00

New beginnings, be they in the form of births and babies, or stepping out into the great unknown.

Friendship, the kind that threads all the way back to where you began and the kind that helps you get where you want to go.

Sunshine, and warm balmy days in the dead of winter.

Camellias and calla lilies, because they are the only thing blooming in my frost-devastated yard.

Cutting back, but for good reasons. I'm going to cut back my blog posts to 3 times a week rather than 5+. I have something I'm working on - it deserves that extra time. I hope you'll stick around in spite of that.

Readers. To write and be read, that is my bliss. Thank you for being here, thank you for commenting, and thank you for the times that you've told other people. I am grateful for YOU!

Friday Favorites: New Mom's Survival Kit

2011-01-13T21:59:00.000-08:00

A few years ago I put together a survival kit for a friend about to have her first baby. It's my personal take on those must-haves for a first-time mom. Deed suggested that I blog it, so here ya go.

1. Soothies Gel Pads I list these first for a reason. These are the bomb. Seriously - there was no greater pain for me than my first child's bad latch. It hurt worse than my c-section, only about 12 times a day. These made life livable; I wore them every moment I wasn't nursing. Expensive, yes, and they last about a week. But well worth it. Really. Just try them. You'll see.

2. Nursing tank tops. Way more comfy and flattering than any nursing bra I tried - and a great value for the price. They are great alone, or as a layering piece.

3. Newborn gowns. This is kind of like a pillowcase, but for babies…they stay all wadded up at one end and you have to root around in there just to find their feet.

Newborns poop constantly and you can easily change diapers five or six times in one night. Who wants to snap on and snap off those durn little onesies at 2am (or 3am, or 3.30am, or 4am)?

4. Fenugreek tea. Yes, it makes you smell like maple syrup, but it's great to increase your milk supply. Available at health food stores.

And here's a few nice things just to throw in so the new mom has them on hand.

5. Individually wrapped sanitary napkins. They give you these enormous ones at the hospital, but I found normal (or as my friend Heather put it: civilized) Kotex worked just fine. Keep one in your purse at all times!

6. A good tube of lip balm and some hand cream. You are perpetually thirsty when breastfeeding and lips get chapped!

7. Toe and finger nail scissors. (From Heather again: "Let's face it, you know she probably won't have time for a mani-pedi for a while.")

8. A split of champagne and a flute. Just cuz.

9. Smelly stuff. Someone gave me a gift set of Bath and Body Works Relaxation Aromatherapy Eucaplyus Spearmint and I've been addicated ever since.

10. CD of nursery music. No singing, no vocals, just quiet lullabies or classical music Baby Mozart is always good.

11. A jar of Aquaphor. This is the do-it-all miracle baby product! Babies chap easily. Chapped lips from nursing, chapped cheeks from blankie-nuzzling, chapped butts from diaper rash. It works wonders for eczema (also super common in babies) and a million other uses. A little goes a long way - one jar will last you about five years...

There's my list - what's on yours?

What's Your Happy?

2011-01-11T20:08:00.000-08:00

Happiness comes in many forms.

And let's just be clear - I'm not talking about Joy - not this time. Joy is that thing you get when you decide to - to be joyful in suffering. Joyful in hope. Joyful in Jesus.

I'm just talking about happy. Happy smiley sunny grin. Warm fuzzies and soft cats. Slippers on a cold night, boys in blankies, hugs from my hubby, flowers in the windowsill, warm days in winter, and roses. Peanut butter and honey, hot coffee, warm cookies.

Just happy.

Happiness came today, in a big flat envelope. Right there on my front porch, smiling away at me, with it's own little halo of happy. The handwriting, from Patty, was happy.

I knew precisely what was inside.

12 whole pages of "I love you" to hang on a nail in my kitchen.

For the last seven years, I've had a calendar of happy hanging on my wall. Brought to me by my dear friend Patty B. Even though she abandoned me (left the area) about five years ago, she still sends my calendar each and every year. For a week or so in early January, that space of wall is blank. And cold. And lonely.

You see, it's not just that Patty makes me happy (because she does, oh, but she does!) it's that Mary Engelbreit IS JUST PLAIN HAPPY. And hilarious, I might add.

I don't know what I would do without that Mary E. on my kitchen wall. Her monthly illustrations are charming, and often, laugh out loud funny.

What's not to love?

What's your happy? The small and the simple that brings a smile to your face and warmth to your heart?

Food: Remembering Mom

2011-01-10T19:28:00.000-08:00

I pulled out Mom's recipe box recently. I realized that I hadn't been in there in possibly decades. It's been tucked inside my china cabinet for years, filled with recipes calling for funny, out-moded ingredients like pimiento and bouillon cubes. In one, she specified that the canned tomatoes be chopped - for of course, they didn't come that way back then. Another calls for "dairy" sour cream (what other kind is there??)

Many of the recipes are splattered from use, criss-crossed with her beautiful handwriting. Just handling the cards makes me feel less like she is really gone.

Some recipes I remember, others I don't. I find it fascinating how many recipes are of a latin flair, when for so many years, we lived in the Blue Ridge mountains. A place where tortillas only came in a can and salsa came in one style and one style only - bland!

I imagine that, in those New York winters and the Virginia ice storms, it made her feel closer to her Southern California roots.

This is one she made for company dinners. I'm pretty sure at the time it was nouveau and edgy and sophisticated. She was the consummate hostess - and she loved to throw a party.

Gratitude Monday

2011-01-09T18:25:00.000-08:00

Today is for Donna.

Beautiful, selfless Donna who has given so many hours, days, and weeks of her life in service to others.

Today, for Donna, a new journey begins. Actually, more like a battle.

I'm so grateful for Donna. I'm so grateful for the people that are rising up to surround her and her family. To provide strength when her own strength fails, courage when she's afraid, food for her family, rides to the hospital and all the myriad of other tasks that will be required in the hours, days and weeks ahead.

Donna begins her battle against breast cancer today.

If you are so inclined, please take a moment to pray for her full and complete healing, wisdom and discernment for her doctors, courage for her children and husband, and that we, her friends, might best know how to help her in the year ahead.

Worth Repeating: The Me Project

2011-01-09T16:09:00.000-08:00

There are a few rare moments in a lifetime when you can point to a specific instant and say: There. That was when my life changed direction. Right there.

It happened one Sunday morning in August, 1996 when a Maine Yankee sat behind me at church.

It happened the day my brother called and told me mom had had a heart attack. I can never walk into The Gap anymore without remembering the moment when I took that call.

It happened when I stood in front of The Execution of Lady Jane Gray in the National Gallery of Art, London and I cried, it was so heartbreaking and so beautiful. I changed my major as soon as I got back to the states.

It happened when the little white stick had a plus sign on it. (Well, both times.)

It happened the day I started this blog, just a little over a year ago.

It happened when I read the first page of this book.

Kathi Lipp spoke before my mothers group this weekend, and while her topic was an earlier, and just as delightful, publication, this is the one I was interested in. This is the book she's been nurturing, cultivating, and longing to see in print for a decade. This is her baby.

It's not even officially out yet, but I was privileged enough to get an early copy. I sat down to read and didn't stop all afternoon. I picked it up again at bedtime and kept going until I fell asleep and dropped it on my face.

If you've ever longed to accomplish something that seems enormous and impossible - this book is for you.

If you've looked at yourself in the mirror every morning and thought: I could be someone different, but I don't know how to get there - this book is for you.

If you've ever dreamed of being, doing, trying something new, something different, yet you feel as if the daily mundane were shackling you to your current state - this book is for you.

Life happens - that's one of the underlying themes of this blog. Life happens while you're making other plans (thank you John Lennon). This book is for those of us (all of us) living real lives - the first line says it all: Is it possible to have a real life and pursue a dream at the same time?

Yes.

This book is about that one step, that one shift, that one tipping point that changes everything.

Preorder a copy of The Me Project, and check out her other amazing publications over on Kathi's website.

What's Not to Love? Going Out

2011-01-04T20:55:00.000-08:00

We've a little soiree coming up - a rare occasion to get gussied up and go dancing. I'm looking for a LBD that will scream "I am not a 37 year old mother of two children!"

Here's a few options - what do you think?

Banana Republic, Monogram draped one-shoulder dress, $175
I've always been a sucker for the grecian vibe.

Silk v-neck drape dress, $129
Love the color. Love that it's silk.

Aidan Mattox 'Cold Shoulder' Sequin Dress, $295
OMGosh. I love this. I so love this. Maybe I can find it at TJ Maxx...(ha!)

Tadashi Shoji Woven Bodice Silk Chiffon Dress, $398
Breakfast at Lincoln Center, anyone?

Ok, and on a side note - did you know that J.Crew now does Bridal? I'm not sure if that's weird or really, really cool.

What do Apple Pies and Aliens Have in Common?

2011-01-03T20:02:00.000-08:00

There was a pie...incident...over the holidays.

I love homemade pie crust. I can make it, too, but not without a lot of tension and everybodygetoutofthekitchen kindof stress.

I have to concentrate.

After not just one, but two pies, I was cleaning up the counter when I realized that the gorgeous, perfectly crusted apple pie behind me on the counter was...missing the final ingredient.

The butter. The two tablespoons of butter that you daub on top of the apples, UNDER the crust, that makes the filling just that much more fabublous.

I forgot the butter. It hit me, and I will admit to you, I lost it. All that work, and I was left with a sub-par pie. Oh no. The horror of it all. My pie was not perfect.

I started putting on an extraordinary display of what NOT to do under extreme durress and dissapointment. Horrific, really. Dreadful. (I ended up on my knees apologizing to everyone later.)

But G, he didn't get mad. He didn't scold. He gently tip-toed in, and asked quietly (so as not to enrage the freakish monster, further) what the problem was.

I told him, and to his credit, he did not laugh.

I kept scrubbing flour off the counter as he went to work behind me.

Soon enough, he proudly asked me to turn around. There was my beautiful pie, with a few extra seams, but very hardly marred. He slit the top crust along the vents I had already cut, folding each little wedge back and dropping in the missing daubs of butter.

He folded them all back in to pace and you would almost never know that anything had ever happened.

I was shocked (and pleased). My precious pie was saved.

How did you do it? Where did you get the idea?

Aliens! He replied cheerfully.

From the movie Aliens!

We'll just leave the rest up to your imagination.

Shift

2011-01-02T18:25:00.000-08:00

Several days ago, before the New Year, I was invited over for an impromptu midday fete. Just one more reason to celebrate before the holidays officially wrapped up on New Year's Eve.

The day was sunny. The sky was blue. The mood was...festive.

Turns out, the reason for the gathering was not, after all, just one more reason to celebrate.

It was an opportunity for a very dear friend to gather her very dear friends together in the same room and, face, to face, beg for our prayers and support in the coming year.

Breast cancer.

The next hour is a blur. We cried together, we prayed together. The moments that followed were sacred and terrible. Just women, gathered, weeping, our arms wrapped around one another and tissues fluttering to the floor with our tears.

As I left her house, I stood on the steps and I felt the ground move. A shift in the very fabric over the earth. I looked at the sky and found it to be a different color.

I had to stop by the grocery store on the way home. There, amidst the milk and the eggs and the Panko crumbs were words like

Chemo.

Radiation.

Mastectomy.

She told us that chemotherapy requires you to die in order to live. For those of my acquaintance who have suffered so, the saying is quite true. A living death, with a silken thread of promise.

Just a thread. No more.

It is hard to return to the daily mundane and not feel the shift in the atmosphere. The world has changed, the ground has moved. I do not know what the coming year holds for her, for her children and her husband.

I do know one thing for certain - this is what it means to be held. Even when the answer is "no" we are held, we are held.

Natalie Grant
To Be Held

I decided to try something new and link up with Shell this week:

A Little Flashback...

2011-01-02T15:45:00.000-08:00

I'm honored today by being featured among the amazing writers over at The Red Dress Club. They asked me to choose my favorite of my Red Writing Hood posts - a hard decision. (Well, not really since I think a lot of them were ridiculaous efforts. I'm not a fiction writer.) But there were a couple I really felt good about. The one I chose to feature was my own interpretation on an actual event in my family's history - perhaps why it came easier. I was writing from the viewpoint of people I know and love. Or rather, knew.

Anyway, stop by and see some of the other writers who were also featured this week.

Happy New Year, friends! I'll be back in the wagon tomorrow with boys, shoes, and all sorts of random thoughts. You'll especially like reading about what aliens and pies have in common...

Redefining Defiance

2010-12-28T21:39:00.000-08:00

I really thought things would be better by now. At three and a half, he's more linebacker than preschooler.

We watched from the sidelines - too late - while he ran, head-down-full-tackle on his seven year old brother, folding him neatly in half and clean off his feet.

At night, I creep in and kiss him, breathing in the innocence still underneath his brash, independent exterior. He turns the lamp on in protest after I've left the room; one foot still shod in Lighting McQueen slipper.

I wonder what he'll been like at 14. At 40. This independence will do well for him, one day. For now, I'm nearly dead - the strain of calm voice/cool head is exhausting. Too often I fail.

This tiny tyrant has more chutzpah, more gall, more bravado in his pinky finger than I ever had. Or so it feels. (My father tells me otherwise. I don't believe him.)

What will you become, you enormous little man? Like it or not, you're my baby and always will be. My Boo Boo, my final son.

When you're hurt, you cry for me and no one else. When you're scared, your arms wrap twice around Daddy's neck. When you're happy - those dimples, so deadly.

Even when you're angry - cheeks flushed, eyes bright. As you scream I can't help but think you're beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.

May God grant me the ability to be your compass, your guide - pointing you ever in the right direction. Bending, not breaking that extraordinary will. Pruning and modeling and failing, even, so that you may know how to heal, how to grow.

For now, just sleep my wee son. Sleep.

The world's not ready for you yet.

Gratitude Monday: Happy Christmas

2010-12-27T18:17:00.000-08:00

Blonde hair, brown head, blue eyes green and blue eyes blue. Matching PJs, matching robes, a pair of stockings and joy pours out.

Happy memories; a few of them sad. Candlelight and pie. Fuzzy slippers, mulled wine, and "no-I-do-it-myself!"

Homemade custard, lights on the tree, walks in the dark, and rain. Tiptoes in the hallway, Santa creeps in, traditions continue, and joy pours out.

Friends by the fireplace, food in abundance, gift-wrapping on the carpet at midnight. Hot cocoa from scratch, marshmallows to the brim. Falling on the sofa with a sigh, asleep they are at last.

A church filled with light, candles held high, people we love in the glow,
God With Us, and joy pours out.

Worth Repeating: The King's Speech

2010-12-27T13:13:00.000-08:00

I have never reviewed a movie on this blog. I'm a bluestocking, you see, and films are really just recreational brain candy. I love them, but it's rare to find a film that moves me the way literature can.

That is, until we saw this last night. Truly, one of the best films I've ever seen. Easily Best Picture, Best Actor...by a landslide.

Colin Firth (whom we love already, ever since he jumped in a lake), as King George VI is simply outstanding. Brillant. Helen Bonham Carter, as his wife Elizabeth - splendid.

It is the true story of Britain's King George VI, or Bertie as he was known to his family. A story, despite my mother's delight and fascination with all things Anglo, I had never heard.

I could go on and on. Go see this.

P.S. It seems that it is now a requirement for all British actors, as rite of passage perhaps, to have appeared in at least one Harry Potter film.

Do More, Spend Less

2010-12-23T19:43:00.000-08:00

It's all just so commercial - buy more, buy more! If it isn't new, it isn't in style (I quote thee, Macy's. Shame on you!) Happiness in a bottle.

The slogans are appalling. The results are saddening.

The last two years our church has participated in the Advent Conspiracy - a simple concept really - it's all about taking Christmas back. Worship fully. Spend less. Give more. Love all.

I've tried to look at what we give and how - do they really need it? Will they use it? What would be more meaningful?

Here are some of the ways we've tried to shift the needle back towards a season of giving instead of a season of getting:

Scrappy attends preschool. While he is in a class with two primary teachers, on any given day he is cared for by up to 10 or 12 wonderful people - it would be impossible to recognize them all. This year, as a group of moms, we brought/made breakfast for the entire preschool staff. We each only spent about what we would have on cheap tchachkes, but (I hope) the end result showed more effort and more appreciation. Rather than just honoring a few of these great women, we tried to honor all 26, from the floating subs to the kitchen staff.

Santa only brings one thing per kid. Just one - a good one, but one. We don't encourage list-writing, just a visit to Santa or a message sent via elf will do.

I try to make or bake whenever possible. This year it was pumpkin gingerbread, and sugar cookies that the boys helped me to make, that we handed out to the families on our street.

For family, it's photos. We finally did the big photo shoot in August, which well-supplied parents, siblings, and in-laws this Christmas.

I bought the obligatory Starbucks card for Scooby's teacher, but rather than throw in (yet another) mug or trinket, I bought her a big stack of books she could add to her classroom library.

For my dearest friends, the ones that I must recognize (because really, I do love to shop)I give ornaments. I pick them out each year, often spending hours to find just the right ones. A glass slipper for Danielle, pink booties for D & B. For Patty, something quirky, different, unusual. This year it was a candy cane, with feet.

The trend is catching, too. I have so many memories hanging on our trees! The Wedgwood from Heather. The gingerbread colony from Patty. My mother's nativity.

My gal pals don't need more stuff from me, they just need to know I love them. And these little tokens proffer that sentiment every year when they are pulled out of storage.

A box came today from one of my favorite, most beloved-est people in the world. So many pieces of her around my house, so many blessed memories. She's not family, but she might as well be. (I don't save all my gifts till Christmas. If it ain't under the tree, it's fair game. If it arrives in the mail, I have at it.) I loved adding a few more little bits of joy to my household tableaux.

See my little entryway greeters, and the new little man who (as I noticed when I went to snap the photo) is about to have his head blown off by a Transformer.

Time Out

2010-12-22T09:09:00.000-08:00

My body has, officially, declared a "time out." I spent yesterday in bed.

After weeks, WEEKS of overcast and rain, we saw blue sky last evening and the kids were shocked. "The clouds are cracking!"

And with that bit of dusky twilight, the moon, round and full.

We're good friends, the moon and I, but we hadn't seen each other in a while.

What blessed quiet and stillness the night provides.

Breath of Heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of Heaven

Breath of Heaven
Lighten my darkness
Pour over me, your holyness
For your holy Breath of Heaven

Breath of Heaven, Amy Grant

Gratitude Monday

2010-12-20T10:26:00.000-08:00

Can one post really contain it all?

No one got sick. All four performances were splendid. The breakfast and the shower went off without (much of) a hitch (except the poor mom we were showering got the flu the night before. But we Skype’d her and she got to be there anyway!)

My pumpkin gingerbread was pretty AND it tasted pretty good, hurrah!

For my husband who was by my side cracking all 40 eggs and grating pounds of cheese.

For the youngest star of the show, who thought on his feet (and only panicked a little) when she missed his cue, and pulled off a great performance as the North Star.

For the rain, because it’s needed, and for the snow, which we’ll be enjoying next month.

For Scrappy asleep with the lamp on, red-snowman-pajamaed bum-in-the-air and green plaid socks, and the buzz-saw of snores that issued from the other end.

For the myriad of friends we are so blessed with.

For the recognition of my peers - stay tuned, as I've been invited to feature my favorite Red Writing Hood post on The Red Dress Blog, a snazzy, smart group of women-writers whom I am honored to know.

For family. For my big brother, who arrived yesterday, and his dear wife whom I love, and dumb jokes and inside jokes and cousins who keep each other busy.

Seventh Inning Stretch

2010-12-17T09:12:00.000-08:00

Two performances down, two to go. Today, in comparison to the others, is an easy day. TGIF!

In the next 48 hours we have two rehearsals, three parties, two performances and we're done.

So far, so good, all are healthy, praise the Lord!

Still breathing...

Red Writing Hood: Christmas

2010-12-16T21:34:00.000-08:00

They were newlyweds, and money was tight.

He’d been at sea for two months. The autumn had been cold, colder than normal. But everything was cold, to her. Even the glass doorknobs she loved so much when they bought the house were unfriendly now, holding in the cold and chilling the palms.

It was their first Christmas tree, just the two of them. She couldn’t run down to Heironimus like the other ladies on the street, to buy ornaments and strings of bubble lights. He was just an enlisted man. She was crafty, though, and went to the 5 and dime instead, buying boxes of globes, plain green and cream, wrapped in glossy floss.

She sat up late for three nights, pinning pearls and bits of rick rack; each now more beautiful and intricate than anything she could have bought.

Gone were the haphazard trees of her childhood, with sloppy handfuls of tinsel clumped on the branches that her brothers just snatched from the bag and threw. Gone were the jumble of old-fashioned ornaments from the 30s and 40s that her mother had kept all those years.

The night before his ship was due in, she hung the last of her handiwork and stood back. It was a small tree, but with the string of white fairy lights and those cream and gold and avocado green ornaments, it looked like something from the Ladies Home Journal.

It was just right for their first Christmas tree, just the two of them.

Snow lay heavy around the front door and she pulled on his boots over three pairs of socks. Never did she imagine herself shoveling snow, certainly not all those summers she lay on the beach with Marilyn in the hot Southern California sun, burning her skin to a deep bronze.

Never did she imagine living in New England, either. But she loved it. She loved the Currier and Ives feeling of winter, and the way the neighbors Christmas lights glowed through the icicles hanging off the eaves. She even loved living alone during the long weeks he was away at sea.

It was lonely, of course, at times. But she was making friends. There were other Navy wives in the neighborhood and they would stop by for coffee in the late afternoons. They would talk about starting families and recipes and what they missed most about their hometowns. Only she didn’t miss much about hers. Her new life, that was where she wanted to be.

Independent.

When she did get lonely, she pulled out the undershirt she made him leave behind, smelling of aftershave and him. She’d cuddle it at night and dream of when he would be home, of how she would meet him at the dock, and what she would wear. She had cut her hair right after they were married, but she could still pin it into a chignon. It made her feel grown up, wearing it back like that. Older than just 18.

Her new coat made her feel like Jackie Kennedy.

He would be standing at the railing with all the other boys, waving and watching as the port came into view. He usually saw her before she saw him. From a distance, the sailors all looked the same lined up at the rail. Blue collars and white rolled hats…by the time she caught his eye he was already smiling down at her.

This post is in response to a prompt from The Red Writing Hood.

If you haven't yet, you should

2010-12-15T13:11:00.001-08:00

Send your child (or anyone, for that matter) a personalized (a really, really personalized) message from Santa - this is brillant. It takes a few minutes to enter all the information, but the end result is priceless.

Portable North Pole TV

Breathe...

2010-12-15T09:48:00.001-08:00

That's what I'm doing today...breathing.

One performance down (see above), three to go.

One breakfast extravaganza down, one to go.

One load of cookies delivered to well-deserved caregivers, one to go.

One package full of love in the mail, many more to go.

I'm rolling with it. It's all good. And if it doesn't work out the way I have in my head, well, that's going to be ok, too. Right?

Right?

How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Christmas?

2010-12-13T20:52:00.000-08:00

I've clearly been reading too much Jane Yolen...

Is there anything better than an afternoon nap?
The kind where you linger, a purring cat on your lap?

Just laying there snug and watching leaves fall
While little-boy footsteps pad down the hall.

The clouds in the sky, so dark and so gloom
But the flicker of Christmas trees warm up the room

Homemade hot cocoa with lots of marshmallows
Bring a toasty aroma as you curl up in the pillows.

Is there anything better than boys in pajamas?
With a blankie or two, on the knees of their mamas?

To watch as a family while George Bailey sings
with sweet Donna Reed, and Clarence gets wings

Stirring and mixing and rolling with boys
Baking cookies of angels, and star-shapes, and toys

What a great time of year to stop and go slow
Lest this time blow by quickly, like a mid-winter snow

Joy to your family, and merry Christmas, each one
May God bless you and guide you, and bring a year full of fun!

Gratitude Monday

2010-12-12T20:15:00.000-08:00

Family walks in the dark, moseying the neighborhood just to see who's who and what's what (in terms of Christmas lights, that is).

A trip to the grocery store, all four of us, that did not result in anyone crying (especially me).

Cookie dough on my keyboard, in my hair, all over my kitchen and the faces of two little boys, which begat two heaping plates of snowmen, sleighs, angels and...feet.

Laying in bed with Scooby, whispering prayers and goodnights, gazing out the window at the magic of icicle lights hanging down from the eaves.

Standing Scrappy in his window sill just to say "night night" to the lights up and down our street.

California autumn - we're just a little later than the rest of you. There are maples on my street that would rival our front yard in Gorham. And our apple out back, such a nice climbing tree, has put on quite a golden show.

I'm writing from the brink of mayhem tonight - tomorrow begins six days of madness. Nine events: three performances, two brunches to bake for, two parties to attend, two gatherings to host. And, five days of school, homework, work and all the regular stuff we do...

I'm praying for good health and fair weather. Just get us through next Sunday morning and we'll be fine. I can sleep after that...

P.S. Editor's note: "guns" is slang for a guy's arms. Just in case you were wondering...I wasn't being lewd, just honest! They were...

p.p.s. On our way to church this morning, Scrappy, on the lawn, shouting at the top of his lungs:

"hello? helllloooo?" pause.

"God?" (still shouting)

"Are you dere?"

"Hey God, are you in heaven?" (still shouting)

"Helllooooooooo?"

Yet another great Christmas anthem...

2010-12-09T23:38:00.000-08:00

Red Writing Hood: Flywheel

2010-12-09T19:56:00.000-08:00

He’s not at all what I expected.

There were others before, of course. I seemed to have a thing for redheads. Auburn and freckles – maybe it was so boy-next-door, clean cut, and cute.

I never loved any of them. Not really. I loved the idea of them, and I loved being loved (if that truly is what they were feeling, though really, I doubt it).

But him – he was different.

Too old for me, too worldly.

Yet still, there was something I couldn't put my finger on.

He talked funny, his accent both clipped and drawled. Traveling on business seemed so grown-up, so sophisticated. I was barely out of college, barely even part of the professional working class. Tall, and incredibly broad, he took up more space in the room than most guys. Not a redhead, but with a chin that one might find elsewhere in marble.

I never could abide a weak chin. Or, for that matter, slim arms, on a man. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, that first day (if we’re being honest, I couldn’t take my eyes of his guns. They were real, and they were spectacular. Still are.)

When he asked me out, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I still thought him too old for me. Too worldly.

I planned out our conversations in my head, what I would say to the inevitable queries, and “getting to know you.” What kind of music do you like? Classic rock, and a little bit of country, I would reply.

He was reserved as we drove to the restaurant in Palo Alto. Still learning his way around the area, I gave directions. The car was quiet. Trying to fill the silence I asked: “What kind of music do you like to listen to? I could program your radio buttons for you.”

Classic rock, and a little bit of country, he replied. And I shivered.

Dinner was pleasant. Still reserved, he looked shocked when I laughed out loud to his question of the server: What is tofu?

If you have to ask, you probably won’t like it.

He ate all of his meal, and most of mine. I remember feeling surprised that I was having such a good time. By this point, on previous dates, I was trying to figure out how not to go out with them again.

This time was different. He was different.

I still thought him too old for me. Too worldly.

Maybe just while he’s in town. We’ll hang out, have fun. This relationship could never go anywhere.

Subsequent dates, I planned to tell him just that: this relationship could never go anywhere. We’ll hang out while you’re in town, have some fun.

I never meant to fall in love with him.

Subsequent dates I planned to let him down easy.

Somehow, I always forgot to have that conversation. Eventually, I just gave up, or gave in.

I was lost – he was still too old for me (according to my mother) but I didn’t care anymore. So he listened to Pink Floyd and Meatloaf and I still loved Duran Duran and Erasure. Who cares?

He wasn’t at all what I expected. He couldn’t have been more different.

I liked fine art, and classical music, and California wine.

He liked scotch and could watch golf on TV for hours.

I was afraid of my mother, of her dementia. He stopped being afraid of his stepfathers a long time ago. He gave me a spine when I had none. He loved me unconditionally despite seeing, first hand, what I might one day turn out to be like.

And all that reserve? A total front. He is silly, and funny, and he made me laugh out loud.

He still does.

We couldn’t be more different. We speak different languages at times – lots of times – but we’ve learned to translate better now. We’re both volatile, in our own way, but for different reasons. He has helped me learn to control my temper (I don’t throw shoes anymore) and I’ve discovered he has a big soft spot for musical theater.

Where I am weak, he is strong. Where he falters, I can offer a shoulder. When I'm afraid, he usually isn't. When he's discouraged, I pull out my pom-poms. Good and bad, weak and strong, tall and short, loud and soft. East Coast and Left Coast, city and country. Happy and sad, funny and mad.

He brings me into balance; he's my flywheel.

All that is to say, my first love? Well, he’s my only love.
First and last and only.

War Criminals, Terrorists and Cheap Torture

2010-12-08T21:41:00.000-08:00

It was raining, and hard. We sat in the truck, me in the front, he in the back.

Still screaming. He in his car seat, me in my head.

It had been going on since we left the house. He wanted something. I insisted he ask nicely for it. He wouldn’t ask, so I didn’t give.

And here we sit.

Big brother, shocked by the outrage spewing from the right hand seat, sat quietly on the ride to school. I reached back and took his hand, squeezing. It’s ok – we have to ignore him. You used to do this to, you know.

I did?

Oh yes. Do you ever get what you want by screaming?

Nooooo.

At stoplights, the car shook with his brother’s rage. I leaned back and pulled off the sneakers, trying to mitigate the damage to the back of the driver’s seat and armrest.

He threw his socks at me in return.

I dropped the older one off and parked the car. The storm continued both outside, and in. I tried to listen to the radio – anything to keep my own rage in check. I’m in over my head, Lord. I’m in over my head.

Voice calm, and steady. Whenever you’re finished we can go inside. I’ll let you carry the umbrella, how’s that sound?

The storm continued, both inside, and out.

And then, without much warning, with a hiccouph, it was past.

Are you finished?

Uh huh.

Shall we go inside?

Uh huh. Sniff.

The sun came out and the storm was gone – at least for him. I’m still shaking. He smiled, delightedly, toting blue umbrella, waving merrily out the window as I left him in class.

He’s alright. A soft-spoken apology as we said goodbye: I sorry mama, I sorry I screamed at you.

Do you ever get what you want by screaming?

Nooooo.

The storm is over, at least for him.

I need therapy. Or a hot shower. Or, better yet – a day at a spa.

This could be a great new form of cheap torture for war criminals. Lock ‘em in a room with an angry three year old. You’ll have them begging for mercy in no time flat.

I Hate This Part

2010-12-07T20:38:00.000-08:00

I stand silently at the end of the hallway and wait. Listening.

I hate this part. I hate this part.

Time to get it over with. I pad down the hallway, slowly. My hand on the door handle, sweaty.

Surely the walls are shaking with rhythm of my pounding heart.

The room is dim. I employ a trick from Nancy Drew and close my eyes first before stepping into the darkness. I can barely make out the shapes within the room.

The dresser, drawers akimbo. Animals spill from their designated basket.

I step on a LEGO and stifle a scream, before reaching to pluck the plastic embedded in my heel. Razor blades would be less painful.

I hate this part. I hate this part.

I'm in position. It's now or never - I'm committed. If I stop, or stumble, or even sneeze, all could be lost. I am shaking with the burden - an entire belief system sits in the palm of my hand. If I fail, like dominos the others will tumble under doubt and disbelief.

I lean forward, breathing in the smell of boy: shampoo, tarmac, and Oreos - the crumbs still lingering on one cheek.

With one hand I reach - a split second of panic: It's not there! But then, I have it. The other hand, in the same movement, replaces what I sought with my full palm and I quickly turn to escape.

Pulling the door behind me and taking my first breath. Relief. It is done, till the next time. Childhood has been preserved, at least for today.

She has made her appearance, claimed her prize, and left her gift in return.

The last of the evidence, a fragile piece of ivory, is flushed away forever. I kept the first, of course, but the others - there is no need.

For me, it was the Easter Bunny that took down the wall between childhood and reality. I remember the day so clearly. I know it is coming, and soon, but till then, I'll do what I can to keep their world rose-colored and magical, filled with fantasy and imagination.

A world full of Santas and sleighbells and elves oh-so-merry; bunnies at Easter and fairies who steal through the night.

What's Not to Love? Cinnamon Sledges

2010-12-06T22:13:00.000-08:00

Out of all the cookies we ever made together while I was growing up, this is the one that I most associate with Christmas cookies. Maybe it's becuase it was always my job to spread the gooey egg-white with my hands and sprinkle on the nuts.

This recipe just reminds me of my mom - a simple cinnamon shortbread, covered in pecans.

What's not to love about that, I ask you?

1 cup butter, softened
1 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 large egg, separated
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 300. Beat butter, sugar, and egg yolk in large mixer bowl at medium speed until light and fluffy. Combine flour, cinnamon, and salt in another bowl. Add to beaten mixture and continue mixing just until blended. (Dough will be stiff.)

Spread dough evenly in ungreased 15 1/2 x 10 1/2-inch jelly-roll pan. Beat egg white with fork just until foamy. Use your hands and spread evenly on top of dough.Sprinkle with nuts and press in lightly. Bake 40 to 45 minutes. While still hot, cut into 3-inch squares, then cut diagonally into triangles. Cool in pan. Makes 30.

Gratitude Monday

2010-12-06T10:34:00.000-08:00

Searching for a tree in the pouring rain. Cats and dogs, really. Later, the cheerful line of raincoats, sodden, hanging up over the shower curtain rod, and the house-full aroma of piney joy.

The gross orange smash of a bad pumpkin cupcake recipe I decided to try out instead of waiting until the day of the baby shower to make. SO grateful I did not wait...lesson learned: just because the food blog has pretty pictures does not make them infallible. TEST EVERYTHING FIRST.

The daily reminders that there are others, so many others, who are in desperate need. This season seems to bring all that need to light, and by the grace of God, we are able to meet some of those needs. In the years to come, may my children remember those gifts, not the ones (albeit few) they'll find Christmas morning.

Hot apple cider bubbling on the back of the stove.

A Friday night in with my best girls. Chick drinks, hot, cheesey, bad-for-you appetizers, chocolate, and time - blessed, uninterrupted, kid-free time - just to catch up - what a gift!

The extra hot Peppermint mocha my sweet coworker just planted in front of me. Bliss.

What's Not to Love? A Hooded Coat

2010-12-06T08:40:00.000-08:00

Now, it doesn't rain that much in California. But when it rains, it RAINS.

I have a darling little double-breasted A-line trench that has done me well through both foul weather and fair for 10 years now. It is just the right topper for California winters - looks as good over jeans as it does over suits. However - I don't know about you guys, but these days, when it's raining outside, I am no longer allowed to hold the umbrella.

No, I just get wet while my umbrellas float about 3' above the ground ahead of me.

Miss Sixty Hooded Wool Blend Peacoat $99

Miss Sixty Wool Blend Peacoat $99
It comes with and without the hood. And I LOVE this shade of green - it is surprisingly versatile. Really.

Calvin Klein Hooded Wrap Jacket $129
Now that is what I'm talking about! Looks so cozy...if only it were in a color, like plum! Yummy!

London Fog Double Breasted Trench Coat $128
My very first trench was a London Fog. I bought it for my semester in London and I wore it constantly. It was warm, it was burgundy (no black or grey for me even back then) and it was chic. It held up beautifully to being stuffed in backpacks and thrown on train seats and dragged through the muddy streets of Europe.

Christmas Crazy

2010-12-01T21:13:00.000-08:00

I went a little crazy tonight.

The printer wouldn't print. The envelopes to our Christmas cards kept getting jammed. And, oh-my-gosh it's already December 1 and I don't have my CHRISTMAS CARDS IN THE MAIL YET!!!!

And then, I couldn't find the cord to the camera.

My eyes are dry and gritty. It's too cold outside and all these heavy clothes are making me feel claustrophobic; not to mention it's too darn hot in here.

I was supposed to have all the small trees decorated by Sunday so all I had left was the big tree to do next Saturday.

Yet here it is WEDNESDAY (did I mention it was DECEMBER 1 ALREADY???) and I have red and green boxes littering three rooms and tissue paper scraps all over the floor.

Speaking of scraps, Scrappy has broken three ornaments already.

And they aren't even all up yet.

Nothing, and I mean, nothing, on my checklist for today was done. Not a single item crossed off.

Except one:

Unpack the Nativity. It was the one my parents used to keep near the fireplace. Now it's mine, and somehow, as I unwrapped those fragile figures, it all just dissappeared - the frustration and the noise in my head, the voices shouting my worthlessness. (Did I also mention that I'm tired?)

As I unwrapped each figure, some in paper towels and odd bits of tissue, I thought of the last time mom would have wrapped them up herself. Her hands holding them and carefully placing them, one by one, inside the stable, each figure, wrapt with joy.

Each china gaze directed towards the tiny man-child in the center.

This is a special moment for me each year. At times I've even cried as I watch their painted faces, imagining the inredulous joy they felt as they gathered around the manger. The first gift of Christmas - Emmanuel. God among us.

Like the scraps of tissue littering my floor are all those other tasks and tediums I've been fretting about. They are meaningless, trivial trappings diguising what really is the point.

Worthless but for what they were meant to contain:

Joy-filled faces. Worship. Delight.

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.

Linking up with...

Christmas Memory Making: Yoda and The Robot

2010-11-30T22:12:00.000-08:00

Christmas is, for me, a time of memory making. I have so many happy memories of Christmas, thanks to my mom. I desperately want to pass on the same gift to my children.

This year has been especially fun as Scrappy is now old enough to remember, years from now, all that we experience.

Hanging lights outside with Dad; "helping" hold the ladder. Taking the train into downtown to see Christmas in the Park. I think he liked the train more than the lights...or Mudge, our house elf, who spies on the boys by day, carrying tales of their naughty and nice-ness home to Santa by night.

I think part of me is a little afraid that I have a limited number of Christmases with my children. I may not have a lifetime of opportunities to instill these memories. There are so many "what ifs...?"

One tradition I especially loved was picking out an ornament of my own each year. I still have these treasures, back to the very first: a wooden Santa marionette that was bought on Pier 39 when I was five. They all hang on my family tree now.

I wanted to do the same for our boys - ornaments that they would choose, that would travel with them one day to their own homes and delight their own children.

Glittery snowflakes or icicles, maybe.

Silly Santos, or snowmen, or nutcrackers.

Miniature stockings, or ice skates, or elves.

So many charming and delightful choices...

Yet what did they choose to grace our family tree this year, and one day, their own?

Gingersnap Caramel Cheesecake

2010-11-29T21:32:00.000-08:00

Because so many have asked...here you go. (When it comes to food photography, the Pioneer Woman I ain't...)

This is a combination of several recipes with my modifications based on past experience. Basically, my own invention.

Gingersnap Crust:

One box/bag of good-quality gingersnaps (the spicier, the better), ground to crumbs in your food processor. Blend in 1/2 c. brown sugar - you should end up with at least 2 c. of crumbs. Stir in 1/2 c. melted butter and press firmly into the bottom and sides of a 9" springform pan.

Cheesecake Filling:
(Brace yourself - I never said this was healthy.)

5 8 oz. packages of cream cheese, softened
1 3/4 c. sugar
5 large eggs
2 egg yolks
1/4 c. heavy cream
2 t. vanilla

Beat cream cheese until smooth and fluffy. Add sugar, mix thoroughly. Add eggs one at a time, beating thoroughly after each one to avoid lumps.
Add cream and vanilla, beat just enough to combine.

Pour into prepared springform pan and bake for 10 minutes at 400 degrees, then reduce heat to 225 and bake for approximately one hour. Turn off heat; leave in oven another hour.

Note: My oven does this differently every time. Watch carefully when it is at 400 - mine has scorched when I left it just one minute too long. I also do not turn off the heat until the cake is set in the center (when the pan is gently bumped, it shouldn't jiggle more than a fraction).I also always place a casserole of water in the oven with the cake, on the shelf beneath - the extra moisture tends to help keep the cake from cracking, though not always. That's what the sauce is for anyways - to cover up the cracks!

Chill overnight and serve in thin wedges with a drizzle of caramel sauce.

Caramel Sauce, courtesy of Food.com

p.s. this sauce is to die for. I ate the last of it right after taking this photo. I might have even licked the bowl, but I'll never admit it.

Gratitude Monday

2010-11-28T19:41:00.000-08:00

Stuffing, but not the kind that goes IN the bird. The kind that is baked in a casserole with lots and lots of butter. My favorite: sausage and apple.

A perfectly-done turkey, thanks to sweet Gabe and his new remote-control-thermometer -gadget-thingy. Brined, smoked and perfectly delicious. Dry? I think NOT.

Homemade caramel.

Lazy holidays spent in pajamas, cider, and every one of my 14 boxes of Christmas decorations. As discussed previously, it's just Joy in a Box.

Train rides to downtown and Christmas in the Park.

Mudge - our House Elf. He shows up the morning after Thanksgiving, to spy on us daily and report back to the North Pole nightly. I think it was only because of him that a tantrum stopped mid-scream and a tearful and apologetic miscreant whispered, "Sorry I screamed at you, Mama." while peeking over his shoulder to see if said Elf was watching.

You better watch out, little man. He knows.

It's time.

2010-11-25T22:05:00.000-08:00

I can't decide which one I like best. So, please enjoy my two all-time-favorite-it's-time-to-get-in-the-mood anthems for the Christmas season.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Mom. The stuffing turned out great this year. And I have finally conquered gravy. I wish you were here to do it for me, though. XO

And He Shall Reign

2010-11-23T21:03:00.000-08:00

I remember as a little girl going to the "Messiah Sing" every year at the Flint Center at Christmas...and I remember the chill that would run right up and down my spine at the sound of all those voices, together. Hallelujah! All singing for one purpose. "...and He shall reign for ever and ever..." This video of a flash mob touched me deeply - that it was sung with such fervor in a public location and so clearly enjoyed by all passersby.

Just a bunch of regular Joe's and their french fries.

Not a fancy concert hall.
No red carpets or chandeliers.
Just a bunch of common people in a common place, for a common purpose.
Hallelujah!

Intersections

2010-11-22T19:49:00.000-08:00

Merchandising. Semiconductors. Manager. Mom.
Sales rep, writer, engineer.

Four days. 24 hours.
Most of it shoulder to shoulder, not speaking, just listening.

Squirming in chairs for hours, as knees and backs complained.

And then suddenly, we were talking. Arguing. Debating and deliberating.
His life was in our hands.

Would we agree?

The deputy brought coffee and sweets. We argueed some more. Cordial, though, always. Everyone felt the weight of our responsibility.

It wasn't long. While we didn't all agree on everything, we all agreed on one thing - it simply wasn't there.

The evidence, that is. It just wasn't there.

We made our voices known privately. Twelve slips of paper were passed to me from around the table.

He stood at the white board, ready to tally.

I began to read, and in big letters and small, cramped writing and loopy cursive, each and every one saying the same thing.

Not guilty.

I cried a little as I read the last one in a voice barely above a whisper.

Four days, twenty four hours; two hours and 48 minutes to decide.

Not guilty.

It wasn't convenient, it wasn't timely, but, oh, I was so proud to be there. Prouder still to be the one to sign the paper that sent, what we believed to be, an innocent man home to his family.

The charge was not enormous, but one man's life would have been forever changed. None in the room took their role lightly.

The verdict was read, and confirmed, and with a sigh of relief we filed out of the court room, like cars pulling away from a traffic light. Each turning our own way as we pushed out the glass doors into the rain.

Twelve strangers, one intersection, one week, one life.

Gratitude Monday: Boom

2010-11-21T20:01:00.000-08:00

The first one hit while I was loading the dryer in the garage.
I drooped the wet clothes and ran back into the house.

I'm actually quite afraid of electrical storms. Just like I am with chickens and all manner of fowl (foul), however, I don't want to pass my fears along to my kids.

So I took a deep breath and with a smile, we herded into the dining room and piled into a rocker by the window. He turned out the lights and opened the windows. We wrapped up in a blanket.

Scooby declared it better than TV, that little half hour we spent in front of the window.

Bang it again, God! Bang it again! We jumped at every flash and waited, holding our breath, for every crash.

You must understand - this is California. It never rains in California.

I had a very bad experience with an electrical storm in Maine. My boyfriend at the time could not understand why the little California girl arrived at his house after work, shaking and crying. I had driven there in the dark along an elevated freeway with lightening zipping across the entire span of the sky, from one end to the other, over and over and finally exiting that highway from hell, only to find the neighborhood pitch dark, signs obliterated, trees fallen.

I got lost, I got scared, I was certain that I was going to die out there. It was horrible.

I married him anyway.

Thankfully, we see a grand total of about six or seven lightening flashes a year around here. Most of the time.

Tonight was different, and so was I. I had boys to cuddle - boys who had never before seen a storm like this. Who relished in the rarity and rejoiced in the noise. They thought I was there to protect them, my arms wrapped around them twice, blankets tucked in around the edges, rocking in the dark. They felt safer because I was there.

It was really the other way around.

Be Nice to Your Government Employees Week

2010-11-17T13:10:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting on a jury this week - not much spare time to write and I have to be back in court in 45 minutes.

So, I'm just declaring this Be Nice to Your Local Government Employees Week. They deal with a lot of mean, grumpy people.

I'm trying to be excessively nice. I'm trying to learn their names, and say "hello" and "good morning" and "how are you?" like I really mean it.

They are just doing their job.

Won't you join me?

Granny Dresses and Up 'Dos

2010-11-15T19:12:00.000-08:00

I found an entire series of these photos on a disc my dad had scanned. Little photo sessions - he was 8, I was 3. Basically the same ages as my own kids.

They crack me up.

He's missing a front tooth, just like Scooby is right now.

How many three year olds do you know of running around in Granny dresses (the height of fashion in 1977) and an up - 'do?

So much story in one little photo. The collar. The curtains. THE PANTS.

You go, Bob Slob. You the man.

What's Not to Love? Flat Boots

2010-11-12T23:45:00.000-08:00

Ciao Bella Thabata Two Tone Boot
$99.95

I love heels. 98% of the shoes in my closet have a heel. I love the added height, I love what it does to my legs, but at 5 weeks post-op...I can't wear most of them.

And now it's raining. And cold. And I wanna wear boots. I have some great boots - but they all have major heels.

Taken down a notch, in more ways than one, I can't stop thinking about flat boots. I really must go try these on.

I always thought they would make me look stubby and frumpy...but these...they have such a rakish, Barbara-Cartland-I'm-wearing-my-lover's-Hessians kind of thing going on. Very 19th century brazen heroine.

One of my favorite fashion bloggers, Susan Wagner, loves her flat boots.

Do you wear flat boots?

Goodbye, Ernest Robinson

2010-11-11T17:46:00.000-08:00

She was hanging laundry when she heard them calling over the fence.

The baby was sleeping in her basket under the orange trees. The sun was shining, like always, and the day was balmy.

"Mrs. Robinson? Hello?"

"Back here!" Pushing damp curls off her forehead and smoothing apron, she walked toward the gate by the street, heels clicking on the concrete.

Two men removed their hats as she pushed open the gate.

"Mrs. Robinson?"

Blinking in the sunlight, she put up one hand to shade her eyes.

"I'm Howard Northlake from the Edison plant, ma'am. I'm the managing supervisor."

He extended one hand, but as she reached, his next words stopped the air.

"There's been an accident."

Collared shirts and ruffled slips fluttered in the breeze. The baby was sleeping under the orange trees. And the ground tilted at an angle, and the sun was no longer a friend.

"Ma'am? You need to come with us. Quickly."

She turned and ran to where Gene lay sleeping. In her mother's arms the baby blinked in the sudden glare.

The ride to the plant was endless. The orange trees and bougainvillea mocked her. The blue sky was too blue, too happy.

Fear shut her throat.

The two men stared straight ahead in the front seat. Without turning, the one who introduced himself as the supervisor said quietly, "He was burned."

The baby fussed in her arms. Squirming, too tight.

The hospital had flowers planted at the entrance. Happy faces of pink and yellow and orange.

A nurse in the hallway outside his room, uniform startched white, her eyes were sad. She gently lifted Gene from her grasp. "Go quickly, Mrs. Robinson. There's not much time."

Mr. Northlake pushed open the door, but what was inside didn't make sense. Ernest wasn't there. There was something, but it wasn't her husband.

The figure on the bed was unrecognizable. Blackened and raw, this was beyond human. It was pain and suffering and loss. Youth and hope, destroyed.

But then she saw his eyes, and he was there.

She saw what she had seen the first time - handsome and arrogant, one foot on the running board of his father's Ford, a cigarette dangling from his lip. The Oklahoma sun was low and his smile was vain.

And she loved him, then and there.

There and then, he lay on the white sheets but there was nothing left, nothing at all but blue eyes and suffering. His pain filled the room.

A white coat turned towards her. "We've given him everything we can. It's just a matter of time. I'm sorry. It's just too much."

She would not take her eyes off of the life that was ending before her.

"We'll try to make him comfortable, but this is one of the worst we've seen. There's not much we can do in this situation."

I can't even hold his hand, she thought to herself. I don't know where it is.

Collared shirts and ruffled slips fluttered in the breeze. The sun was shining, like always, and the day was balmy.

His blue eyes were clear. But he was gone.

************************

This piece is in response to a writing prompt from
The Red Dress Club
The photo inspired a fictionalized account of my great-grandfather's death from a worksite explosion at the Thomas Edison electrical plant, Los Angeles, on New Year's Eve, 1929. My grandmother, his daughter, was two years old.

Thanks, Uncle Bob

2010-11-11T09:03:00.000-08:00

Captain Robert Lee Frank died on an isalnd in the Pacific in WWII. He was brave. He was courageous. He died selflessly.

He was posthumously awarded the Navy Cross. "He gallantly gave his life for his country."

Thanks Uncle Bob, and the countless nameless others, who gave up a promising future - higher education, careers, even marriage and children - to keep our country secure.

Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I was able to find the full text from the letter that accompanied the medal that was sent to his parents after his death.

"The President of the United States of America takes pleasure in presenting the
Navy Cross to Captain Robert L. Frank (MCSN: 0-9582), United States Marine Corps (Reserve), for extraordinary heroism as Commanding Officer of Company L, Third Battalion, Twenty-Second Marines, First Provisional Marine Brigade, during action against enemy Japanese forces at Guam, Marianas Islands, from 21 to 27 July 1944. With the combat efficiency of his command imperiled by many casualties among the officers and men, Captain Frank Exercised exceptional responsibility on behalf of his troops and repeatedly exposed himself to intense, concentrated rifle, machine-gun and mortar fire to direct the fire and tactical dispositions of his assault platoons. Skillfully and expeditiously setting up a strong defense after reaching the objective just before nightfall following a furious engagement on 25 July, he promptly established contact with another battalion on his right flank. Sustaining two vicious counterattacks during the hours of darkness, he boldly led his men in repelling the fierce onslaughts and annihilating over 200 hostile troops. Continually moving about among his front line troops and personally directing combat operations, he inspired his intrepid command to heroic effort in the execution of each hazardous mission throughout this grueling period until he was struck down by hostile fire during an extremely perilous engagement on 27 July. Later succumbing to his wounds, Captain Frank, by his forceful and determined leadership in the face of grave danger, had contributed immeasurably to the success of our sustained drive toward the recapture of this vital Japanese stronghold, and his selfless devotion to duty throughout was in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country."

Worth Repeating: Garden Spells

2010-11-09T20:59:00.000-08:00

Every once in a long while a novel comes along that stands strikingly apart from the others.

Words woven so artfully, phrases sit like a candy on the tongue. You want to savor them a while, and not let go.

Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen is just that kind of novel.

Captivating and delicious. Clever, intriguing and artful.

Truly, one of the best I've ever read. In the top 10, without a doubt.

It started with the opening paragraph:

Every smiley moon, without fail, Claire dreamed of her childhoo.d She always
tried to stay awake those nights when the stars winked and the moon was just a
cresting silver smiling provacatively down at the world, the way pretty women on
vintage billboards used to smile as they sold cigarettes and limeade.

The rest of the book is just as good - magical and smart. I want to re-read it all over again just to find those delicious words and savor them all over again.

Thank you, Christy, for the loan.

What's in YOUR vase?

2010-11-08T19:45:00.000-08:00

I love this little card.

I found it among some notes I made for a women's retreat I helped to lead years ago. On a piece of scratch paper I wrote this...

Did you enjoy the flowers we left in your room?

Weren't they pretty? Did you notice the vase at all? No? Not really?

Funny how that works. An empty vase would have been remarkable...but when there's flowers, well, the vase is just the vessel, isn't it? A rusty tin can is suddenly charming when it's filled with daisies.

We're kind of like those vases, don't you think?

We're just the vessel. Jesus is what's on the inside. When Jesus is on the inside, the outside doesn't really matter, does it?

My mom never really felt a great deal of self-worth. She always thought herself too shy, too fat (oh yes she did), too uneducated, too worried about what everyone else was thinking.

Sadly, what everyone else was thinking is that she was a beautiful vase, all filled up with Jesus-flowers, and she didn't even know it.

Why do we think we aren't worthy of Jesus? Of His love, and beauty, and transformation?

Here's the thing - we are worthy BECAUSE of Jesus. We are worthy because of what He has done for us.

I think Elizabeth says it best in the book of Luke - she's speaking to her cousin Mary, but really, I think she's speaking to all of us.

"Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!”

The flowers are already in your vase - didn't you know?

Gratitude Monday

2010-11-07T20:27:00.000-08:00

Michele Klein's voice, because when she sings, I feel that much closer to His throne.

Hot pumpkin bread.

Rain, and the sound of it through an open window.

Sleepy boys and rainy days and snuggling after a nap.

Finding the bottom of the dirty laundry basket (even for only five minutes).

Roasts in the oven and a man in my kitchen.

Seeing the early holiday lights through the wondering and awe-filled eyes of a three year old.

Arguing, as you turn out the lights and say good-night, over who loves who more and how far and how many times around the moon and back,

Tonight, I am content and everything feels right with the world. I am blessed.

Friday Favorites: Anthropologie Sweaters

2010-11-04T22:35:00.000-07:00

What's not to love about a peplum, I ask? The color is grape-alicious.
Button-Peppered Cardigan
$98.00

The details - it's all in the details.
Pinafore Pullover
$168.00
It started here. Stopped me dead on their home page. I want! I want!
Alice in Autumn Sweatercoat
$168.00
Orange and turquoise! Love!
Coin Purse Cardigan
$178.00
I just like the name. And the ruffles. And the polka dots. I like it all.
Van Wrinkle Sweater
$118.00

Four Eyes

2010-11-03T22:29:00.000-07:00

I resemble my mother in so many ways. I didn’t get the cheekbones, much to my dismay, but I got her backside. And her feet. Her hands. Long waist. Short legs.

I also got her eyes. The color – not quite blue, not quite green.

And we can’t see worth beans.

The official diagnosis is called Myopic Degeneration – progressively nearsighted, starting at a very early age.

Most kids are born nearsighted, then become farsighted as toddlers. This gradually decreases until the “normal” sight is achieved around the age of five or so.

I was nearsighted by the age of four. She picked out glasses for me – they were light brown and huge, the lenses tinted pink. Tres chic for 1977. Just like her, I started school in glasses. It was still a rarity then – today every elementary grade has at least one child in glasses – back then I was an only.

She remembered going through it in her black 1950’s horn-rims (hers had rhinestones at the corners). She hated that I had to go through it, too.

Against common sense and all advice, they put me in contact lenses in 2nd grade. Second grade! Scooby’s age! They entrusted me with hundreds of dollars in two tiny plastic discs. Which, I might add, I lost at least three of the first year.

One fell out when I was playing on the parallel bars. I was quite the bar-queen – rings, uneven parallel – I landed on my back, had the wind and a contact lens knocked right out. Scared me to death on both counts – one made me feel I was dying, the other made me afraid I would be when I got home.

I think that was the third one I lost that year.

Another time I remember crawling around the shag carpet of the dining room, looking for a dropped lens.

Sitting at the kitchen table trying to get up the nerve to stick it in my eye. If you’ve never worn rigid lenses, you aren’t missing anything. Soft hadn’t been invented yet, and rigid feels just like you are putting a piece of hard plastic in your eye. And leaving it there.

You’re supposed to start out by wearing them an hour or so a day. And then two hours the next day. Gradually working your way up to all day while your eyes acclimate to what feels like a pointed stick under your eyelid, flopping around every time you blink. Dripping in tears, I mean, your eyes are trying to flush out the foreign body the entire time.

After about a week of this hell your eyes give up the fight and you stop feeling them anymore. Until you get a cat hair or a piece of dust under your lens. Then it’s the pointy stick all over again.

Oh, all we suffer in the name of beauty – from the third grade on, my school pictures just show feathered hair and blue-green eyes. No glasses.

She did that for me.

Vacation

2010-11-01T20:00:00.000-07:00

I was three when they took us to Sonesta Beach. Grown up in my orange bikini, I was sorely offended when the lifeguard wouldn't let me leave the steps of the pool, despite the matching orange floaty arm bands.

I remember the sun and the heat and the sand. I remember making earrings for mom with the other children. Mine had birds, mother-of-pearl; Bobby's had seashells and blue. She kept them - even now one tiny bird remains in the jewelry box that was hers.

The memories stop there. I was so small, but despite the lack of detail, they are pleasant and happy.

Later, I remember Catalina. I was in grade school by then. We stayed in a condo and walked into town every day, past giant bougainvillea. So large and glorious, they looked as if they owned the island.

We toured the back country in golf carts, ogled the buffalo, eating seafood and waffle cones as we wandered past tile shops and souvenirs. The casino, that glorious old dame, still dripping in her art nouveau finery, watching over the harbor.

I remember snorkeling in the harbor, over the side of a rented rowboat. Gritting teeth against the Pacific cold, and swimming alone towards the rocky beach. The sudden shift of a warm current frightened me - I imagined a giant warm-blooded fish just beyond the tips of my flippers as I flapped towards shore.

I remember feeling independent, grown up. At peace with myself and with my family.

Vacations always brought my brother and I together. Nearly five years separating us, I was in elementary, he in high school; we had little in common in our day-to-day lives. But on vacation, we allied. "As long as you stay together." It was our ticket to freedom. We'd wander alone down tiny lanes and to the ice cream shops in town. To the beach for a swim. He couldn't go without me - he needed me as much as I needed him, and together we would explore.

Another year and it was Hawaii. Our alliance even stronger now - Bob was in college and I, in high school - we left the uncoolness of our romantically inclined parents to hang out in the lobby in the evening, escaping. He watched the pretty girls, I scouted for cute boys - we neither of us met anyone but we felt the camaraderie of independence.

When our parents were tired and wanted to go back to the room, we would stay at the pool or the beach and return later. They trusted us together, and we, for the most part, lived up to that trust.

In the Bahamas we spent one, long, sun-burnt day in a cove off our island, doing nothing but floating, face-down, gazing through masks into the Nemo-world just a few feet below. We played with sea urchins - we named one Fred. He was inky purple, and exquisite, with millions of tentacles like strands of hair, pulling and rolling his needles across our palm. We found his relative, am empty shell, and named him Fred is Dead. We laughed and sang silly songs and pulled our lounge chairs into the breaking edge of the waves. We were equal there, despite our ages.

There were other trips, other islands, and Europe...we didn't travel in style, but we were together and these vacations form the bedrock of some of our happiest years as a family and some of our best family lore.

Shauna Niequist, in Cold Tangerines, writes

"Vacations are more han vacations, and that island is more than an island. Vacations are the act of grabbing minutes and hours and days with both hands, stealing against the inevitability of time. There will be a day when our family as we know it will no longer exist, and I want to know in that moment that I wasn't in the office or doing the dishes when I could have been walking on the dock with my dad, when I could have been drinking tea and eating ginger cookies on the porch with my mom. I don't want to be building my bank account or my abs or my dream house when I could be dancing with Aaron at the beach bar on New Year's Eve, when I could be making crackers and cheese for dinner because we were on the boat till way after the shops closed, sunburnt and sandy and windblown, and happier there and together than anywhere else with anyone else."

One day, about 15 years ago, our family as we all knew it was gone - but the memories and the happy remain... "a whole lotta happy" is left over from those trips that my parents scrimped and saved up for. Truly, on those shimmering beaches or sitting on an ancient stone veranda in France, feeling grown-up when I wasn't, exercising independence I didn't yet deserve, and forging alliances with a brother who, on the mainland, thought me little more than a bother, we were "happier there and together than anywhere else with anyone else."