Yesterday is rained. That isn’t exactly breaking news here in Oregon. It rains a great deal of the time; in fact, I’d have to say that it has rained at least five days of every week since October. Again, that isn’t unusual. The funny thing about the rain yesterday was that I was out in it.
My Mother did teach her idiot daughter to come in out of the rain. She also told me to not eat too much dessert because, “Too much dessert makes too much Ann.” Which is a good part of the reason I was out walking. Hey, she told me, that doesn’t mean I listened!
But, back to the rain.
It wasn’t raining when I left the house. It was in fact, very lovely; light breeze, sunshine, large puffy clouds, a good time, nay, a perfect time for a walk. Cept, its Oregon in the spring time.
I met my walking buddy who had a little gifty for me; her book. It’s the one I’ve been begging (begging!) her to let me read. It hits the book stores in June and I have every intention of purchasing it, but I wanted to read it early! I’m her BOF for heaven’s sake!
But, back to the rain.
We started out on our usual path. I listened as she described a couple of guys she knows who are in a bad way. We cleared the woods as the temperature dropped. Wow, it’s cold, I thought. Just as we crossed the bridge it started to sprinkle.
“I think it’s going to rain on us,” I chirped.
Sure enough. The heavens opened and it began to pour. We laughed about our flimsy, non-rain repellant jackets (Morons! Walking in Oregon without a rain coat, snicker) but we kept moving. I threw my hood on, a fact she noted and grumbled about not having one. I asked if the fact that I’d be sitting in my car for an hour, soaking wet, waiting for Miss C, was consolation enough while she’d be home warm and dry. It soothed her mean little heart just a bit.
That is until it started to hail. Now, I don’t know if ya’ll have ever been out walking, in the rain, dripping wet, being pelted by tiny darts of ice or not, but let me just assure you that it’s not fun. It isn’t fun at all. We cut our loop short and headed for the parking lot. It was then that I decided I wasn’t going to leave. I wasn’t going to let the rain beat me. I was going to finish my walk!
Walking buddy thought I was an idiot, “You can stay if you want to, but I’m going home. My pants are sticking to my legs!”
And stay I did.
I finished my walk, soaked to the skin, hair plastered to my head, shoes squishing. The geese laughed at me as I passed them. I could hear them snickering to each other, pointing in my direction squawking, “Look at the idiot girl! She thinks she’s a duck” Quack, quack, quack. The grounds keepers smiled at me in that, “Oh look, a die hard. She must not be from around here, she doesn’t have a rain coat,” kind of way.
But, I did it. I finished my walk and I was proud. Wet, but proud.
And waiting for me in my car: THE BOOK
To be continued
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Okay, enough is enough. I’m all for protecting someone’s civil rights. I’m a flag waving, Bill of Rights supporting, Bible believing, kinda girl. I don’t care what color you are, what religion you practice, or what planet you come from, as long as you are a decent, hard working person that's good enough for me. But enough is enough!
Of the girls taken from the polygamist compound in Texas 31 out of 53 girls, age 14 and 17, have been or are pregnant. Read it for yourself here MSNBC.COM
Thirty-one girls. That's just so incredible that it staggers the mind. Gahh!
Then there's that sicko in Austria who held his daughter captive for 24 years (24 YEARS!) molesting her, abusing her AND the children he fathered with her for years. Read it here http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/europe/04/29/austria.cellar/index.html
I think I better stop reading the news. It's just tickin' me off.
Of the girls taken from the polygamist compound in Texas 31 out of 53 girls, age 14 and 17, have been or are pregnant. Read it for yourself here MSNBC.COM
Thirty-one girls. That's just so incredible that it staggers the mind. Gahh!
Then there's that sicko in Austria who held his daughter captive for 24 years (24 YEARS!) molesting her, abusing her AND the children he fathered with her for years. Read it here http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/europe/04/29/austria.cellar/index.html
I think I better stop reading the news. It's just tickin' me off.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Photo Entry
Some of you have seen this picture before, it's a pic of one of our foster daughters. The reason that this picture reminds me of motherhood is because when the Destroy first came to us, she didn't belly laugh. She was very somber, withdrawn. Who could blame her? She'd been removed (for the second time) from her mother and moved to first one foster home (where she thrived) and then to our home (second foster home).
It took time, but with lots of momma love, that wee blondie girl started to trust us. Then she smiled and before you knew it, she laughed and what a laugh it was.
This, my friends, is motherhood at its finest. Hearing a baby's belly laugh, is there anything sweeter?
5 Minutes for Mom: Mother's Day Give Away
Those gals over at 5 Minutes for Mom are at it again. There are some great prizes and all you have to do is click on over, comment (in most cases), and wait until May 11th to see if you have won.
Why not check it out now?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Dressing Patti
One of the blogs I frequently read is PATTI’s blog. She writes about running, writing, eating cake, and occasionally just a wee bit o’ tripe (see her April fools post – snort!). She makes me laugh and I love that.
In a few months she’ll be taking on a new role, that of Mother-in-Law. Yes, it’s true, Boy found Girl and later this summer the two shall become one. Girl, from all accounts sounds delightful, why she even brought Patti a cake after cake shopping. Not a piece of cake, mind you, but an entire cake. That’s love baby.
Anyway, Patti is hosting a little contest. She’s having trouble finding the perfect dress for the wedding and asked her readers and friends to find her a dress. Crazy? Well, maybe, but I thought it sounded like oodles of fun (and you know how I like to have fun!). Below you’ll find my choices for the physically fit, snarky, cake lovin’, Mother-of-the-Groom.
Disclaimer: Do you know how hard it is to shop for someone you’ve never met face to face? Oi! I don’t know what time the wedding is, is it formal or semi formal, what is the Mother-of-the-Bride wearing? Not a clue. Colors? Ha! I know nothing!
So Patti, Miss Crissy and I spent a lot of time looking for your gown. We learned a great deal about, ahem, the price of elegant, formal wear and our little girly hearts sighed a time or two. Thanks for the fun and I’m certain, regardless of whose dress you choose that you will look lovely!
My first choice is from NORDSTROM
Donna Ricco Stretch Satin Sheath Dress Ruched, wrapped bodice shapes a sleeveless, stretch satin sheath with a flattering V-neckline in front and back.
Hidden back zip.
Front and back darts.
Approx. length from shoulder: 45".
Polyester/spandex-lined bodice.
Acetate/nylon/spandex; dry clean.
By Donna Ricco; imported.
Dresses.
Price: $158.00
Item #186818
Choice number two can be found at DAVIDS BRIDAL
Chiffon ruched dress with soft flowing skirt. Dress comes with a scarf. Available in Black.
The dress almost didn't make the cut, but frankly, it's so lovely and I know Patti would look KILLER in it!
Price: $198
And my final selection can be found at MACYS
Calvin Klein Sequined Chiffon Dress with Jacket - Tonal sparkling sequins lend a dreamy look to this gorgeous dress and jacket.
Silk; lining: silk
Dry clean
Imported
Collarless jacket features single hook-and-eye closure, princess seams, three-quarter sleeves
Approximate length of jacket from center back neckline: 22 inches
One-piece dress features scoop neckline, sequined bodice, back zip closure
Dress is full length; approximate length from center back neckline: 63 inches
Both jacket and dress are lined
Price: $338.00
There you go Patti!
In a few months she’ll be taking on a new role, that of Mother-in-Law. Yes, it’s true, Boy found Girl and later this summer the two shall become one. Girl, from all accounts sounds delightful, why she even brought Patti a cake after cake shopping. Not a piece of cake, mind you, but an entire cake. That’s love baby.
Anyway, Patti is hosting a little contest. She’s having trouble finding the perfect dress for the wedding and asked her readers and friends to find her a dress. Crazy? Well, maybe, but I thought it sounded like oodles of fun (and you know how I like to have fun!). Below you’ll find my choices for the physically fit, snarky, cake lovin’, Mother-of-the-Groom.
Disclaimer: Do you know how hard it is to shop for someone you’ve never met face to face? Oi! I don’t know what time the wedding is, is it formal or semi formal, what is the Mother-of-the-Bride wearing? Not a clue. Colors? Ha! I know nothing!
So Patti, Miss Crissy and I spent a lot of time looking for your gown. We learned a great deal about, ahem, the price of elegant, formal wear and our little girly hearts sighed a time or two. Thanks for the fun and I’m certain, regardless of whose dress you choose that you will look lovely!
My first choice is from NORDSTROM
Donna Ricco Stretch Satin Sheath Dress Ruched, wrapped bodice shapes a sleeveless, stretch satin sheath with a flattering V-neckline in front and back.
Hidden back zip.
Front and back darts.
Approx. length from shoulder: 45".
Polyester/spandex-lined bodice.
Acetate/nylon/spandex; dry clean.
By Donna Ricco; imported.
Dresses.
Price: $158.00
Item #186818
Choice number two can be found at DAVIDS BRIDAL
Chiffon ruched dress with soft flowing skirt. Dress comes with a scarf. Available in Black.
The dress almost didn't make the cut, but frankly, it's so lovely and I know Patti would look KILLER in it!
Price: $198
And my final selection can be found at MACYS
Calvin Klein Sequined Chiffon Dress with Jacket - Tonal sparkling sequins lend a dreamy look to this gorgeous dress and jacket.
Silk; lining: silk
Dry clean
Imported
Collarless jacket features single hook-and-eye closure, princess seams, three-quarter sleeves
Approximate length of jacket from center back neckline: 22 inches
One-piece dress features scoop neckline, sequined bodice, back zip closure
Dress is full length; approximate length from center back neckline: 63 inches
Both jacket and dress are lined
Price: $338.00
There you go Patti!
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Saturday Confessional
So, let me ask you, if someone asks you for help and even though it might cause you some slight inconvenience, do you help them? Say the person needing help is a felon, do you still help? What if that person is trying, regardless of past mistakes, to stay on the straight and narrow?
Does it make a difference if the person is a relative?
Yeah, that’s what I thought. You would help. The person asked for your help, not your neighbors, not your brothers, but your help. It’s not going to cost you much, well gas being what it is, but in truth, it won’t cost you more than a little time and a drive. You’d do it.
Why? Why do we help those in need? Is it because they are family? Is it because we feel a sense of duty? Is it because even though they’ve made some pretty poor choices, you love them anyway? Is it because God would really want you to?
It’s the Golden Rule, do unto others…
And we do. All of us, or at least most of us, will help someone out who is in need. I read a blog recently that was posted over atRocks in My Dryer about how a stranger stepped in and offered water and any other assistance to this blogger when her purse was stolen. It was a great story about people helping people.
I think it’s important to reach out, to help, to encourage, but as you all know, ahem, I can be slightly judgmental and just a wee bit mean sometimes. I come across a little too pushy, too knowing, too mom like. It’s a curse and a blessing and apparently my cross to bear. Growl. Yet, I’m learning!
She can be taught!
I spent the morning driving a younger relative to a job interview. He’s having a really hard time finding a job. He’s a felon. You try putting that on your application and see how far you get! Now, I am not dismissing what he’s done, nor do I condone it (trust me, he knows how I feel). But you know what? The kid is trying! He’s trying!
For perhaps the first time in my life, I kept my opinions to myself. I didn’t offer advice. Shocking, I know. (shut up Amber) I told him I was proud of the effort he is making and encouraged him to keep climbing this very difficult hill. He’s going to have to make more sacrifices to get things straightened and his record will haunt him for years, I don’t think he really needed an of my “stern wisdom”. He’s getting enough judgment from every other side.
And don’t get me wrong. I am hardly the hero here. I’ve been hard on this young man. I’ve rolled my eyes and snickered, honest and ugly, isn’t it? So, why the change of heart? All it took was another family member to act judgmental for me to get a real good picture of what I look and sound like sometimes.
Not a good look for a Christian girl, if you know what I mean.
There you go, confessional Saturday is done.
Does it make a difference if the person is a relative?
Yeah, that’s what I thought. You would help. The person asked for your help, not your neighbors, not your brothers, but your help. It’s not going to cost you much, well gas being what it is, but in truth, it won’t cost you more than a little time and a drive. You’d do it.
Why? Why do we help those in need? Is it because they are family? Is it because we feel a sense of duty? Is it because even though they’ve made some pretty poor choices, you love them anyway? Is it because God would really want you to?
It’s the Golden Rule, do unto others…
And we do. All of us, or at least most of us, will help someone out who is in need. I read a blog recently that was posted over at
I think it’s important to reach out, to help, to encourage, but as you all know, ahem, I can be slightly judgmental and just a wee bit mean sometimes. I come across a little too pushy, too knowing, too mom like. It’s a curse and a blessing and apparently my cross to bear. Growl. Yet, I’m learning!
I spent the morning driving a younger relative to a job interview. He’s having a really hard time finding a job. He’s a felon. You try putting that on your application and see how far you get! Now, I am not dismissing what he’s done, nor do I condone it (trust me, he knows how I feel). But you know what? The kid is trying! He’s trying!
For perhaps the first time in my life, I kept my opinions to myself. I didn’t offer advice. Shocking, I know. (shut up Amber) I told him I was proud of the effort he is making and encouraged him to keep climbing this very difficult hill. He’s going to have to make more sacrifices to get things straightened and his record will haunt him for years, I don’t think he really needed an of my “stern wisdom”. He’s getting enough judgment from every other side.
And don’t get me wrong. I am hardly the hero here. I’ve been hard on this young man. I’ve rolled my eyes and snickered, honest and ugly, isn’t it? So, why the change of heart? All it took was another family member to act judgmental for me to get a real good picture of what I look and sound like sometimes.
Not a good look for a Christian girl, if you know what I mean.
There you go, confessional Saturday is done.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Happy Day, Happy Day
Ohhh sooo many things to tell you!
hysterical laughter here
First, received a call from the Bio-mom and after a very nice chat about the books I had sent her, she told me her reason for phoning.
drum roll
She wanted to know if I could take the girls for a day. Mama needs a break. From the sounds of chaos in the background, I’d say Mama needs a llllooonnggg vacation. Oh, wait, she had one for a year, snicker.
snotty eye roll here
Okay, I’m not really that mean (maybe just a little mean) I know Bio-mom is trying and I know it’s hard. So I was thrilled (thrilled) to set up a date with the wee girls. I am so excited. I get to be the good auntie! I get to be the fun auntie! I get to take them home after spoiling those little tyrants for hours and hours and hours.
gleeful laughter here
Sadly, Beloved pointed out that spoiling them rotten and being “fun” auntie might make Bio-mom mad, so maybe I shouldn’t be too fun.
Right…
So, next Friday (May 2nd) it’ll be party at Auntie Ann’s house!! Woo whooo!
And in other news, I am on the diet wagon again. I warned you weeks ago that I was going to jump back on. Only this time, it’s a bit different. A friend, who shall remain nameless (unless she really wants to be named), found a site for us to track, well, everything!
Over at The Daily Plate you’ll find a terrific tool to track what you are eating and how many calories you burn with exercise. There are forums, groups, a listing of diets, and even a place for your to list your own meals. It even helps you track how much water you drink!
Now, I know what you are thinking, “How is a website going to help me lose weight?”
Well it won’t, silly, unless you apply yourself. For me, having to tattle to the computer everything I put in my mouth is helping me to focus on good choices. I can easily see how many calories I’ve eaten, how many I should be eating and, hold on to your knickers, how much fat is in what I eat.
Diet tip: Do not eat peanut butter!
I adore the fitness tracker and love seeing how many calories I’ve burned. Using this tool, it’s easier to make choices regarding which exercise is best for me on specific days. For example, if I’ve got a lunch or dinner date at a restaurant where I know I’m going to have to make some hard choices, I’ll walk an hour instead of thirty minutes because I’ll burn a lot more calories (that’s an extra 30 minutes along with the Pilate's).
Diet tip: Muscles get bored. Vary your workout by renting different types of exercise DVDs from NetFlix!
Since we all can’t be fit as a fiddle, like Patti is, we have to work at it. No, there are no quick fixes, but I know you can do it.
At The Daily Plate you can decide how much weight you would like to lose per week and see how many calories you should eat per day to help you attain that goal. My calorie count is pretty high, but I've yet to actually eat that many calories. My thinking is; if I'm not hungry I shouldn't eat. There are many ways to go about eating throughout the day, although most experts suggest six small meals per day, which seems to work very well for me.
Diet Tip: Carry fruit or protein bars with you so you won't be tempted to eat empty calories.
So, for those of you who drink Mountain Dew and eat Cheerios for breakfast, might I suggest you plug that meal into The Daily Plate and see exactly what you’re eating?
And don’t even get me started on all the sodium we are eating! No wonder so many American’s have blood pressure issues!
In writing news, I’ve submitted my entry for the Christian Women Online Contest. The winner will be announced May 11. I entered a contest over at Hearts at Home (winners to be announced May 4). My decision to enter these contests (and others) is to have deadlines and topics to write to. If nothing else, it’s a good exercise in writing.
Teri J. Brown has helped me to plot out my book. Which is both exciting and scary, since the plot, as they say, thickens…considerably. Time will tell.
But the big, fun, exciting, thrilling, news is that I will be joining some other amazing bloggers and write reviews for Litfuse Publicity Group. I am looking forward to reading some great material and helping other authors get the news out about their recently published books. Being a bookworm, I adore the thought of having new material to read! Happy day, happy day!
hysterical laughter here
First, received a call from the Bio-mom and after a very nice chat about the books I had sent her, she told me her reason for phoning.
drum roll
She wanted to know if I could take the girls for a day. Mama needs a break. From the sounds of chaos in the background, I’d say Mama needs a llllooonnggg vacation. Oh, wait, she had one for a year, snicker.
snotty eye roll here
Okay, I’m not really that mean (maybe just a little mean) I know Bio-mom is trying and I know it’s hard. So I was thrilled (thrilled) to set up a date with the wee girls. I am so excited. I get to be the good auntie! I get to be the fun auntie! I get to take them home after spoiling those little tyrants for hours and hours and hours.
gleeful laughter here
Sadly, Beloved pointed out that spoiling them rotten and being “fun” auntie might make Bio-mom mad, so maybe I shouldn’t be too fun.
Right…
So, next Friday (May 2nd) it’ll be party at Auntie Ann’s house!! Woo whooo!
And in other news, I am on the diet wagon again. I warned you weeks ago that I was going to jump back on. Only this time, it’s a bit different. A friend, who shall remain nameless (unless she really wants to be named), found a site for us to track, well, everything!
Over at The Daily Plate you’ll find a terrific tool to track what you are eating and how many calories you burn with exercise. There are forums, groups, a listing of diets, and even a place for your to list your own meals. It even helps you track how much water you drink!
Now, I know what you are thinking, “How is a website going to help me lose weight?”
Well it won’t, silly, unless you apply yourself. For me, having to tattle to the computer everything I put in my mouth is helping me to focus on good choices. I can easily see how many calories I’ve eaten, how many I should be eating and, hold on to your knickers, how much fat is in what I eat.
I adore the fitness tracker and love seeing how many calories I’ve burned. Using this tool, it’s easier to make choices regarding which exercise is best for me on specific days. For example, if I’ve got a lunch or dinner date at a restaurant where I know I’m going to have to make some hard choices, I’ll walk an hour instead of thirty minutes because I’ll burn a lot more calories (that’s an extra 30 minutes along with the Pilate's).
Since we all can’t be fit as a fiddle, like Patti is, we have to work at it. No, there are no quick fixes, but I know you can do it.
At The Daily Plate you can decide how much weight you would like to lose per week and see how many calories you should eat per day to help you attain that goal. My calorie count is pretty high, but I've yet to actually eat that many calories. My thinking is; if I'm not hungry I shouldn't eat. There are many ways to go about eating throughout the day, although most experts suggest six small meals per day, which seems to work very well for me.
So, for those of you who drink Mountain Dew and eat Cheerios for breakfast, might I suggest you plug that meal into The Daily Plate and see exactly what you’re eating?
And don’t even get me started on all the sodium we are eating! No wonder so many American’s have blood pressure issues!
In writing news, I’ve submitted my entry for the Christian Women Online Contest. The winner will be announced May 11. I entered a contest over at Hearts at Home (winners to be announced May 4). My decision to enter these contests (and others) is to have deadlines and topics to write to. If nothing else, it’s a good exercise in writing.
Teri J. Brown has helped me to plot out my book. Which is both exciting and scary, since the plot, as they say, thickens…considerably. Time will tell.
But the big, fun, exciting, thrilling, news is that I will be joining some other amazing bloggers and write reviews for Litfuse Publicity Group. I am looking forward to reading some great material and helping other authors get the news out about their recently published books. Being a bookworm, I adore the thought of having new material to read! Happy day, happy day!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Wordless Wednesday
For more Wordless Wednesday, please visit 5Minutesformom
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Yesterday, Kiva over at eclectic granny gave me an E for Excellence award! Thanks Kiva!
If you haven’t visited Kiva yet, I highly suggest you do so. She is a wonderful photographer and can usually be found participating in the weekly assignments from Outpost Mavarin . Aside from being an evil step mother and the granny you wish you had, she’s a terrific writer and knows far more about computers than I could ever imagine!
So, thanks again Kiva you darlin' girl!
Monday, April 21, 2008
A Shiftless Woman
Her face sagged unto her chest as it rose and fell with each labored breath. I stood in the doorway watching her, a deep sadness growing in my heart. If I entered the room I would be admitting that she was old, far older than I’d remembered. I felt a desperate urge to run for my car and drive away, leaving this image of my elderly Omi (grandmother) while clutching the picture of her younger self in my mind.
I hadn’t seen my Omi in nearly two years and frankly, it was long past time. There were many factors that had kept me from making the six hour drive, but many of those issues have since passed. The children and I loaded up early Saturday morning and began a trip that would take us through sun, rain, hail, and yes, even snow. I hate driving in snow and snow in April in Oregon is just silly.
Weather aside; it was a long, uneventful drive. How different it is to travel with older children, than with babies. My mind was drawn back to memories of this same drive years ago with car seats and diaper bags instead of IPods and Greek textbooks. Now if I could just get one of them to drive…
After a bit of searching and a quick call to my brother, we located the adult care home where my Omi has lived for the last two years. It is a beautiful home, soft yellow with white trim. It stood sparkling in the foreground of the Pacific Ocean. As we entered the building I waited for the strong sent of “rest home” to slap me in the face, but it never did. Instead, we found ourselves in a wide open space. The lobby adjoined the dinning room and television area while pictures and colorful plants were displayed around the room. It was silent and the delicious aroma of lunch floated from the kitchen that stood to the left of the main doors.
It was also empty. Not a soul in sight. There was no bell to ring or “Back in five minutes” sign to tell us what to do. So, we waited. After a moment, a lady came out of the kitchen and asked if she would help us. I told her I was looking for my Omi and gave her the name. She frowned,
“She’s not here. She’s in the hospital.”
Wonderful. My heart jumped half an inch and asked for direction to the hospital. I wasn’t completely surprised that she was in the hospital, she is after all 83-years-old, but I admit to being a bit miffed that no one phoned us. There are only two emergency phone numbers in my Omi’s file; mine and my brothers. Before I could fester up a good head of steam, I considered that Omi had told them not to call. She’s like that, not wanting to worry anyone.
So, there I stood, watching her sleep. The years hadn’t been kind to her body but I knew her mind was still sharp as a tack. She was happy living at the rest home, far away from her daughter, my mother. Throughout the years of squabble, I’ve done my best to stay out of the middle of it. What goes on between this mother and daughter has nothing to do with me, or at least that is the lie I’ve clung to.
I placed my hand on her face and said, “Omi?”
Her eyes flickered open and she straightened up, looking at me. I could see recognition in her eyes, but also a sense of forgetfulness.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you are,” she smiled, but I could tell she wasn’t sure.
I called the kids in and as soon as she saw them she lit to life. She knew these two! “How they’ve grown!” she said. Here was my Omi, alert, smiling. She’s only been hiding in that old woman who was sleeping in that hospital bed.
Our visit lasted only the weekend but I spent as much time at her side as I could. We talked about so many things and I rejoiced to see my Omi laugh and joke. I also noted her slowness, her struggling to find the correct word, and her inability to move her legs. My bright, beautiful, witty, German Omi is trapped in a body that occasionally ignores her wants or needs. But she’s there, just behind those pale blue eyes.
She told me the story of how she learned to drive, how my Grandpa had called her a “shiftless woman” because she had such trouble driving. He solved the problem by buying her an automatic saying, “Here is a shiftless car for my shiftless woman.”
Yet, there was one thing that has bothered me for some time now. I am the only Christian in my family; neither my brothers nor my parents share my faith. I could tell you all sorts of gory details, but this isn’t Jerry Springer, so you’ll have to let your mind wander over ideas. Demons, monsters, and goblins, oh my!
My Omi was raised in a very devout Roman Catholic family. When she married her handsome American GI and came to live in the US, she left the church and all that it stood for in the dust of Germany. The only times she’d set foot in church was on weddings and funerals and now as she inches forward towards her own funeral, I couldn’t help but wonder about her faith. She told me she’d been going to church (when the weather is nice) so I asked, “What do you think of that church?”
It turned out that she is attending the same Baptist church my husband and I have attended when we are in the area. They have a ministry to the rest home and offer a Bible study on Thursdays. “I like the Thursdays best,” she confided.
“It’s different from the Roman Catholic church, huh?”
“Yes, I like it.”
“So, Omi, when you die, will you go to heaven?”
Looking me straight in the eye she said firmly, “I’m trying.”
I smiled, happy to see those flames behind her eyes. We talked about the work that Jesus did and how salvation is through Him alone. I was surprised when she reminded me about an incident that happened a few years ago, when she had contemplated suicide.
“I think He stopped me,” she whispered.
“I think so too and I’m glad he did!”
“Me too!” she chuckled.
My Omi hasn’t been released from the hospital and the physical therapist is making her work hard, but I know now that either way, she’ll be alright. One day, perhaps sooner than I think, she’ll leave that wheelchair behind and run the fields of Glory free from the chains of her earthly body.
For now, I like to think of her in that red, shiftless car, motoring around the town. I can almost see her, strawberry blonde hair flying, sky blue eyes winking, and that flirty smile being thrown about like hundred dollar bills.
Now, that’s the Omi I remember.
I hadn’t seen my Omi in nearly two years and frankly, it was long past time. There were many factors that had kept me from making the six hour drive, but many of those issues have since passed. The children and I loaded up early Saturday morning and began a trip that would take us through sun, rain, hail, and yes, even snow. I hate driving in snow and snow in April in Oregon is just silly.
Weather aside; it was a long, uneventful drive. How different it is to travel with older children, than with babies. My mind was drawn back to memories of this same drive years ago with car seats and diaper bags instead of IPods and Greek textbooks. Now if I could just get one of them to drive…
After a bit of searching and a quick call to my brother, we located the adult care home where my Omi has lived for the last two years. It is a beautiful home, soft yellow with white trim. It stood sparkling in the foreground of the Pacific Ocean. As we entered the building I waited for the strong sent of “rest home” to slap me in the face, but it never did. Instead, we found ourselves in a wide open space. The lobby adjoined the dinning room and television area while pictures and colorful plants were displayed around the room. It was silent and the delicious aroma of lunch floated from the kitchen that stood to the left of the main doors.
It was also empty. Not a soul in sight. There was no bell to ring or “Back in five minutes” sign to tell us what to do. So, we waited. After a moment, a lady came out of the kitchen and asked if she would help us. I told her I was looking for my Omi and gave her the name. She frowned,
“She’s not here. She’s in the hospital.”
Wonderful. My heart jumped half an inch and asked for direction to the hospital. I wasn’t completely surprised that she was in the hospital, she is after all 83-years-old, but I admit to being a bit miffed that no one phoned us. There are only two emergency phone numbers in my Omi’s file; mine and my brothers. Before I could fester up a good head of steam, I considered that Omi had told them not to call. She’s like that, not wanting to worry anyone.
So, there I stood, watching her sleep. The years hadn’t been kind to her body but I knew her mind was still sharp as a tack. She was happy living at the rest home, far away from her daughter, my mother. Throughout the years of squabble, I’ve done my best to stay out of the middle of it. What goes on between this mother and daughter has nothing to do with me, or at least that is the lie I’ve clung to.
I placed my hand on her face and said, “Omi?”
Her eyes flickered open and she straightened up, looking at me. I could see recognition in her eyes, but also a sense of forgetfulness.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you are,” she smiled, but I could tell she wasn’t sure.
I called the kids in and as soon as she saw them she lit to life. She knew these two! “How they’ve grown!” she said. Here was my Omi, alert, smiling. She’s only been hiding in that old woman who was sleeping in that hospital bed.
Our visit lasted only the weekend but I spent as much time at her side as I could. We talked about so many things and I rejoiced to see my Omi laugh and joke. I also noted her slowness, her struggling to find the correct word, and her inability to move her legs. My bright, beautiful, witty, German Omi is trapped in a body that occasionally ignores her wants or needs. But she’s there, just behind those pale blue eyes.
She told me the story of how she learned to drive, how my Grandpa had called her a “shiftless woman” because she had such trouble driving. He solved the problem by buying her an automatic saying, “Here is a shiftless car for my shiftless woman.”
Yet, there was one thing that has bothered me for some time now. I am the only Christian in my family; neither my brothers nor my parents share my faith. I could tell you all sorts of gory details, but this isn’t Jerry Springer, so you’ll have to let your mind wander over ideas. Demons, monsters, and goblins, oh my!
My Omi was raised in a very devout Roman Catholic family. When she married her handsome American GI and came to live in the US, she left the church and all that it stood for in the dust of Germany. The only times she’d set foot in church was on weddings and funerals and now as she inches forward towards her own funeral, I couldn’t help but wonder about her faith. She told me she’d been going to church (when the weather is nice) so I asked, “What do you think of that church?”
It turned out that she is attending the same Baptist church my husband and I have attended when we are in the area. They have a ministry to the rest home and offer a Bible study on Thursdays. “I like the Thursdays best,” she confided.
“It’s different from the Roman Catholic church, huh?”
“Yes, I like it.”
“So, Omi, when you die, will you go to heaven?”
Looking me straight in the eye she said firmly, “I’m trying.”
I smiled, happy to see those flames behind her eyes. We talked about the work that Jesus did and how salvation is through Him alone. I was surprised when she reminded me about an incident that happened a few years ago, when she had contemplated suicide.
“I think He stopped me,” she whispered.
“I think so too and I’m glad he did!”
“Me too!” she chuckled.
My Omi hasn’t been released from the hospital and the physical therapist is making her work hard, but I know now that either way, she’ll be alright. One day, perhaps sooner than I think, she’ll leave that wheelchair behind and run the fields of Glory free from the chains of her earthly body.
For now, I like to think of her in that red, shiftless car, motoring around the town. I can almost see her, strawberry blonde hair flying, sky blue eyes winking, and that flirty smile being thrown about like hundred dollar bills.
Now, that’s the Omi I remember.
Friday, April 18, 2008
And the Winner is....
The alarm announced 5:20 and I hopped out of bed. Today was the day. I rushed to my computer and waited, rather impatiently, really, for it to boot to life. ”Why do these things take soooo long?” Finally, it was alive enough for me to open my email.
I’d pretty much talked myself out of winning Scribbit’s April Writing Contest. Last night, I lay in bed, trying to pray and ignore those nasty little voice that tell me I should get a real job. My own tiny voice could barely be heard above the din, “But…I can write. It’s a gift God gave me…”
Yeah, whatevah.
So imagine my surprise at WINNING!!!!
Wow! Thanks Michelle at Scribbit for hosting the contest. Thank you Elizabeth at Planet Nomad for judging the contest.
There were some truly awesome entries and I really hope you’ll stop by these very talented writers blogs.
Here are the MOST honorable mentions:
Mozi Esme Entry: Clean Underwear, Cheerios, and Gloryland
Musings in Mindanao Entry: Whenever I Go Home, I Leave Home
Marybeth Whalen Entry: I Can't Go Home Again
Never a Dull Moment Entry: My Home Away from Home
CommuniKATE Entry: The Heartbeat of My Home
Ima on (and off) the Bima Entry: Sedar Night
Gosh! I'm just so surprised and so thrilled! I think I'll go make a cup of tea (still not drinking coffee, grumble, grumble) and maybe do a little writing :)
I’d pretty much talked myself out of winning Scribbit’s April Writing Contest. Last night, I lay in bed, trying to pray and ignore those nasty little voice that tell me I should get a real job. My own tiny voice could barely be heard above the din, “But…I can write. It’s a gift God gave me…”
Yeah, whatevah.
Wow! Thanks Michelle at Scribbit for hosting the contest. Thank you Elizabeth at Planet Nomad for judging the contest.
There were some truly awesome entries and I really hope you’ll stop by these very talented writers blogs.
Mozi Esme Entry: Clean Underwear, Cheerios, and Gloryland
Musings in Mindanao Entry: Whenever I Go Home, I Leave Home
Marybeth Whalen Entry: I Can't Go Home Again
Never a Dull Moment Entry: My Home Away from Home
CommuniKATE Entry: The Heartbeat of My Home
Ima on (and off) the Bima Entry: Sedar Night
Gosh! I'm just so surprised and so thrilled! I think I'll go make a cup of tea (still not drinking coffee, grumble, grumble) and maybe do a little writing :)
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Your Opinion Please
I’m not a big newsie. I’ll scan a couple of web pages and read the local and living sections of my daily fish wrapper, but all in all, I don’t care much for the news. It’s usually bad news anyway; someone was murdered, someone was raped, a storm here, a car wreck there, all pretty depressing stuff. But every once in a while I follow a news story closely and (gasp) read everything I can.
All of which is amusing considering I think the media is bought and paid for and they report what they are told to report. It’s all about a person’s worldview, baby. But that’s another rant.
Like thousands of other people I’ve been following the Texas polygamist story. Before I go much further, I should mention that I am not a Mormon of any shade and I do not condone polygamy (nor does the mainstream Mormon Church). After all, polygamy is just a man’s dream come true, right girls? Nor do I condone underage marriage (I have a niece who married at 16 and yes her mother is an idiot, thank you very much). As far as abuse of any kind against children, I am a mother bear. I think people who intentionally and willfully hurt a child deserve strict punishment. For all those pedophiles out there, I know how to cure your problem: it’s called the death penalty.
As I’ve followed the story of the mothers and children who have now been separated by the state of Texas, I cannot help but feel that something is not ringing true. Having been a foster parent I’ve made some observations about the “system”. One thing I learned and learned quickly was that social workers lie. I am not an ostrich whose head is stuck so firmly in the ground that I do not realize that people do tell lies. Heck, I’ve lied (not good, but true).
Yet, I find it disturbing that people, whose job it is to investigate and protect children, lie and apparently they do so a lot. A friend of mine who had worked as a foster parent and then Department of Human Services volunteer phoned me to give me the real deal concerning social workers.
“They aren’t like people you know Ann. They lie. They’ll lie if the truth is sitting two feet away from them ready to bite. Be careful.”
With that bit o’ news we continued with our application and soon became the foster parents to the Z-Monster and The Destroyer. It was at our first court hearing, just two weeks after the girls came to live with us that we learned that social workers do indeed lie. In fact, they are so brazen; they’ll even lie to a judge, in court, with the court reporter ticking away. All I could do was sit there, mouth hanging open, and blink. Its called perjury, isn’t it?
But, back to the topic at hand; should the mothers in this case be treated as criminals without due course of law? Their children have been removed from their custody into an already overly full foster care system (there are over 500,000 children in foster care across the country at this time). Most of these children, if the judge deems it necessary will be placed in intake centers, because there is simply no way there are enough foster homes in the surrounding areas.
The question is, have the mother’s rights been trampled upon? They say they’ve been lied to, which in my experience is a complete possibility.
So? Tell me, what do you think?
All of which is amusing considering I think the media is bought and paid for and they report what they are told to report. It’s all about a person’s worldview, baby. But that’s another rant.
Like thousands of other people I’ve been following the Texas polygamist story. Before I go much further, I should mention that I am not a Mormon of any shade and I do not condone polygamy (nor does the mainstream Mormon Church). After all, polygamy is just a man’s dream come true, right girls? Nor do I condone underage marriage (I have a niece who married at 16 and yes her mother is an idiot, thank you very much). As far as abuse of any kind against children, I am a mother bear. I think people who intentionally and willfully hurt a child deserve strict punishment. For all those pedophiles out there, I know how to cure your problem: it’s called the death penalty.
As I’ve followed the story of the mothers and children who have now been separated by the state of Texas, I cannot help but feel that something is not ringing true. Having been a foster parent I’ve made some observations about the “system”. One thing I learned and learned quickly was that social workers lie. I am not an ostrich whose head is stuck so firmly in the ground that I do not realize that people do tell lies. Heck, I’ve lied (not good, but true).
Yet, I find it disturbing that people, whose job it is to investigate and protect children, lie and apparently they do so a lot. A friend of mine who had worked as a foster parent and then Department of Human Services volunteer phoned me to give me the real deal concerning social workers.
“They aren’t like people you know Ann. They lie. They’ll lie if the truth is sitting two feet away from them ready to bite. Be careful.”
With that bit o’ news we continued with our application and soon became the foster parents to the Z-Monster and The Destroyer. It was at our first court hearing, just two weeks after the girls came to live with us that we learned that social workers do indeed lie. In fact, they are so brazen; they’ll even lie to a judge, in court, with the court reporter ticking away. All I could do was sit there, mouth hanging open, and blink. Its called perjury, isn’t it?
But, back to the topic at hand; should the mothers in this case be treated as criminals without due course of law? Their children have been removed from their custody into an already overly full foster care system (there are over 500,000 children in foster care across the country at this time). Most of these children, if the judge deems it necessary will be placed in intake centers, because there is simply no way there are enough foster homes in the surrounding areas.
The question is, have the mother’s rights been trampled upon? They say they’ve been lied to, which in my experience is a complete possibility.
So? Tell me, what do you think?
Monday, April 14, 2008
Happy Birthday
We hadn’t been married very long before I was bit by the “baby” bug. Beloved, on the other hand, was perfectly content to float through life as a couple, never being bothered by small, noise, dirty children who sucked up your time and money. Exactly how a girl like me, who wanted a house filled with children came to be married to a man who didn’t really want children is still a mystery scientist are trying to solve to this day!
Seriously, the man didn’t want to have children. What a weirdo! I mean, who doesn’t love children? Crazy people, that’s who, snicker. (In Beloved's defense he changed his mind about children after becoming a father)
Anyway, I have a point to all this, really. I wanted a baby. Beloved wanted a pair of speakers. An expensive pair of speakers (I should have seen the warning signs all those years ago to know that my house would be riddled with antique stereo equipment, but I was young and in lllooovveee…) so I made him a deal. He could buy his speakers if I could have a baby.
As I remember it, he kinda laughed. It was a, “You’re just joking” kind of laugh. I laughed too. Mine was an evil, “I’m gonna get my way” kind of laugh. He bought the speakers and hoisted those monsters up the stairs and into our one bedroom apartment (our neighbors shook with fear). I watched him hook them up, so excited, just like a kid at Christmas (insert evil laugh here). Smiling I walked into the bathroom and came out with my birth control pills.
“I guess we don’t need these any more,” I sang as I walked to the kitchen and dumped them down into the trash can.
Beloved stood there. Just as if he were frozen in time. He had that deer in the head lights look and I started to wonder if he was breathing. I smiled. He blinked. I walked past him into the bedroom saying, “I’m glad you bought your speakers…”
And that, as the saying goes, was that.
Our first child was born on April 14, 1990, which also happens to be today’s date. So, as you may have guessed, this blog is about our boy.
My pregnancy was an easy one, right up until the end. Then something went wrong. Terribly wrong. After hours of labor the doctor decided to perform an emergency C-section. The baby was in distress and we were scared senseless. At 4:38am he arrived, limp and ashy gray.
“Is he okay? Is he okay?” I kept asking. I couldn’t see a thing.
And even though the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck THREE TIMES, he was okay. He was more than that, he was perfect.
Boy has filled our life with lots of laughter. Such as the time, when he was four-years-old, and his father had come home for lunch. As we sat at the table, little dude kept rocking his body from side to side. Beloved said, “What are you doing?” and he replied, “Oh. You know how little kids are, they’re always wiggling around.”
From a very early age our boy knew exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up. He drew me a picture for a school assignment showing himself, wearing glasses (which he didn’t wear at the time) and standing behind something. When I asked about the picture, he told me that it was him, as a Pastor. He was five.
You can imagine our surprise when several years later we were listening to a presentation by missionaries from Wycliffe Bible Translators who shared that most people in Christian service knew they were called to serve by the age of nine. Beloved and I looked at each other and whispered, “Wow”.
Boy graduated from high school a year early in 2007. He is currently interning with a Christian organization and is doing well. It’s been really fun to watching him grow and mature this past year. His studies in New Testament Greek, preaching, and Biblical studies challenge him to study hard, but there is still plenty of time for goofy stuff. I can’t really share all the goofy stuff here, but after eating pizza with him and his roommates tonight, I’ll just say that they’re having a good time and if you happen to use the bathroom down there…watch out for bottle rockets.
It was our great joy to take Boy, and his roommates to pizza tonight. We also brought him Kugal and Izzy (his favorite soda). What a fun bunch of guys and yet they are all very serious about the Lord. We are very thankful for good friends and good roomies.
Happy birthday Boy! We love you!
Birthday Pictures
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Recipe
I had a request from Kiva over at Eclectic Granny for the Oatmeal Cookie recipe. I've posted it, for those with beefy, strong arms, on my recipe blog This Mom Can Cook
I'll be posting the Kugal recipe next week after John's birthday (he's requested it in place of a traditional cake), so I'll have pitures to share.
I'll be posting the Kugal recipe next week after John's birthday (he's requested it in place of a traditional cake), so I'll have pitures to share.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Worth Reading
Wall Street Journal (perhaps the only time you'll see this fish wrapper on my blog) has published an article on mom bloggers. Check it out at: The Blogger Mom in Your Face
There's Something Delicious Going on Here
Having been marooned in the Land of the Sick and Dying for a few days, I’ve now managed to get my life preserver back on and swim for shore. Of course, once I got here I realized that something funny is going on. It’s something that I do when: 1) I’m sad or 2) I have company.
I’m not sad, no really, I’m not. The wee girls are gone and you know what? It’s been kinda nice. The house is clean or at least cleaner. I haven’t yelled, screamed, or sighed in frustration in over two weeks. When I go to bed at night, well, gee, I sleep all night (this is may in part be due to the allergy medication I take).
Yes, I miss those two little blonde tyrants and their endlessly asking, “Why?” I miss their silly laughter and sweet hugs. But there is a certain amount of calm going on around here and frankly, I think we all like it. A lot.
Okay, not sad. Do I have company? Well, no, actually we don’t. You see, we have a very open door policy at our house. From time to time there will be any number of nieces, nephews, sisters, brothers, or friends occupying bed space. Mi casa, su casa. Yet, there is actually an empty bed with no one but the cat to claim it (and claim it he has!).
I announced, rather loudly, that after the wee girls were gone that I was taking the month off and I didn’t want anyone under the age of 15 in my house. I know that sounds a bit harsh (or desperate?) but really, it’s been a long ride, down a windy road these last eleven months. Because of this bold proclamation I have missed out on an extended stay from Master W. His mama is a soldier in the Army National Guard (hooah!). This week she’s had extensive training on the coast and thus Master W finds himself with other family members rather than Auntie Ann.
So, no company and I’m not emotionally disturbed (stop it! I am not!) What gives?
Why am I baking?
I love to bake. Really. Love it. And, yeah, I’m good at it too. Everything from a chocolate cake that is eye rolling good to a lemon cake that you’ll want second helpings of, I am that good. I make an oatmeal cookie that people who have politely taken one, reach for a second, third…you get the point. Even my friends who, “don’t do sugar” have demanded to know the recipe to my Apple Kugal.
Earlier this week I was forced to bake. Beloved and the guys went camping over the weekend and upon returning presented me with some very sorry looking bananas. Who can ignore overly ripe bananas? Apparently, not me. So, I whipped up a loaf of the worlds best banana bread (recipe from Alton Brown of the Food Network). Since son wasn’t home, the loaf actually lasted two days (one benefit of having oldest son living an hour from home is that food lasts longer).
Then yesterday, after dropping the Delightful Miss C as her Biology class (where they were dissecting frogs, yum) I scurried home with thoughts of spice cake. Beloved’s grandmother made a spice cake to die for, or at least that is what he keeps telling me. Sadly, I find it dry and it has raisins, eewww. I searched around the internet and my cookbooks, but really couldn’t find a recipe that screamed delicious.
I considered making a key lime pie (Barefoot Contessa) but I only had two limes. Cookies? Nope I was not in a cookie mood since I had just baked four dozen oatmeal cookies for Beloved’s camping trip. Perhaps a wickedly chocolate brownie? I’ve got a recipe for a brownie that makes my family sigh with delight. But, no, I didn’t feel like a brownie.
Which left me only one choice:
Kugal
I learned to make Kugal from my Orthodox Jewish neighbor over twelve years ago. This is the same woman who attempted to teach me how to make Challah bread, she was sadly disappointed. The art of bread baking has escaped me and other than cinnamon rolls at Christmas, I stay away from yeast. But I bake a mean Kugal.
So, while beef stroganoff simmered on the stove top, my blueberry Kugal baked in the oven, filling the house with a delicious, unmistakable aroma.
BUT WHY AM I BAKING?
I’m sick and I’m baking or am I baking and I’m sick? There’s something funny going on here and I can’t put my finger on it.
Oh well, guess I’ll have a cup of tea and a slice of Kugal while I ponder the possibilities of a homemade Key Lime Pie.
I’m not sad, no really, I’m not. The wee girls are gone and you know what? It’s been kinda nice. The house is clean or at least cleaner. I haven’t yelled, screamed, or sighed in frustration in over two weeks. When I go to bed at night, well, gee, I sleep all night (this is may in part be due to the allergy medication I take).
Yes, I miss those two little blonde tyrants and their endlessly asking, “Why?” I miss their silly laughter and sweet hugs. But there is a certain amount of calm going on around here and frankly, I think we all like it. A lot.
Okay, not sad. Do I have company? Well, no, actually we don’t. You see, we have a very open door policy at our house. From time to time there will be any number of nieces, nephews, sisters, brothers, or friends occupying bed space. Mi casa, su casa. Yet, there is actually an empty bed with no one but the cat to claim it (and claim it he has!).
I announced, rather loudly, that after the wee girls were gone that I was taking the month off and I didn’t want anyone under the age of 15 in my house. I know that sounds a bit harsh (or desperate?) but really, it’s been a long ride, down a windy road these last eleven months. Because of this bold proclamation I have missed out on an extended stay from Master W. His mama is a soldier in the Army National Guard (hooah!). This week she’s had extensive training on the coast and thus Master W finds himself with other family members rather than Auntie Ann.
So, no company and I’m not emotionally disturbed (stop it! I am not!) What gives?
Why am I baking?
I love to bake. Really. Love it. And, yeah, I’m good at it too. Everything from a chocolate cake that is eye rolling good to a lemon cake that you’ll want second helpings of, I am that good. I make an oatmeal cookie that people who have politely taken one, reach for a second, third…you get the point. Even my friends who, “don’t do sugar” have demanded to know the recipe to my Apple Kugal.
Earlier this week I was forced to bake. Beloved and the guys went camping over the weekend and upon returning presented me with some very sorry looking bananas. Who can ignore overly ripe bananas? Apparently, not me. So, I whipped up a loaf of the worlds best banana bread (recipe from Alton Brown of the Food Network). Since son wasn’t home, the loaf actually lasted two days (one benefit of having oldest son living an hour from home is that food lasts longer).
Then yesterday, after dropping the Delightful Miss C as her Biology class (where they were dissecting frogs, yum) I scurried home with thoughts of spice cake. Beloved’s grandmother made a spice cake to die for, or at least that is what he keeps telling me. Sadly, I find it dry and it has raisins, eewww. I searched around the internet and my cookbooks, but really couldn’t find a recipe that screamed delicious.
I considered making a key lime pie (Barefoot Contessa) but I only had two limes. Cookies? Nope I was not in a cookie mood since I had just baked four dozen oatmeal cookies for Beloved’s camping trip. Perhaps a wickedly chocolate brownie? I’ve got a recipe for a brownie that makes my family sigh with delight. But, no, I didn’t feel like a brownie.
Which left me only one choice:
Kugal
I learned to make Kugal from my Orthodox Jewish neighbor over twelve years ago. This is the same woman who attempted to teach me how to make Challah bread, she was sadly disappointed. The art of bread baking has escaped me and other than cinnamon rolls at Christmas, I stay away from yeast. But I bake a mean Kugal.
So, while beef stroganoff simmered on the stove top, my blueberry Kugal baked in the oven, filling the house with a delicious, unmistakable aroma.
BUT WHY AM I BAKING?
I’m sick and I’m baking or am I baking and I’m sick? There’s something funny going on here and I can’t put my finger on it.
Oh well, guess I’ll have a cup of tea and a slice of Kugal while I ponder the possibilities of a homemade Key Lime Pie.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
Pink Soap makes You Smell Good
Below is my "fiction" entry for Scribbit's April Writing Contest. Check this out and more at
Pink Soap makes You Smell Good: A Story about Going Home
Many people have trouble retaining memories from their early childhood, but not me. Mine have been burned into my memory – leaving a scar that is forever vivid, forever burning. Returning home often resurrects melancholy memories of those who have passed while being warmly embraced by those who love you best. At eight-years-old I was being returned home for the fifth time and I felt none of that nostalgia for that place they called home.
The taxi sped me homeward as the snow swirled outside. Turning from my window, I looked at the driver who sat secure behind the taxi's Plexiglas shield. His hair, stringy and gray, hung to his shoulders and turned up at the ends. He drove as if he was alone, humming a gentle tune and chewing on his cigar.
Sliding my glance sideways, I took in the brown skirt and folded speckled hands of the social worker. I cannot recall her name, there had been so many, but I remember that her voice was kind, her eyes a dull brown. She had a certain smell that I couldn’t place, but now understand to be the smell of a longing for retirement. My gaze turned toward her window and I watched as white flakes whirled past, some splattering against the window in a suicidal race for the road below.
Home? What did that really mean? The social worker said that my home was with my Momma; a place so removed from any ideal of home that I nearly laughed out loud at the thought. I'd been in enough homes to know that the one bedroom apartment my Momma lived in with her fat, greasy boyfriend and four cats was anything but a home.
When I was younger, I had no idea that there were people who lived differently than we did. They didn't play in alley ways with forgotten syringes and bits of broken glass. Their neighbors weren't crack heads or prostitutes. They didn't have regular visits from the local police and children didn't race cockroaches on wilting summer days.
I suppose I should thank Momma for being an addict. If she hadn't been, I would never have known that there was life outside the projects. Because of her, I learned that mac and cheese didn't always come from a box, that pink soap made you smell good, and that hands were made for love, not for hitting. Without Momma's addiction, I'd never have owned a pair of black Mary Janes, worn a hat to the First Baptist Church on Easter, or slept, unafraid every night tucked between clean sheets.
Although they were making me return home, I knew it would only be for a short time. One way or the other I was getting out and the next time, I wouldn't be going home again.
Scribbit: Motherhood in Alaska
Pink Soap makes You Smell Good: A Story about Going Home
Many people have trouble retaining memories from their early childhood, but not me. Mine have been burned into my memory – leaving a scar that is forever vivid, forever burning. Returning home often resurrects melancholy memories of those who have passed while being warmly embraced by those who love you best. At eight-years-old I was being returned home for the fifth time and I felt none of that nostalgia for that place they called home.
The taxi sped me homeward as the snow swirled outside. Turning from my window, I looked at the driver who sat secure behind the taxi's Plexiglas shield. His hair, stringy and gray, hung to his shoulders and turned up at the ends. He drove as if he was alone, humming a gentle tune and chewing on his cigar.
Sliding my glance sideways, I took in the brown skirt and folded speckled hands of the social worker. I cannot recall her name, there had been so many, but I remember that her voice was kind, her eyes a dull brown. She had a certain smell that I couldn’t place, but now understand to be the smell of a longing for retirement. My gaze turned toward her window and I watched as white flakes whirled past, some splattering against the window in a suicidal race for the road below.
Home? What did that really mean? The social worker said that my home was with my Momma; a place so removed from any ideal of home that I nearly laughed out loud at the thought. I'd been in enough homes to know that the one bedroom apartment my Momma lived in with her fat, greasy boyfriend and four cats was anything but a home.
When I was younger, I had no idea that there were people who lived differently than we did. They didn't play in alley ways with forgotten syringes and bits of broken glass. Their neighbors weren't crack heads or prostitutes. They didn't have regular visits from the local police and children didn't race cockroaches on wilting summer days.
I suppose I should thank Momma for being an addict. If she hadn't been, I would never have known that there was life outside the projects. Because of her, I learned that mac and cheese didn't always come from a box, that pink soap made you smell good, and that hands were made for love, not for hitting. Without Momma's addiction, I'd never have owned a pair of black Mary Janes, worn a hat to the First Baptist Church on Easter, or slept, unafraid every night tucked between clean sheets.
Although they were making me return home, I knew it would only be for a short time. One way or the other I was getting out and the next time, I wouldn't be going home again.
Hi...Good...Bye
How my idiot girl’s heart was warmed by all of your kind words and thoughts. Last Wednesday was a sucky day, sucky, sucky, sucky. It felt like when you are mindlessly chomping on potato chips and swallow before one is fully chewed. That chip will then carve a jagged path down your esophagus, leaving you choking, gagging, and gasping. Your eyes water, your face turns a vibrant red; you cough and cough and cough. All the while the faces of others watch you and continually ask, “Are you okay?”
“Well of course I’m okay! Don’t I look okay?”
”Actually, no, you don’t.”
Sometimes that ache, scratchy feeling in your throat will stay for hours, maybe even days. Oh, alright, it never lasts for days. But heartache, well, that’s just a horse of a different color. Isn’t it?
After the initial shock of it all, we managed to recover ourselves. Although rarely an hour passes without a memory or phrase being drummed up and repeated. Thus far, over the last five days, I have discovered things in unusual places: the toy bottle for one of the Destroyer’s baby dolls hidden behind the dog food bin, one of Monster’s flowery turtlenecks tucked among my shirts, a bright green elastic hair band being batted around by the cat, or the rubber ducky from bath time, neatly squirreled away behind the bleach.
Silence aside, we had a good weekend. The guys went camping and we girls reclaimed and repainted Miss C’s bedroom (it had been hosting those wee tyrants), stayed up far too late, and watched chick flicks (with the exception of Henry V) until our eyes felt dull and heavy.
Monday dawned cold, drizzly, and gray. How surprising to behold such weather in early April in Oregon. Snicker. Then, the most amazing of things happened. The phone rang and the caller ID announced that it was none other than Bio-Mom.
I hadn’t even hoped to hear from her in a month and here it is, a mere five days since the girls were reunited with her and she’s calling. My heart leapt. Good news? Bad news? Actually, a mixture of both, but I’ll take it none the less.
”The girls really miss you guys. They want to talk to you.”
The Monsters little voice choked with emotion and I stuffed sappy, idiot girl securely into a key-hole while I spoke encouraging, bright words to my sad, sad girl. The Destroyer, being two and half, had less to share:
”Hi…good…bye.”
This same conversation was repeated another two times to Miss C and Beloved, who happened to have the day off. Just hearing their voices made me glad and while I worried over the tiny bit of bad news, I was relieved to know that Bio-mom is doing two things: she is understanding that I am not a threat (at least she knows that unless I get her alone in a dark alley, she’s probably pretty safe) and she is listening to the needs of her babies and doing something for them.
In other news:
My writing contest entry is just about complete and ready to post. I have another writing contest that’s due by the end of the month and my book to get busy with. I’ve finished, The Girl who Stopped Swimming by Joshilyn Jackson and am half way through Ophelia by Lisa Klein. I haven’t truly started chewing through Step by Step HTML and XHTML by Faithe Wempen, but I’ll get there. I’ve read my Bible every day and slept well beyond the 5:20 alarm.
All things considered, life is looking pretty bright on this drippy Monday.
Sometimes that ache, scratchy feeling in your throat will stay for hours, maybe even days. Oh, alright, it never lasts for days. But heartache, well, that’s just a horse of a different color. Isn’t it?
After the initial shock of it all, we managed to recover ourselves. Although rarely an hour passes without a memory or phrase being drummed up and repeated. Thus far, over the last five days, I have discovered things in unusual places: the toy bottle for one of the Destroyer’s baby dolls hidden behind the dog food bin, one of Monster’s flowery turtlenecks tucked among my shirts, a bright green elastic hair band being batted around by the cat, or the rubber ducky from bath time, neatly squirreled away behind the bleach.
Silence aside, we had a good weekend. The guys went camping and we girls reclaimed and repainted Miss C’s bedroom (it had been hosting those wee tyrants), stayed up far too late, and watched chick flicks (with the exception of Henry V) until our eyes felt dull and heavy.
Monday dawned cold, drizzly, and gray. How surprising to behold such weather in early April in Oregon. Snicker. Then, the most amazing of things happened. The phone rang and the caller ID announced that it was none other than Bio-Mom.
I hadn’t even hoped to hear from her in a month and here it is, a mere five days since the girls were reunited with her and she’s calling. My heart leapt. Good news? Bad news? Actually, a mixture of both, but I’ll take it none the less.
The Monsters little voice choked with emotion and I stuffed sappy, idiot girl securely into a key-hole while I spoke encouraging, bright words to my sad, sad girl. The Destroyer, being two and half, had less to share:
This same conversation was repeated another two times to Miss C and Beloved, who happened to have the day off. Just hearing their voices made me glad and while I worried over the tiny bit of bad news, I was relieved to know that Bio-mom is doing two things: she is understanding that I am not a threat (at least she knows that unless I get her alone in a dark alley, she’s probably pretty safe) and she is listening to the needs of her babies and doing something for them.
In other news:
My writing contest entry is just about complete and ready to post. I have another writing contest that’s due by the end of the month and my book to get busy with. I’ve finished, The Girl who Stopped Swimming by Joshilyn Jackson and am half way through Ophelia by Lisa Klein. I haven’t truly started chewing through Step by Step HTML and XHTML by Faithe Wempen, but I’ll get there. I’ve read my Bible every day and slept well beyond the 5:20 alarm.
All things considered, life is looking pretty bright on this drippy Monday.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
She Stared
I know, it’s Wordless Wednesday and there are words on my blog. The problem is that I am a writer and I’m emotional. All of which means I have many words to use right now. That’s right baby, I got words, and I’m not afraid to use them. Not to mention, it will spare Beloved from a verbal assault the minute he walks in the door tonight.
At 9:17 this morning the case worker appeared and whisked the wee girls away. Z-Monster had been up since 6:30. She woke up screaming, something she hasn’t done in months. I know it was because of what today represented, but it didn’t make it easier.
Last night, after ice cream sundaes, surrounded by four loving, but helpless adults and one teenager, Z-Monster told me that she’s going to miss me. Though her teary voice barely whispered it, I heard her confess, “I wish I could live with you forever.”
Ouch
For my part, I was able to keep pretty fast control on the water works. I saw no sense in both of us weeping over something we cannot stop. I just held her tiny little blonde person and told her how much I loved her.
Knowing what they are going back to is what grieves me so much. I’m not heartless, but I will not miss the mess, the noise, the fighting. I won’t miss the back talk, the middle of the night coughing fits, or the early morning wake up call. I will not pine for moments when I will yell at the top of my voice for whoever is doing whatever to stop doing it. Nor will I yearn for just one more potty accident. If this makes me cold hearted, well then, so be it.
It’s the knowledge of their situation that strikes bitter fear within my heart. Children are gifts. Gifts I say! They are a treasure straight from Heaven above and they are to be cherished. Children should be trained in what is right and good and carefully disciplined in what’s bad. Little ones need to know that mom and dad are there to protect them, no matter what. That home is a place where there is food, warmth, and love. Children have the right to grow up secure in the knowledge that no matter what else happens; their parent will always put their best interest first.
Filth, chaos, violence, neglect; that’s what these beautiful, blue-eyed babies have to look forward to. What a waste. What a terrible, terrible waste.
So, why are they going home you ask? Simply put, the DA doesn’t have enough evidence to remove them permanently. This is the second time these children have been removed and ours was their second foster home. The very first time, they landed at Auntie Teri’s house. They spent an entire summer tormenting Auntie and were returned to Bio-Mom in September. Then, in January of last year The Destroyer broke her arm, at 17 months, and was back, minus beastly brother, at Auntie Teri’s. The rest is pretty much history; Teri’s mom’s cancer and our applying to be foster parents happened in the blink of an eye.
I didn’t know. I simply didn’t know how much sorrow and rage could lurk behind blue eyes. How could I? So for eleven months I learned. I studied attachment issues; I waded through lies and learned that being a foster parent is not a job for the weak or weary. It was revealed that I’m not nearly the excellent parent I thought I was; I’m short tempered, crabby, and I yell (who knew?). Yet as the months passed something happened…those little tyrants wiggled and squirmed their way into my heart.
Drat
“I love you. Be good for your mom. Don’t fight with your brother, yeah, I know it’s hard. But I love you. If mom says its okay, you can call me, anytime. Remember, Jesus loves you best of all and He’ll always be there for you.”
And then the car backed down the hill and I waved…
The destroyer waved and smiled. She’s two and a half, in about two days she’s going to wonder where her mama is and I’ll be wondering if she’s eating, if she’s safe, is she getting her medicine. I can only pray and wonder.
Z-Monster sat in her car seat, not smiling, not waving. She just stared at me with sad blue eyes. No tears, no expression whatsoever. She just stared.
As long as I live I will never, ever forget that look
At 9:17 this morning the case worker appeared and whisked the wee girls away. Z-Monster had been up since 6:30. She woke up screaming, something she hasn’t done in months. I know it was because of what today represented, but it didn’t make it easier.
Last night, after ice cream sundaes, surrounded by four loving, but helpless adults and one teenager, Z-Monster told me that she’s going to miss me. Though her teary voice barely whispered it, I heard her confess, “I wish I could live with you forever.”
Ouch
For my part, I was able to keep pretty fast control on the water works. I saw no sense in both of us weeping over something we cannot stop. I just held her tiny little blonde person and told her how much I loved her.
Knowing what they are going back to is what grieves me so much. I’m not heartless, but I will not miss the mess, the noise, the fighting. I won’t miss the back talk, the middle of the night coughing fits, or the early morning wake up call. I will not pine for moments when I will yell at the top of my voice for whoever is doing whatever to stop doing it. Nor will I yearn for just one more potty accident. If this makes me cold hearted, well then, so be it.
It’s the knowledge of their situation that strikes bitter fear within my heart. Children are gifts. Gifts I say! They are a treasure straight from Heaven above and they are to be cherished. Children should be trained in what is right and good and carefully disciplined in what’s bad. Little ones need to know that mom and dad are there to protect them, no matter what. That home is a place where there is food, warmth, and love. Children have the right to grow up secure in the knowledge that no matter what else happens; their parent will always put their best interest first.
Filth, chaos, violence, neglect; that’s what these beautiful, blue-eyed babies have to look forward to. What a waste. What a terrible, terrible waste.
So, why are they going home you ask? Simply put, the DA doesn’t have enough evidence to remove them permanently. This is the second time these children have been removed and ours was their second foster home. The very first time, they landed at Auntie Teri’s house. They spent an entire summer tormenting Auntie and were returned to Bio-Mom in September. Then, in January of last year The Destroyer broke her arm, at 17 months, and was back, minus beastly brother, at Auntie Teri’s. The rest is pretty much history; Teri’s mom’s cancer and our applying to be foster parents happened in the blink of an eye.
I didn’t know. I simply didn’t know how much sorrow and rage could lurk behind blue eyes. How could I? So for eleven months I learned. I studied attachment issues; I waded through lies and learned that being a foster parent is not a job for the weak or weary. It was revealed that I’m not nearly the excellent parent I thought I was; I’m short tempered, crabby, and I yell (who knew?). Yet as the months passed something happened…those little tyrants wiggled and squirmed their way into my heart.
Drat
“I love you. Be good for your mom. Don’t fight with your brother, yeah, I know it’s hard. But I love you. If mom says its okay, you can call me, anytime. Remember, Jesus loves you best of all and He’ll always be there for you.”
And then the car backed down the hill and I waved…
The destroyer waved and smiled. She’s two and a half, in about two days she’s going to wonder where her mama is and I’ll be wondering if she’s eating, if she’s safe, is she getting her medicine. I can only pray and wonder.
Z-Monster sat in her car seat, not smiling, not waving. She just stared at me with sad blue eyes. No tears, no expression whatsoever. She just stared.
As long as I live I will never, ever forget that look
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Sad
In approximately twenty-four hours my foster daughters will be returned to their mother. They are both still sleeping, so I don’t feel terribly guilty about blogging. For the first time in eleven months, the girls spent three, very long days with Bio-Mom and beastly brother. I cannot say that I didn’t enjoy the peace and freedom over the weekend and I do admit that yesterday was really lovely, but all those little endorphins were squashed when I picked up the wee girls last night.
The Z-Monster is dreadfully, dreadfully sick. Okay, it’s just a cold, but you know it’s bad when not only her nose, but her eyes are running. Both she and The Destroyer have huge, dark circles under their eyes. This, I believe is caused by the fact that Bio-Mom will not make them take a nap. Bio-Mom phoned me yesterday, I finally gave her my cell number, and told me that Z was sick and when she’d given her Tylenol.
During the conversation I could hear Z screaming at the top of her lungs. It was her, “I’m completely out of control” scream. I know that scream well. She would scream like that when she first moved here. I learned how to defuse the situation before it began. But there were times when the only thing to be done was to let her scream it out.
Let the chaos begin
The drive home was the usual debriefing of how their time went with Bio-Mom. Brother hit them. “He mean”. Auntie V was there along with her kids (does she live there in that one bedroom apartment too?). They went to McDonalds. Mom told them to go back to bed (ok, secret, sneaky, not-so-nice smirk here…the wee girls, esp. The Destroyer wakes up every morning, no later than 7 am. Bio-Mom doesn’t strike me as an early morning kinda girl).
When we arrived home they both announced they were hungry. This isn’t unusual since they are usually hungry when they get home, but I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. I sliced up an apple and Z requested a piece of brownie, both of which I gave her. She sat there, eating two fisted, not talking.
The Z-Monster talks, a lot. She talks from the second she gets up until she finally falls asleep. She talks during meals, in the potty, during a movie. Z is a talker. She’ll talk even if no one is listening. I asked her once if she was talking so she could hear the sound of her own voice and she said, “Yes”. Enough said.
So, when she sat there last night, stuffing her face, not saying a word, I was shocked. I looked at beloved and spelled out, SAD. He just shook his head. Z asked if she could have more to eat. More. I made her a slice of toast and watched as she inhaled it.
As a mommy I am disgusted by the lack of supervision the children receive at Bio-Moms. I am sick over the thought that the girls will be hungry (flash back to when they first arrived and Z-Monster would ask as I tucked her into bed if she could eat when she got up in the morning). Filth, chaos, violence, all this and more await these two babies.
It just makes me want to cry
I told Teri, the children’s aunt, previous foster mom, and my bestest pal, that I shouldn’t have become a foster parent because I am too emotionally involved. I then quipped, “So much for being like my mother!” She replied, “You are nothing like your mother.” True.
Being a foster parent has brought out the good, the bad, and sad to say, the ugly in my personality. It has also redefined my faith in God. I cannot save these children. He can. I cannot remove them from that home and place them in a loving home where they will be cherished and cared for. He can. I am cursed with inaction. He is the King of action.
So, if you think about these two sweet babies, won’t you say a prayer for them? They need all the help they can get. Maybe you could throw in a prayer for their mom too. God is, after all, the God who changes lives. Maybe He could change hers and in so doing, make a brighter future for this lost family.
The Z-Monster at the Aquarium
The Destroyer also at the Aquarium
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