Sangria Overflowing

I am making sangria for a New Year’s Eve dinner party. I thought it would be a pleasant prelude to a main course of Spanish chicken and sausage paella. Odd New Year’s Eve choice? Possibly, but I thought odd=out of the ordinary. Quirky. Fun! And I am all about fun!! (And I am also exceedingly quirky. Just ask my friends and family.)

I thought I’d get a jump-start on my New Year’s Eve soirée by preparing the sangria tonight. I began by pouring the ingredients into a pitcher. Then I was forced to switch to a larger pitcher. Than I gravitated to a uber-big punch bowl by necessity. There are oh, so many, many cups of many, many things in this recipe, including fruit juices, wine and brandy. My gosh. Who knew??

By this evening, I had created a beautiful red sangria topped with cut up grapes and lemons in a ginormous punch bowl. I have sangria enough to warm the bellies of a medium-sized Spanish village! But also a small, already packed-to-the-gills refrigerator. And these are the moments when it is very convenient to live in the Midwest during winter dinner parties. Who needs a deep freeze or spare fridge when we have the great outdoors?? So my covered punch bowl will spend the night on a chair on my deck.

But I was just thinking……..does anyone want to place bets on how many inebriated rodents I’ll find passed out in my backyard tomorrow morning??

Christmas '08

We had a spectacular Christmas, and I feel blessed. Christmas At Home as opposed to Christmas In Connecticut (sounds like that should be a movie title….or is it already?) wasn’t nearly the study in Christmas Boring I’d feared. It was actually peaceful and warm and memory-making. All the things Christmas should be.

We attended our church’s Christmas Eve service, and then headed home to dinner plans of homemade cheese fondue with pears and apples and French bread for dipping. But as I heated up the cream and opened the cheese, I noticed that the cheese had….issues. Issues of the green, moldy, scientific sort. So Super Hubs stole a line from his favorite movie, “A Christmas Story.” “Alright, everybody. Get up the stairs and get dressed. We’re going OUT to eat!” (I swear he was thrilled the cheese was rotten just so he could say that.) So we had pizza for our Christmas Eve dinner at a local restaurant that had a fireplace and was well ornamented for the holiday. It wasn’t our traditional Italian Christmas Eve meal served by my mother-in-law on the east coast, but it was delicious none-the-less. And later at home, we enjoyed chocolate fondue with marshmallows and pound cake for dipping while watching a movie together. There was a beautiful light snowfall that made the landscape picture-perfect.

Christmas Day was sweet and tender, and I am surprised at how pleasant it felt to wake up in our own home. And then the typical holiday antics ensued of giving and unwrapping and pleasant squealing and candy-gorging. We lazed and chillaxed, and then headed to the home of our friends, Bonnie and Joe. They are amazing cooks and great friends-who-should-be-family, and they’ve fed us like stray cats on many holidays this year. We thoroughly enjoyed the company and meal and game-playing.

An excellent Christmas. I hope yours was, too.

Sonic is All That

We have had an unbelievable amount of snow this month! And yesterday there was yet another 12-hour winter storm. Although beautiful, the snow makes driving inconveniently treacherous. But when you live in the Midwest, life must go on. One cannot hole up in one’s house for months on end, just because there’s danger on the horizon. There is still junk food to be consumed.

So, upon my friend, Tara’s, invitation yesterday, I ventured out into the wild to have lunch at the new Sonic that just opened recently to rave reviews. Being the latest “It” eatery in town, I decided I would not allow a little ol’ blizzard to stop me from experiencing All Things Yummy. Battling winds and swirling flurries, my minivan and I slipped and slid all over the icy roads. What should have been a 10-minute drive turned into 25 minutes of white-knuckled traffic.

Call me crazy for risking my life for a chili dog, but it was well worth it! I met Tara in the parking lot, and we parked together in my car into a little station, much like the local bank. We placed our order to a voice of unknown origin, and soon after, a cute little Worker Bee dressed in Nanook-of-the-North attire arrived with our food and a smile. I enjoyed the coney, tater tots with ranch, and an incredible chocolate coke. We thoroughly relished our lunch from the safety of my parked van, while watching other cars spin all over the streets. Ahhhh……bliss.

Twenty-four hours later, I am already craving more of Sonic! What to try next? The country fried steak topper? Limeade? Chocolate cheesecake bites? So much good eating in my near future! So much to live for this winter! I cannot wait!!

The Twelve Days

Genuine text message this evening from Rock Star to a friend:
“My parents are singing. God help me.”

It was true. And it was baaaad.

Little Squirt, in his sweet naivety, believes his parents to be flawless. Cool. Dare I even say perfect? And quality vocalists, for sure. And we are. (In our wildest imagination.) Our youngest has not yet reached the age when he’s aware of how Lethally Embarrassing we actually are. That enlightenment will come soon enough, bless his heart. He’ll come into that epiphany by age nine, most likely, as did his siblings.

In the meantime, we enjoy his innocence, and defer to his requests to warble. Tonight at the dinner table, he asked us to sing, “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” So we indulged him. But, for the life of us, we couldn’t remember the lyrics. Weren’t there Seven Lords A-Sleeping or something? Eight Cows A-Milking? And Geese doing something crass? And what were Days Nine, Ten and Eleven? All we were certain of were the “Five Golden Riiiiings.”

It was beyond pathetic. And Rock Star looked green with misery. Which is part of the beautiful tradition around our dinner table. Aren’t you sorry you missed it?

Pre-Holiday Ponderings

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
Everywhere you go.”
It really is. Complete with snow. My children only have one day of school left before Break. But a ferocious winter storm is predicted for this evening, with many hopeful prayers of students sent heavenward for a “snow day” off tomorrow. Quite honestly, I’m hoping and praying myself. I’d love a cozy family day of board game playing and movie marathons by the fireplace. ‘Tis the season. I want to enjoy every moment.

I finished up most of my Christmas shopping this morning; Super Hubs being dragged about in my wake. (He even accompanied me to my nail salon, waiting patiently with a throng of middle-aged women, persevering despite the splitting headache he developed from the chemical fumes. God bless him. The man is a saint!)

We have changed our plans from Christmas Traveling to Christmas Staying Put. Our tradition has typically been to spend the holiday in Connecticut with Super Hubs’ family. It’s been a warm and lovely and beautiful ritual that we’ve adored. But this year Butterfly has gotten a part-time job in retail, and we must stay home. So we’ve had to alter the trajectory of our traditional plans and rethink Christmas at home. Little Squirt is the one who is struggling the most with this. I’ve realized that he doesn’t actually remember spending Christmas anywhere but at Grandma’s. “But where will we open our presents?” he asked me, in wide-eyed dismay. “Right here. In our home,” I answered. “Well you better let Santa know,” he said earnestly.

In an attempt to fill some of the void left by being non-nomads this year, we’ve done some local family events. We saw a charming community theater rendition of “A Christmas Carol.” We’ve enjoyed a visit to Santa, and some scrumptious meals out. We’ve snuggled under quilts together while watching our favorite Christmas movies. As Butterfly will be heading away to college in the fall, I am unnervingly aware of the preciousness of these family times. They feel sacred. And fleeting. (Sniff.)

So, while I understand the practicality in staying home this year, it also feels.... kind of empty. Normally, I’d be completely buried in the Pre-Vaca Craze right now. I’d be ferociously wrapping and packing and begging my neighbors to pet-sit; in the midst of my Traditional Holiday Nervous Breakdown. Somehow, odd as it sounds, I miss that a bit this year.
“But the prettiest sight to see is the holly that will be
On your own front door.” Well, we’ll see.

My Christmas Eve Adventure, Finale

Footsteps. I jerked awake. What was that? Did I just hear footsteps or was I dreaming?? I froze and listened intently. I heard another soft padding sound, then silence. My ears strained, listening with all their might. Another quiet footstep. Then another. "Click clack." "Click clack." OH. MY. GOSH. Somebody was OUT THERE! I was terrified.

Willing myself to move, I grabbed my bat and rolled over onto the floor, hiding behind the bed. I heard more footsteps, coming closer. "OH GOD OH GOD OH DEAR GOD PLEASE HELP ME," I prayed. What was it?? Who could be coming?? My imagination raced. Was it a ghost, like Jacob Marley in “A Christmas Carol” that I’d just seen on tv?? No, it couldn’t be. I was old enough to know that ghosts weren’t real.

Was it an Ax- Murderer, like from one of those horror movies that I wasn’t allowed to watch?? The footsteps came closer, along with a circular light. My heart pounded and I felt like I would vomit. It was probably an Ax-Murderer! Now I would die here in Marshall Fields! And with a stolen bat that would land me in Purgatory!!

This Great Adventure of mine was going wrong. So very wrong! I did not want to die! I had too much to live for and too many unfulfilled dreams! Now I would never get to marry David Cassidy or own a horse or become an Oscar-winning actress! Now I would die a horrible, bloody death at age ten, my body dismembered and spread out all around the store. This would probably make the newspapers and my fifth grade class would find out, and even from the grave I’d be incredibly embarrassed!

“Kelly? Is there a Kelly in here?” called a voice. OH DEAR GOD he knows my name!! The Ax-Murderer knows my name!! Has he been stalking me??!! Closer came the footsteps and light, threatening to expose my hiding place. I peeked under the bed and saw big black shoes slowly walking toward me.

My mind raced in a panic. WHAT TO DO?? WHAT TO DO???? Think fast! Think fast! By this point, my brain was so full of terror that there was no room for any thought processes. So I reacted purely by instinct, my adrenaline soaring. I jumped up, and viciously waving my bat, let out an ear-piercing, blood-curdling scream that would have made Nancy Drew proud! I yelled my lungs out to the Ax-Murderer!!

Only it wasn’t an Ax-Murderer. It was a kindly old security guard named Mickey, who had worked for Marshall Fields for 32 years, and I had nearly given him a heart attack. He told that I made this the most eventful Christmas Eve he had ever worked, as we sat in his office drinking hot chocolate and waiting for my parents to come and pick me up.

Apparently, a few hours before, my mother had called Kerry when I didn’t come home at the time expected. Kerry covered for me, saying that I probably went to visit another friend. My mother called all my friends that she knew. Becoming alarmed, my father called Kerry, who broke down and told him the truth. Then the local police were called….who notified the Chicago police…..who spoke to Marshall Fields security….which sent Mickey on the hunt to find me. I guessed I would be in big trouble, considering all the fuss made and the involvement of two different police departments. But in the meantime, I enjoyed my visit with Mickey, who seemed very amused and kept saying he couldn’t wait to tell his grandchildren all about his evening.

So that was the story of Christmas Eve when I was ten, when I had My Great Adventure. It didn’t turn out anything like I’d dreamed it would. By the time I arrived back in Palatine with my parents, it was nearly dawn. They were not as impressed with my resourcefulness as I’d hoped. I was grounded for the rest of the entire Winter Break. Christmas Day was very tense, to say the least. And my best friend was also punished for her role in my scheme.

Now nearly thirty years have gone by. I have since become an adult, married with children of my own. Marshall Fields has since become Macy’s. My Christmas Eves have since been more tranquil.

I had lunch in the Walnut Room a few weeks ago with some friends, enjoying a cup of cocoa in close view of The Tree. My mind drifted back to that memorable night when I was ten, as I looked up into its branches. I remembered. The Tree seemed to twinkle down at me as if we shared a secret ….and I felt like it remembered, too.

My Christmas Eve Adventure, Part IV

I slowly raised myself up and crept down the aisle, then the next one, and then the next, until I found what I was looking for. There, in the sports section of the Toy Department was a baseball bat. I grabbed one. It wasn’t stealing, really. I was a good Catholic girl and knew that to steal would be to break one of the Ten Commandments. And that was wrong and would need to be admitted to at Confession. No, taking the bat was not stealing, it was more like borrowing, I reasoned. Borrowing for my protection. Surely Mr. Marshall Field himself would want all customers to be safe! I would replace it tomorrow morning, before I left the store. So, with bat in hand, I felt a little more protected, a little more secure.

I decided to leave this floor with its creepy, dark toys and shadows, and go up to the top floor where the Furniture Department was located. I would find a comfortable bed and nest for the night. It was clearly too dark to go exploring or do any of the other fun things I had planned.

By now, my eyes were better adjusted to the dim light. I quietly left the Toy Department and headed to the escalators, whose power was turned off for the night. I would need to climb up. Feeling very exposed and more than a little nervous, I ran up each escalator on every floor as fast as I could, pausing at the top of each to catch my breath. RUN FOR MY LIFE, PAUSE AND BREATH. RUN FOR MY LIFE, PAUSE AND BREATHE became my pattern.

I finally reached the 9th Floor, the top floor, and where you could view the top of the Christmas Tree from the window. The Furniture Department would be to the right.I stared at the immense tree. Even in the dark, the sugarplum fairies ornaments and glass toy soldiers comforted me. They twinkled and winked in the moonlight that streamed through the windows. How I loved that Christmas Tree! It felt like an old friend; warm and safe and comforting. I would feel protected tonight, spending Christmas Eve near this tree.

I crossed over to the Furniture Department, and, next to a window, found a king-sized bed completely made up with pillows and comforter. It looked cozy and inviting. I crawled in and looked out at the street. Christmas Eve in Chicago. Shoppers trudged through the slush, carrying numerous bags. Cars blared their horns. I could see a light snow falling in the glow of the street lights. I had no idea what time it was. 7:00pm? 9:30pm? How much time had gone by since I hid in the Ladies’ Room? I thought about my home and wondered. Was my family back from the restaurant yet? What were they doing right now, on this Christmas Eve? No, I would not think about them. I pushed those thoughts away. It was My Great Adventure. It was My Memory of A Lifetime. Even though it was turning out nothing like I’d thought, it was still MINE, nonetheless. I lay on the bed and, feeling chilly, pulled the comforter around me. Exhausted, I dozed off.

My Christmas Eve Adventure, Part III

And I was proud of myself. So very proud! I had actually gotten all the way to the city BY MYSELF! I wished I had someone to share my triumph. But now I needed to be practical. I had to find a place to sit and rest for a while, and then plot out the rest of my day. There was a little ice cream shop a few floors down that I had noticed the last time I was here. I dug some money out of my purse and treated myself to my favorite dessert; a banana split.

I found a little corner table, dug into the ice cream and began to think. The store closed at 5:00 pm, an hour and a half from now. I would need to be hiding in the Ladies Room stall by then. I wondered how long it would take for the store to clear, and the employees to leave. Maybe an hour? Hopefully by 6:00pm I would be alone. I thought about home again. 6:00 pm was the time my family was scheduled to go out to eat, back in Palatine. We had dinner reservations at an Italian restaurant this evening, as was our tradition on Christmas Eve. I would miss all that this year; the stuffed shells, the garlic bread, the yummy cannoli, the man with the violin who came around to tables, playing “Silent Night.”

I licked the whipped cream off my spoon and thought more about my family. A lump formed in my throat and I began to feel homesick again. What would my parents do when they found out that I had run away? Would they be worried or angry? Would they miss me tonight? Thoughts that hadn’t occurred to me previously began to plague my mind. Up to now, I had mostly been a compliant, responsible child. Suddenly, a list of all the rules I had blatantly broken flashed across my brain. Here I was, a runaway on Christmas Eve! Was I being really selfish to want A Great Adventure?? I finished the banana split and shook my head defiantly. No. No. Absolutely not! This was MY Great Adventure. I needed this. It was good for me. Years from now, my parents and I would talk and laugh about this night. It would become a good family history story, I was certain. I would not think about home anymore. I would go and browse until it was time to hide.

6:something pm. I had been hiding in the stall of the Ladies Room for over an hour. It had been easier than I thought. I had tarried, washing my hands a bunch of times as the bathroom cleared of shoppers. Then I put my feet up on the toilet seat in the last stall, scrunching down as tightly as I could, and left the door slightly ajar. I imitated what I had seen done once on an episode of “The Rockford Files”. Someone, an employee perhaps, had eventually come in, called, “Is anybody here?” and then satisfied that the bathroom was empty, turned out the light.

Now it had been very quiet for what seemed like ages. I had, at first, heard footsteps going back and forth, and dim voices, then nothing. I climbed down from the stall, and stretched my cramped legs. My heart raced as I cautiously opened the Ladies’ Room door, and looked out. The store appeared to be empty! Very empty and dark. Unbelievably, creepily dark. The blackness felt overwhelming to me, and quite scary. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, darn it. I hoped that the lack of light was only due to the fact that the Ladies Room was in a corridor.

I stood for a few minutes, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then I slowly edged along the wall, and turned down the corridor into the Toy Department. Still it was pretty gloomy, with a miniscule amount of illumination from the streetlights outside the windows. The once-friendly Toy Department, my favorite place in the whole store, now looked morose and threatening. I quietly, cautiously walked down an aisle, my macramé purse held in front of me for protection. Shadows fell across the floor. I turned down another aisle and nearly screamed. Big white eyes confronted me! I sank to the floor, relieved, as I realized it was a large stuffed teddy bear. I put my hand on my chest as I waited for my breathing to return to normal.

I was beginning to have second thoughts about spending the night here. In all my planning with Kerry, it had never occurred to me that Marshall Fields after closing would be so dark! This was VERY disappointing! I had imagined that the store would be just as it was during the day……only emptier. Completely devoid of shoppers, yet all the merchandise ready and available to me and only me. I had pictured myself trying on all the perfumes, playing with the Barbies, reading the comic books, and possibly eating a potpie in the Walnut Room. I’d dance through the aisles with the mannequins, singing at the top of my lungs and joyously relishing my freedom while spraying Chanel #9. Marshall Field’s would be a castle, and I would be its queen!

But now my favorite store seemed gloomy and frightening. And I hated the dark! At home, I always slept with the closet light on. I had an overactive imagination and I was not a courageous child. But then another thought; an empowering thought, occurred to me. Yes, I WAS courageous. I had gotten all the way here by myself, hadn’t I? I had outsmarted every shopper and employee, and was now sitting in one of the most famous stores in Chicago ALL BY MYSELF. I could do this! I would be brave. I would pretend that I was Nancy Drew. I just needed a weapon.

My Christmas Eve Adventure, Part II

So now it was Christmas Eve, the long-awaited day. The consummation of months of dreaming. I felt a nervous anticipation as I got dressed. Would I have the courage to go through with my plan? Could I pull off The Great Adventure??

I told my mother that I would be spending the day with Kerry, but would be home in time for our Christmas Eve dinner. Kerry and I convinced her older brother to drive us into downtown Palatine and drop me off at the library. We fed him some convoluted story about me having an overdue book, and that I was to wait there for my mother. I gave Kerry a hug in the car, whispered that I’d call her after my adventure, and waved good-bye. As soon as the car was out of sight, I walked the block and a half to the train station.

I grabbed a train schedule, and stuffed it into my purple macramé purse. There was only 20 minutes until the next train. My heart raced as I asked the station agent for a ticket, but he sold me one without balking. I waited on the platform as the icy wind whipped my scarf around my face, but I barely noticed the frigid temperature. My heart soared with the knowledge that I was beginning My Great Adventure! Here was the fruition of weeks of planning. I was actually going through with it! I felt older, taller, wiser. I could accomplish anything! I was a near-adult! I was Queen of the World! “Stand back, little girl, so you don’t get hit.” The station agent yanked me away from the tracks, yanking my mind back into reality as well. I was only ten once again.

The nearly-empty train ride into the city took about an hour. Just a few weary travelers, some carrying wrapped presents, were scattered about the car. I found a seat on the second floor, rested my head against the window and watched the scenery. We crossed town after town, each decorated for the holiday. Arlington Heights. Mount Prospect. Des Plaines. Houses lit up, warm and welcoming. Wreaths wrapped around street lights. Cars packed with families heading to celebrations. Holiday Hoopla. The train was warm and lulling, and I closed my eyes.

“Last Stop! Chicago!” I jerked awake. We were at the station. I followed the others through the building and onto Madison Street. I grabbed my pink notebook from my macramé purse and read the directions I had written down, the last time I was here with my family. “Straight on Madison. Left at State Street.” I followed the throng of pedestrians through the city.

It was bitter cold that Christmas Eve. I shivered as I crossed the bridge over the Chicago River. I remembered taking this same walk a few weeks earlier with my family, heading to lunch in the Walnut Room. That had been such a fun visit, with much laughter and joviality. The city had seemed warmer and friendlier that day. Now the cold was raw and cutting, and the buildings appeared more towering. I felt very small. No one noticed me. I was all alone in Chicago, on Christmas Eve. I felt the first pangs of homesickness.

The walk to my destination seemed to take forever. But finally, turning onto State Street, I caught a glimpse of the Great Clock. Marshall Fields in all its glory! Nine stories of beautiful bliss! My spirits lifted dramatically. Even at the tender age of ten, I recognized a true shopper’s paradise. The building with its dark green awnings and animated Christmas windows! The famous landmark that screamed “Chicago!” It was a little slice of heaven.

I entered the building and drank in its beauty. Big gold ornamental balls hung from the ceiling, and familiar Christmas carols chimed through the air. I made a bee-line to see the famous tree, located in the Walnut Room. Dodging shoppers, I took the escalators to the 9th floor. The top of the tree would be visible there from a big window that overlooked the Walnut Room. I sneaked between people to get a front-row view. This year the tree was decorated in “The Nutcracker Suite” theme. It was as beautiful as I remembered it from my last visit! I sighed in deep appreciation. AHHHH……..How I loved Marshall Fields, with it’s amazing tree, Tiffany dome mosaics, opulent decor and luxurious merchandise! All stores everywhere paled in comparison, I believed. I was in love.

My Christmas Eve Adventure, Part I

I wrote this particular narrative two years ago, based on a childhood escapade. I'll give it to you in sections, over the next few days. Enjoy.
I was ten years old the year I ran away on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t that circumstances were so bad at home. I just felt the need for An Adventure of Great Magnitude. I led such an ordinary life for a fifth grader, I believed. No passion, no excitement! Just plain ordinariness. I wallowed in its monotony. I was a youthful romantic dreamer. I lived inside my head, imagining myself as the heroine of my melodramatic daydreams. It was time for my own real one.

I had been planning my adventure for months. It had become a near obsession. I had a little pink notebook into which I wrote every detail of my plan. I shared my scheme with only one other person: My best friend, Kerry. Together we plotted it out on the cold December playground. We dominated the top of the squiggly slide and considered all possibilities.

Where should I go? Someplace warm and tropical? No. My bathing suits were all stored away for the winter in some mysterious place in the house, and I didn’t want to ask my mother for them. That would arouse suspicion. Europe? Exciting, yes, but way too complicated. I’d have to stowaway on a plane. And that would possibly end in prison time. So that, to our juvenile brains, left Chicago. Living in Palatine, Chicago was in close enough proximity to get there by train, yet still far enough away to be exciting and glamorous.

Where was my favorite place in Chicago? That was easy. It was Marshall Fields on State Street, specifically at Christmas time, when the gargantuan tree was set up in the Walnut Room. I had absolutely loved that particular Christmas tree from the time I was a very little girl! My family made an annual visit to the Walnut Room to eat under the tree and admire the lavish decorations for that year’s theme.

Kerry and I conspired. The Great Runaway would occur on Christmas Eve. I would take the train downtown to Chicago, then walk across the loop to State Street and Marshall Fields. When it was near closing time, I would hide in the stall of the Ladies Room until the store was closed for the evening, and then have the entire place to myself! The tree…..the toys…...the animated windows……the makeup department……it would all be MINE MINE MINE! For one evening, I would essentially own the store! I would be like Eloise at the Plaza Hotel! I believed with all my being that my plan was possible. Not only possible, but entirely doable to an adventurous-sort of 10-year-old like me.

I concluded that I would spend the night on one of the beds that I’d seen in the Furniture Department. I’d wake up early on Christmas morning, then make my way back to the train station, board the next train to Palatine, call my parents from the station, and be home by breakfast. I expected that my parents might be a bit angry, but I reasoned that they would ultimately be SO grateful to have their only daughter back home safely, they’d welcome me with open arms and loads of presents. Then we’d talk about my adventure over eggnog in front of the fireplace. And they’d be amazed at my ingenuity and independence! Perhaps even more privileges would ensue! And my brothers would be so envious. I would definitely become the favored child.

My backup plan: If my parents were too angry to ever forgive me, I would just go and live with Kerry. She was the youngest of nine children, and her parents would barely notice one more child in their household, we decided. I didn’t eat much or take up too much space. Besides, I’d always wanted a sister.

Christmas Eve, 1986

I wrote this story three years ago, to share with my Drama Team. It is a glimpse into one of my Christmas' past. I hope you enjoy it.

Christmas Eve, 1986. I trudged through the slush, holding my scarf protectively around my face. It was a cold and bitter Christmas Eve in the city of Chicago. The streets were uncharacteristically empty, except for a few lonely homeless folks. I passed brownstone apartments, and watched enviously at the merrymaking I could see through the windows. People celebrating together. The atmosphere inside looked warm and inviting, contrasting hugely with my depressed heart.

I was on my way to work the night shift at Children’s Memorial Hospital. As one of the newbie R.N.s, I was assigned to work the least-coveted holiday shift of the year, 11:00pm-7:30am, beginning on Christmas Eve and ending on Christmas Day. I begrudgingly acknowledged that I was needed to care for the very sickest of children that night. But I had indulged in some moments of self-pity. I didn’t want to be working on Christmas Eve. This was my all-time favorite holiday! I wanted to be with my parents and brothers at their home in the suburbs, drinking eggnog and watching “It’s A Wonderful Life," as was our tradition. I wanted to go to Midnight Mass with them. I did not want to be working all night tonight, come home to my empty apartment for a few hours sleep early on Christmas morning, and then catch the train to Palatine to finish the last bit of the holiday with my family. That was not my idea of a good Christmas. And working the night shift always played havoc with my sleep cycle. I just knew I’d be exhausted. I envied my co-workers who got this holiday off.

So here I was feeling melancholy, and walking the 1 1/2 miles from my apartment on Fullerton to the hospital in the bitter cold, late on Christmas Eve. I reached my destination at last, and rode the elevator up to the 9th floor. I hung up my coat in the locker room, then headed out to report in to the Unit on 9West where I worked. My spirits rose a bit as I saw the halls that some loving hospital worker had festively decorated with garland. A lit Christmas tree was displayed in the Playroom, attempting to brighten the lives of the children who were forced to spend their holiday here. I took Report, poured a cup of coffee in the hopes that it would fuel me for the long night ahead, and then headed off to assess the children I was assigned to care for that evening.

The doctors mercifully had discharged as many of the patients as they possibly could earlier in the day, allowing them to spend Christmas at their homes. So only the very ill children remained there that night, with their worried parents sleeping fitfully in fold-out chairs by their beds.

That evening I had four children assigned to me. Three would require very little care throughout the night. I would need to check on them a few times and distribute some IV meds, but I would try to let them sleep undisturbed.

My fourth patient was one that I knew would keep me very busy. Her name was Amanda. She was a four-month-old baby girl with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. She had leukemia. I had taken care of her in the past and was familiar with her care. I observed that her young parents loved her tremendously, but they didn’t have much money, and worked very hard. They couldn’t be by her side as often as they’d liked when she was in the hospital. She had been admitted earlier that day for a fever and low blood counts. She was alone on Christmas Eve.

Amanda had a private room that night. I entered it, and saw a little red stocking with a teddy bear appliquéd on it, hanging from her crib. But that was the only sign of Christmas. A blinking IMed pump stood next to her crib, with an octopus of tubes infusing fluids into Amanda’s heart. The full head of black hair she had been born with was now gone, one of the side effects of chemotherapy. Childhood leukemia, in some forms, is curable. But because Amanda was a tiny infant, her prognosis was not great.

I crossed the bedroom and went over to her crib. Her big brown eyes were open wide, and she smiled and kicked her feet when she saw me. “You poor baby,” I said. “Having to spend your first Christmas stuck in the hospital!” But Amanda was oblivious to her circumstances, and to the disease the ravaged her body. She just sucked on her pacifier and looked content.

I picked up the baby and brought her to the rocking chair by the window, careful of the Central Line that was anchored to her chest. The Imed pump trailed along behind us. Amanda eagerly took the bottle that I offered her. I rocked and fed her and looked out the window. As I watched the snow fall outside, and the cars intermittently drive down Lincoln Ave., I thought about Amanda and wondered. I wondered if she would grow up. Would she know Christmas’ other than this? Would she sit on Santa’s lap? Would she ever get to help her mom decorate cookies? Go sledding with friends? And I thought about her parents, whose hearts must break that they couldn’t be here to hold their baby on Christmas Eve. This poor baby. All alone in the hospital without family tonight.

And then another thought occurred to me. Amanda’s parents weren’t here tonight. But I was. I could hold their baby tonight. I could be present with this baby, on her first Christmas Eve. “I’m without my family tonight, too, Amanda,” I whispered. “So you and I will just have to enjoy spending this Christmas Eve with each other.”

Amanda’s tummy grew full, her eyelids became heavy, and she drifted off to sleep. I continued to rock her for a while. I spent a lot of time in her room that shift. I felt like the Grinch, my heart growing several sizes that night. I began to feel grateful for all the Christmas’ I had been given. And I became grateful that I was here to spend this one with this baby.

I don’t know what happened to Amanda. She was still alive and well at age three when I left my job at Children’s. But I’ll never forget that particular Christmas Eve, when I spent my holiday with that little baby girl.

Star Student

I am suffering in Kindergarten Homework Hell this weekend. And it ain’t pretty! Little Squirt has his turn as the “Star Student” at school this week, which involves quite a bit of preparation on my part. Little Squirt is, as is typical, living in “Little Squirt World” with nary a care, allowing his mother to shoulder the myriad responsibilities.

He has brought home Teddy, the class mascot, with instructions to take him everywhere, and document the “Weekend with Teddy” with photographs and journal. So I have had to scrutinize Teddy’s whereabouts all weekend with the eagle-eye of a mother duckling, for fear he will be lost at some unknown location, or dropped into the slush, and then I would have to explain his destruction to a tearful kindergarten class and teacher. And, to really turn Bad into Ugly, my digital camera broke down on Saturday, forcing me to re-take all of Friday’s pictures of Little Squirt and Teddy with Butterfly’s camera, and then run to the store, begging and bribing the contrary photo employee to get them printed out right away. I got down on my knees. I actually did.

We’ve also needed to create a Little Squirt poster, with his likes and dislikes, favorite things, and photographic documentation of his babyhood up till the present. Did I mention that the last four years of photographs of this child’s life have been uploaded to the computer and never printed out? So I’ve scrambled around the house looking for pictures, any pictures, dear Lord, that he can put on his poster (this poor, dear, third child of the family with only two complete photo albums from 2002-2003). In a sad moment of desperation, I was tempted to cut pictures of black-haired child models out of a magazine and pass them off as his. This is what Kindergarten Homework Hell has turned me into: A Frazzled, Deceptive Mother who desperately would rather cheat on Kindergarten Homework so she can have time to take a Calgon bath with a big ol’ glass of pinot grigio.


(Big sigh.) It’s been stressful. Our busy Christmas season weekend has revolved around our little Star Student. Who, I might add, has had no inclination to do any of this homework. He has been too busy watching “Drake and Josh’s Christmas Special.” But, I must admit, seeing him hold Teddy’s hand all weekend has been darn adorable.

Gloom and Doomers

What is up with the National Bureau of Economic Research’s announcement that the U.S. has been in a Recession since last December??
My opinions on this announcement:
1.) DUH.
I admit that I am no Economic Genius. (I actually can barely balance my checkbook. Which is why I use a debit card. It’s also much quicker than scrambling in my purse to find a pen when there’s a lot of hostile people behind me in line at the checkout, and then I can never find anything in my purse anyway but some used tissues and old receipts…...but I digress.) I believe that, even among the Economic Non-Genius’ among us who can barely balance a checkbook (Such as myself. See above.), a great big DUH.
2.) What about engaging in The Power of Positive Thinking?
As soon as the Economic Experts made this announcement, stocks took a deep dive. And parents who were planning on indulging their male tots this Christmas by buying them Spike The Ultra Dinosaur, will now return the toy. Which will cause many a tear around the Christmas tree this year. And it’s all the fault of the National Bureau of Economic Research. FOR SHAME, You Children-Hating Donny Downers! What about The Power of Positive Thinking? What if the Expert Schmexperts had instead chosen to indulge in a teeny-weeny white lie? What if they said something like, “Not only are we NOT in a Recession, but the economy is greatly flourishing!” “Things are on the upswing, by golly!!” “The economic future of America looks bright and cheery!! Therefore we highly encourage each citizen to have a champagne toast!!”
Then, I wholeheartedly believe, my friends, that stocks would have vastly risen and consumers would have gone on a Celebration Shopping Spree, subsequently pulling us out of a Recession into a Time of Prosperity. That’s my opinion. (But the experts didn’t ask me.) Again- a great big DUH.

DISCLAIMER:
*The above is the snarky opinion of the writer and not intended to be insensitive to people who are truly struggling financially during this period. May God bless you.
*This commentary is also not an intention to malign any employee of the National Bureau of Economic Research or Returners of Spike The Ultra Dinosaur. Or Recession Champagne Toasters. I believe Champagne Toasting is entirely appropriate in any economy, frankly.
*Bear in mind that this right-brained writer dropped her college Basic Math course because of a failing grade and took the easier community college Accounting class in its place. And only got a B-.

Winter-Time

The first winter snow arrived yesterday as a guest, and I am an ambivalent hostess. This visitor has its charms, but I am hoping it won’t stay for long. It has made the landscape look picturesque, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. But if it overstays its welcome it will quickly lose all appeal for me. I am now a tense winter driver, because of my Near Death Experience of last year. And I am an even tenser Mother Of A Teenage Winter Driver. And then there’s the constant battle of the Slush vs. Clean Kitchen Floor, instigated by my children and dog. (Big sigh.) I’ll quit complaining now. I have lived in the mid-west for most of my life, so I should be used to this.

The first snowfall is a poem-worthy event. And as I read this jewel by Robert Louis Stevenson, I thank the good Lord for a heated home, but I long for a nurse who will “wrap me in my comforter and cap.”
Winter-Time
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

Happy Thanksgiving

College Or Bust

It’s incredible…. implausible…. inconceivable that I have a daughter who will be college-aged next fall. I cannot possibly be that old. Didn’t I just turn 20 like last week? It seems as if I was a Sorority-Rushing, Biology-Cramming, Where’s-The-Party-Wondering Nursing Major in college myself a minute ago. It’s unbelievable how time flies!

Butterfly is at decision-making time in the college front. She’s been accepted into 5 universities, and wanted to visit her first preference this weekend before officially accepting. So we piled our family of five into the minivan on Friday night for our whirlwind trip to Ohio and back in 24 hours. It was cold and dark as we drove 6 hours east on the toll way, stopping for dinner in snowy Indiana. Little Squirt showed off his vast cultural literacy: “What language do they speak in Indiana? English or Spanish or Nicaragua or Penguin?”

We spent the night at a hotel in the rural Ohio college town, and, after a fortifying breakfast, drove to the campus for an interview with Admissions and a tour. I had a continuous lump in my throat at the thought of bringing my baby girl here in 8 months, where she’ll be over 300 miles from home. So I was unable to be completely objective. The whole experience made me wistful for the days when Butterfly sat on my lap and let me braid her hair.

It was a lovely campus with a very “family feel.” It has an excellent reputation for academics, a beautiful campus, a very small student/professor ratio, many opportunities for campus and community involvement, and Greek Life. We met the warm and motherly president’s wife, who was busy decorating a Christmas tree. We took a grand tour, where I walked behind the tour guide and asked stupid and inane questions, thus mortifying my daughter, as my parents did before me, and their parents before them. Butterfly will one day carry on that tradition with her own children.

In the end, I was torn. It seemed to have everything Butterfly was looking for in a college. But still, it was so far from home. And so rural in comparison to the big Chicago suburb we live in. Usually my intuition guides me in important decisions, but my internal Intuition Guide was was grieving. So Super Hubs and I decided to lean heavily on Butterfly’s discernment . “What do you think?” we asked our daughter.

I think it was the Hot Guys who sold her on it. A group of them were working out in the quad. “I believe this is where God wants me,” she said determinedly, watching the men exercise, and signed her form. God works in all sorts of ways. Now He just needs to work on getting me ready to let her go next fall.

Charlie Bit My Finger- Again!

As a mother, I have some regrets. I wish I’d held my tongue longer, made better food choices, visited more zoos. I regret listening to my mother more than my own intuition, being afraid to confront a certain kindergarten teacher, and making my daughter wear those red party shoes. In retrospect, they were hideous.

But my single biggest regret is that I did not raise my kids in the United Kingdom. Those British accents are just The Bomb, especially in Little Ones! I could listen to them all the live long day. My sister-in-law just moved to London with her husband, and I am sorely hoping they have children soon. I would love to have little nieces and nephews that “queue up,” eat “bangers and mash” and have to go to the “loo.”

Little children are so precious. I just love them! They are good medicine to my soul. Butterfly has been sharing with me her favorite You-Tube videos of kids. This one has become one of my favs, too. Have you seen it?
Enjoy and cheerio!

An Enchanting Engagement

I have to share this video. It’s just too romantic. This is a marriage proposal from a man who belongs to our church. It took place last week at our church and with a small cast of about 150 volunteers and 9 microphones. His love for her is so evident. It makes me weep every time I watch it. (Sniff.) Agree, Girls??

A few cynics have cried foul, saying he set the Romance Bar too high pre-marriage. “How will he top this? What will he do for their 1st Anniversary, or 10th? Or 25th??” Oh, please, People! (Especially you People With Testosterone.) There are many, many ideas left for him to show his love through romance in the upcoming years. So, so many possibilities!

Here’s are a handful of amorous ways to say “I love you” I was just brainstorming (being The Incurable Romantic that I am):
-A champagne helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon during sunset.
-Renting out the QE2 for a sail on over to Europe with a handful of favorite friends and relatives. (Wait. On second thought, skip the relatives.)
-A rose petal-filled bed in a beach front room on an exotic island.
-A sunrise hot-air balloon ride with a bellini toast.
-Sky write it. Then jet off to Paris.
Feel free to borrow any of the above ideas for your next Special Day.

**Note to a certain reader: If you are Super Hubs and happen across this post, I give you advance warning that our 20th Anniversary is occurring in 5 months and 4 days exactly. Consider yourself notified. Any of the above ideas would pass muster by me.**


So watch this uber-creative proposal in you are in the mood for a beautiful, feel-good moment.

Date Nights Again- How I've Missed Them!

Although we were a little lax on their frequency over the past few months, Super Hubs and I have now reinstituted our weekly Date Night. The past few Friday nights we have been visiting restaurants all over town, and trying out their bars. Not because we are Pathetic Middle-Aged Party Animal Losers, mind you, but because People Watching is one of our favorite pastimes.

There is something that feels a little scandalous about sitting at “The Bar” every week, and my inner rebel loves to brush elbows with the company of other inner rebels. Super Hubs and I observe, eavesdrop, make up stories about our Restaurant Bar Neighbors, and always have a jolly time of it. And sometimes we join in on conversations, because Restaurant Bar People are generally the social sort. And that appeals to my Outer Extrovert. It is WAY more fun than just getting a table. And I get such a kick out of watching the bartender mix the drinks.

Another reason we are doing the Restaurant Bar Tour in our town is because I am in search of the bar that makes the perfect Dirty Martini, my favorite cocktail. I like it icy-cold, straight up, with just the right amount of “dirty.” And if they serve it with the primo blue-cheese-stuffed olives, it is all the more spectacular. I order only one Dirty Martini, because one is all I need. If I have two, a throbbing hangover is in my future. So I have my Dirty Martini, and Super Hubs has his beer, and we usually order an appetizer or two to nibble on. Or a basket of fries with a side of ranch dressing.. Because ranch dressing is the ultimate fry-dipping condiment. It kicks ketchup to the curb.

And then we catch up. Last night we discussed kittens. (Do I accept a tiny black orphan kitten offered by a friend? S.H. voted for “no.”) And Christmas. (Do we spend it in Connecticut again this year, or stay home and save money? We decided to go. To heck with the budget.) So we talk, uninterrupted. And, with three kids at home, uninterrupted talk is a phenomenon.

The Weekly Date night. I highly recommend it.

Sexually Speaking

Just call me “Dr. Ruth.” As in Dr. Ruth Westheimer. I had to be a sexpert to a group of middle school girls last Sunday at my church. I am not usually an Eight Grade Girls’ Small Group Leader. I was an Imposter, if you will. I actually lead the Prayer Team that covers Student Ministries in my church. But they were missing a Small Group Leader for the day, and so I was asked to “fill in.” And God, with His wonderful, quirky sense of humor, had me “fill in" on the annual Sex Talk weekend. So I introduced myself to the 12 middle school girls, plunked a bag of jelly-bellies in the center of the table, and glanced at the curriculum.

“Well, girls,” I said, “Do you have any thoughts about the message the pastor gave?”
The blond sitting next to me offered her summary. “I had no idea that holding hands would lead to sex. ” WHAT???
I cleared my throat, deciding to tread carefully. “What was said in the message that made you think that?”
“The slide he showed.” She said.
Another girl jumped in. “No, the slide just showed the progression. You know…holding hands…..kissing…sex. And all the things in between.”
“That’s right!” I said. “His point was that you need to have good boundaries when you begin dating.”
Blank stares. “What are boundaries?” a brunette asked, in between jelly-belly bites.
Boundaries? Hmmmm. My peers and I talked about “bases” back in the day, and snickered about who got to which “base” with whom. I was a pretty innocent middle schooler, and had no idea what all the bases meant before you made it to "home." First base=kissing, second base…...Never mind.
“Boundaries,” I said. “Like fences that you put around to protect yourself.”
“Oh!” one said eagerly, “We just got a fence for our new puppy!”
So on went a discussion about dogs, and who had what kind of dogs, and who liked cats…..and cat hair….and hairstyles of the celebrities…and favorite TV shows…..

I decided to re-direct back to the topic at hand. SEX. We would get through this!
“Well, girls, let’s get back to the topic. Before we go, I just want to know if I can answer any questions for you.”
“I’ve got one!” The cutie to my right said.
Good. I breathed a sigh of relief. I really wanted to be an effective Sexpert Small Group Leader, and I had about 7 minutes left to make that happen! I wanted to leave these girls with a nugget of truth….an incredible perception…..a thought that would shine the light on God’s design for sex. One that they would remember forever…..

“What’s your question, honey?” I asked. “You can ask me anything.”
A pause. “Is it true if you mix two blueberry jelly bellies with one buttered popcorn one it’ll taste like a blueberry muffin?” Asked Cutie.
Another asked, “Did these jelly bellies come in the bag like this or did you get to pick out the flavors?”
Another piped in, “I LOVE the jelly belly factory!”

Big sigh. They didn’t want to talk about sex anymore. They wanted to discuss jelly bellies. So I let them. And I hoped beyond hope that something of that morning’s program on SEX had sunk in.

To The Veterans

It is Veteran’s Day. Around where I live, sadly, it is mostly going unnoticed. The only reason I remembered was because our neighbors have hung up their American flag, which only makes its appearance on the end of their porch a few times a year. And then I took a short walk out to our mailbox and delightedly realized that it was empty. (The mail is not my friend, being a benefactor of my Discover card bill and the odd sad report card. So I delight in its nakedness.) After I got over my glee, I was confused. Did someone steal my mail?? And then I put two and two together, and, while I’m no math whiz, recalled it was Veteran’s Day.

So I want to thank our veterans! I hold you in high esteem. Truly I do. Thank you for your dedication to our country. Thank you for all the self-sacrificing ways you have served. I have a big heart for Veterans, and whenever they walk by in the parades, I cry.

So, those who are acquainted with me know that I love a good poem. Especially one by Robert Frost. This one was spoken by the author at the Inauguration of John F. Kennedy.

The Gift Outright
The land was ours before we knew the land’s.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colonies,
Possessing what we were still unpossessed by
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.

Plague Prevention

Yesterday was the occurrence of our Annual Family Bonding Ritual: “The Administration of the Flu Shot.” It is a day where I corral my unsuspecting children into the car immediately after school’s dismissal, and, once we are speeding down the highway at 50mph, I announce our destination. Then my three offspring glare at me, accuse me of sadism, and generally bond over their extreme abhorrence of me. It’s a lovely, sacred ritual.

After first sitting in the waiting room with other boisterous, anxious children, we were ushered by the nurse into a room. There my kids argued over whom would be first, and queried the nurse about her injection technique. Would it hurt? Really bad or just sort of bad? One by one they sat in the chair, and with a swish of an alcohol wipe and a quick jab, they were done in 30 seconds or less. Sit-swish-jab. Sit-swish-jab. I honestly don’t know what all the fuss was about. We paraded out of the office; my kids moaning, clutching their arms and acting like arthritis-ridden octogenarians as they got into the car. They complained all the way home of how tender their arms were, and how non-tender and horrible their mother was.

My nerves and patience were completely shot. I had fantasies about the dirty martini I was going to fix for myself upon arrival home, and the myriad ways I could show my children “Non-Tender and Horrible.” Perhaps I’d cook them liver and onions for dinner. With a side of spinach. And force them give me a foot rub, while listening to my Carpenters CD.

(Big sigh.) They completely misunderstand my motivations. I love them and do not want them to suffer from influenza. Last year, I was the only idiot in the family not to partake of the flu shot. And then I consequently caught the flu, and was under-the-weather for the better part of a month. I was sickly sick. Miserably ill. The experience wasn’t anything close to a 3-day respite where I lied around watching Reality TV and sipping soup. It was Hell. I could barely drag myself out of bed to use the john. I coughed and wheezed, sucking on my inhaler like a baby on a pacifier. The only blessing, if there was one, was the throaty Demi Moore voice I maintained for 6 weeks that Super Hubs found oddly sexy and alluring.

My family of five has each received the flu vaccine. And I’ve preemptively stocked up on zicam and germ-blaster. “The best offense is a good defense.” .....Or is it, “The best defense is a good offense”?..... Or, how about a flu adage? “She was white and shaken, like a dry martini.” Hmmm. Sounds like a suggestion. I’ll be back, two olives later.

Proud To Be An American

I went to an Election Party last night at a local sports bar. My friend had been invited, and I went as her “date” since both of our husbands were supposed to be working. (Super Hubs actually ended up coming home early, so he had to watch the news with the dog in my absence. The dog was an ambivalent citizen, and fell asleep on the floor before all the returns were in.) I’m not an Activist, and I’m generally pretty private about my political opinions. But I went to the party, had a glass of wine and some potato skins, watched the returns on the bar TV, and vastly enjoyed the company.

As Obama won his 270 electoral votes, I was privileged to be sitting next to an African-American man who said to my friend and me, “I grew up in the 60s, when the nation was segregated. Now we’ll have a black man as president. I can’t believe it! I’m going to have to go sit in my car and cry for joy.” It was an honor for me to be with him as we watched history unfold together.

However you are feeling today about the results of the election, God is still God. And Obama will need your prayers for protection and divine wisdom as he forges ahead as our Commander-in-Chief.

“There are Christians who have hysterical reactions, as if the world would have slipped out of God’s hands. They act violently as if they were risking everything.
But we believe in history;
The world is not a roll of dice going toward chaos.
A new world has begun to happen since Christ has risen…..”
(Jesuit Father Luis Espinal, assassinated 3-22-80 by paramilitary forces in Bolivia.)

Halloween

Halloween was One Perfect Day; flawless in every way, from beginning to end. A meritorious ending to a hellacious month…..

It was an unseasonable balmy October day with a vibrant sun and sky. I began the day with brunch at a darling restaurant with two young, charming, and entertaining friends who make me laugh and keep me “current.” They brought my favorite candy, jelly-bellies, which we shared with a pot of coffee and scrumptious cuisine. Satiated were my body, soul and spirit.

We then hightailed it over to a salon for pedicures, where we soaked our feet in a warm sudsy bath while the shiatsu chairs massaged us from the neck down. They rolled, kneaded and vibrated our muscles, unblocking unbalanced energy from our vital organs or some such Japanese verbiage. All I know is that between the shiatsu and the pedi, I floated out of the salon a Tranquil, De-Stressed Mass Of Human Jello with fabulous-looking toes painted “Midnight in Moscow.”

I went home and relaxed a teensy bit more with a delectable book. Then I ushered my little Power Ranger and husband out the door to beg the neighbors for candy, and greeted trick-or-treaters for the better part of an hour. Exhausted from that endeavor, I collapsed into a heap on the couch, where I watched “Poltergeist” and other retro scary movies for the rest of the evening, stopping only to enjoy my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup-and-Jelly -Belly dinner. I fell into a dreamy sugar-induced coma by 10pm. Bliss.

What a yummy day. Wonderously wonderful. (And I’ve got killer toes to boot.)

Deceleration

I never cease to be amazed by the things I learn from my children. My kids have been, undoubtedly, some of my greatest Life Teachers. Little Squirt, right now, is instructing me in the joyful art of In-The-Moment-Living.

I am trying to slow down after a crazy-busy month, although I still have a few affairs to attend to. (“Affairs” meaning “projects.” I am not a Desperate Housewife.) I don’t think I’ve encountered an October in my lifetime that has been quite so active! I’ve had to add some responsibilities onto my plate that I hadn’t seen coming and don’t feel excited about. But mostly, it’s been positive stuff; things I enjoy tremendously when taken in healthy doses. I’ve had Starbucks dates and evening glasses of wine with girlfriends, fun projects with my beloved Drama Team, a delightful weekend visiting with Super Hubs’ visiting family. I’ve been to church meetings and school meetings and prayer meetings. It has, for the most part, been good and filling and rich.

But too much of a good thing is overkill. Like when I gorge on jelly-bellies. A handful is tasty. A couple of handfuls, still delectable. But shoveling them into my mouth at mock speed is just plain greedy and deserving of a fuzzy-mouthed, stomach-bloating Sugar Hangover. And that’s how I am feeling this week. I have an Activity Overload Hangover that has made me cranky and exhausted and resentful, and finding it necessary to feed my children cereal for dinner. I’ve been going joylessly through the motions of life, in a flurry of busyness, trying to just get through one more day. I haven't actually delighted in much of anything. This is not a pace that is healthy for me, but I really haven’t had much choice. Oh, Dear God, please let November bring me more margin! (“Bwa-ha-ha!” I hear God laughing maniacally at my naiveté.)

But Little Squirt, God bless his laid-back little 6-year-old heart, has been forcing me to practice In-The-Moment-Living. He relishes and celebrates the ordinary with such abandon! He lives in the present and enjoys the flavor of each and every jelly-belly, savoring them individually on his tongue. He has two paces of life: Slow and Stop-And-Smell-The-Roses.

While I see snow flurries as a depressing premonition of a brutal winter to come, Little Squirt dances in them, tongue stretched to Heaven. “I caught one!” Where I see a yard full of leaves as yet another chore to add to my overflowing plate, he sees an opportunity to make a pile for crunching and rolling and experiencing joy. He insisted I walk with him in his school’s Halloween parade, the only non-volunteer mother to do so. “Isn’t this SO FUN, Mommy??” he exclaimed.

The other day, my heart was filled with angst over so many burdens and so much water-treading. Little Squirt was sitting at the kitchen table in no particular hurry, coloring a picture, and singing a song at the top of his lungs. He was thoroughly enjoying the moment. I had the unmistakable impression that the voice of God was saying to me, “Be still, and learn from your child. Stop, and relish. Each moment is a gift.”

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

I feel the need for a poem today; for beautiful words to fill my soul. And so I defer to one who can weave words together so much more eloquently than I……

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
(Emily Dickinson)

"A Complicated Woman" Anniversary

Last year week was the one-year anniversary of my blog. I intended to write a post on exactly that very day, but things got crazy around my household and so it never happened. Sadly, the blog is the first to go when my day is overwhelmed with busyness. And writing keeps my soul healthy. It’s a conundrum. I need to write yet I have no time to write. Go figure.

On that note- in reviewing the past year of "A Complicated Woman," I’ve noticed that my postings have dwindled dramatically. Abysmally dramatically. One reason for this is because, candidly, it is an excruciatingly painful season for me for some very personal reasons. So my Fun-O-Meter is reading in the negatories. There are days when I consider blogging authentically from my heart, but, my goodness, I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer and send you running for Prozac afterwards. I’d rather make you laugh and bring you joy. Life is difficult enough right now with the bad economy and all, and I don’t want to contribute to anyone’s melancholy mood. Or have you worry that I am going to become a tragic Sylvia Plath-like figure. Which I am not. I have hope within me.

Another reason for my recent low volume of postings is that I broke my right ring finger when I caught it on a bread basket at the market. The splint is too large and cumbersome to wear comfortably, so I’ve been not wearing it, and trying to hold it straight on my own. But I often forget and bend the finger, and it is quite painful…..blahblahblah…too much information…..to summarize my long-windedness: It’s been difficult to type.

Now on to The Gratitude Portion of this post. Thank you. Thank you for reading my blog over the past year! You have been extremely encouraging and gracious, and I am beyond humbled that you stop by. (Especially to the Train James’ Boys. You know who you are.) It took me two years to work up the courage to start a blog. It felt so self-promoting. And one of my pet peeves is the Shameless Self-Promoter. She ranks right up there in my book with the Entitled Narcissist. The self-absorbed among us really irk me for reasons that I don't know but should discuss with my therapist. And having a blog felt like I might be perceived that way. But I decided that it would be good accountability for me to discipline myself to write on a regular basis. So I began to blog for my own pleasure, and therapy, and desire to chronicle the lives of my family. So I hope, in some small way, I have succeeded in entertaining you…..or making you think or learn more about yourselves through some of my processing. Or point you to God. Or, at the very least, feel better about your day when you read about my son peeing on the dog.

So Happy One Year Anniversary to us. I look forward to continuing my posts over the next year. And I put my stories in the hands of the Master Story-Creator. Who knows what He will weave together?

His Goodness is Beyond

I know that my God is good all the time. But sometimes His goodness jumps out at me and grabs my soul and causes me to pause and notice and celebrate. Just like the faithful maple tree that guards my home. I pass it by several times a day, barely giving it a second thought. But this week it has turned a vibrant red, and I find myself slowing to look and drink in its brilliant color. God has felt “vibrantly red” to me, this week, like the maple. His goodness has been remarkable and outstanding and entirely intimate. And oh how I have needed that!

I had heard, last weekend, of a news story about a little 6-year-old boy named Cole who had been abducted at gunpoint and taken from his home. There was apparently a link between a drug gang and the boy’s grandfather. The details didn’t matter to me. All I focused on was the fact that a little boy, the very age of my own little boy, was taken from his home by some violent and dangerous men. He was missing, and undoubtedly terrified. And in grave danger.

Something stirred in my heart, and I began to connect deeply with little Cole. I felt a burden of prayer for him so heavily, it was as if I’d suddenly added chain mail to my attire. God waved the news story in front of my face, so to speak, and said, “This one’s for you, Kel. Pray hard! I’m counting on you!” And so I did.

For several days, I was drawn to Psalm 91. I read it back to God, day and night, imploring Him to remember His word, and protect this little boy. Was Cole scared? Cold? Hungry? In pain? I worried, and I cried out to God, and I prayed. “Be his refuge and fortress, God. I trust you to do that.” (vs.2) “Cover him with your feathers. Give him a refuge under your wings. Let him not be harmed!” (vs.4)

I was awakened at 3am Saturday morning, my face wet with tears. I felt an urgency to intercede for Cole, as if he were my own son. “May he not be afraid in the night!” (vs.5) “Send your angels to protect him right now!” (vs.11)

The next morning, I read God’s promises, “I will rescue him….I will protect him…..I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him. With long life I will satisfy him, and show him my salvation.” (vs.14-16) I begged God to answer those prayers. “Let this little boy find his way home this very day, God! Please!” Peace flooded my heart as I felt a gentle reassurance from God; as if His hand reached down from Heaven and patted me on the back and said, “The little boy will be okay. It is done.”

I cannot fully articulate the jubiliance I felt the next morning, when I read that Cole had been found walking a suburban street by a bus driver on Saturday night. His abductors had let him go. He was returned to the arms of his overjoyed parents, safe and sound, 3 days after his abduction.

And so I celebrate the compassion of our Father, who cared so much about a very little 6-year-old blond boy with glasses. He heard his cries, felt his terror, and grieved at the injustice. His eyes searched the earth, seeking the attention of some intercessors who were paying attention, and used them to pray this child home. I am beyond humbled to have been part of that.

God is good. So overwhelmingly, fabulously, beautifully good. It is abundantly clear to me this week! And I am grateful that He reminded me!

"We Take Discover"

My long-suffering husband and I had a “Burger King Breakfast and Jean Shopping Date” yesterday. The goal, I told him, was to nurture our marital relationship. My shadow mission, however, was to build my winter wardrobe. By using his credit card. So, after bribing Super Hubs with a breakfast of an egg-and-sausage sandwich and cheesy tots, I dragged him to the nearby outdoor mall with promises to “be in and out in a jiffy.”

We entered American Eagle, and stopped in dismay. There were 6 different shelf units filled with women’s jeans of all shapes, sizes and colors of blue. Where to begin? The friendly sales girl pounced on us, pledging to find me “just the cutest little pair of versatile jeans that would make me look like a 20-something;” jeans that I could wear “to the office” and also for my “evenings out.” (Which spun me into a fantasy of having a high-rise office at a high-powered job upon which I’d leave at 5pm to go out clubbing. So, were they magic jeans? Ones that, when I wore them, would morph me into a Hot Partner At A Law Firm With A Rockin’ Social Life?? Hmmmmm.)

Then she peppered me with questions: Did I want “Skinny?” Or “Bootcut?” “Flair; Real or Extreme?” “Tight through the hips and things, or looser around the legs?” She assured me that I’d look fabulous in “Wide Leg” with the “Rip and Repair Wash” or “Favorite Boyfriend Cut” in the “Super Bleach.” My head spun. It had been a few years since I’d bought a pair of jeans. I had no idea the variety…the enormity of choices…the utter overwhelmingness of possibilities….”I just need a new pair of jeans that are blue. Ones that fit me,” I said definitively.

She gave me a cool once over, and began pulling pants off the shelves and piling them into Super Hubs’ arms. I was then ushered into the unisex dressing room, where I began trying on clothes like a crazed runway model. Super Hubs sat on the bench in the hallway, watching me prance in front of the mirror until his eyes glazed over.

In the end, I left a pile of jeans on the dressing room floor. And I acquired two new purchases, one in “Vintage Destroyed” and the other, “Indigo Wash.” Both felt cozy, friendly and….me. Me with my humble little suburban lifestyle. The three of us were going to become fast friends, I could just tell.

We went home, and I put on “Vintage Destroyed.” “Indigo Wash” rested up in the closet, acclimating to its new home. And Super Hubs crashed on the couch, exhausted. I was beyond happy. It’s a big day when a girl finds the perfect pair of jeans that make her feel fabulous. And an extra pair for half price.

Let Me Off!

I like my coffee hot, and my orange juice cold; my roller coasters fast and my Sundays slow. I was a sprinter in high school and I’m a napper currently. Life is often an up and down, back and forth conundrum of extremes. Which can make it good and exciting and rich. But my goodness, sometimes I want my life to resemble a good old average-priced glass of merlot served room temperature! (With just a handful of cashews to spice it up.)

Nothing I’ve ever encountered in my (phenomenally many) years of living has prepared me for the emotionally-taxing parenting of teens. And my introduction to parenting, 17 years ago, was not exactly stress-free. I spent my first 5 weeks of motherhood living with a newborn in a third-world country with very bad water in the midst of a civil war. (I cringe when I hear other mothers talk about the horrors of parenting newborns. I want to say, “You have no idea! Try caring for a tiny baby while living in a foreign country. With no English-speaking pediatricians anywhere. And no electrical power. Which meant Bad Hair days always.) But my husband and I survived, and our newborn survived, and, in retrospect, it was actually a walk in the park compared to Teen Parenting.

I have two really, really great teenagers whom I love with all my heart and soul. I would jump in front of a train for either one of them. I honestly would. They are good, wonderful people. But, that being said, they quite often drain me emotionally. And I believe that if anyone ever says that Teen Parenting is easy, they are either lying, in denial, or have a really great au pair that enables them to stay in denial.

This is the deal: The life of a teenager is fraught with drama. This is caused by a combination of hormones, unformed gray matter, immature life perspective, and a tad bit of self-absorption. And where teens do not have real drama, they create drama. Or their friends do. Or their enemies. Or parents of their enemies. And Teens view TV shows like “Gossip Girl” that perpetuate the theory that a teen life without drama is not a life well lived. So every day there is a soap opera -worthy story of who broke up with who, and who got arrested for what, and who picked on who, and who is their new best friend, and who they love and who they hate and so forth. I simply cannot keep up.

One of my friends very wisely told me to “Get off the roller coaster now.” She said there was not one mortal reason why I needed to feel the high highs and low lows with my teens. I had no business ride-crashing and that I should hightail it to the nearest park exit sign immediately. She was right. It’s just easier said than done when I’m the Tender-Hearted Feeler Type with Co-Dependent Tendencies. Super Hubs detaches really well. He won’t ride the ups and downs with The Teens. He’ll simply say, “Get your homework done.”

(Big sigh.) I’m tired. I’m just sayin’. More on this topic later. (After my nap.)

What's Up With Her Buying A Lamborghini?

I believe I am having a crisis, of sorts. The Travel-Into-Another-Era type. The Middling-On-The-Timeline-Of-My-Life kind. One marked by transitions, turning points, and the desire to rebel by eating junk food for breakfast. Okay, I’ll quit hedging and just say it. I AM HAVING A MID-LIFE CRISIS! And I intend to enjoy every minute. Because they can actually be a little fun. I can act in bizarre and immature ways, and it’ll all be excused with a wink and a nod and the whispering of: “She’s having The Crisis. Just humor her, and pretend she looks great in those skinny jeans and nose ring.”

Mid-Life Crisis, from what I’m learning, are not All Bad. They can be an excellent time of exploration about oneself, and reevaluating the trajectory of one’s life. They are a time of opportunity. They needn’t be harmful or destructive, or an episode of Desperate Housewives. I don’t plan on spending my daughter’s college fund on implants, or leaving my loyal and faithful husband for a 20-year-old buff Cabana Boy named Sven.

I am finding fellow Crisis Travelers among some of my women friends, and realizing that we are all dealing with this season in a different way. For example, I have a friend who is lusting for adventure. She recently went on a girl’s weekend where they white-water rafted by day, and then drank wine until the wee hours. And in a few months, she’s going to go Tree Top Trekking. Tree Top Trekking is apparently an aerial adventure in the tops of trees using ropes and suspended bridges. Then you sleep in hammocks, much like Tarzan and Jane. Well, good for her, I say. That’s just not me. I’d prefer to have My Crisis in a four-star hotel with a hot tub and room service. But to each her own.

My Mid-Life Crisis is so far causing me to have feelings of restlessness. And wondering what the rest of my life should be like. And terror that I will end up looking like my Aunt Millie. And I am finding myself contemplating the application of a little tattoo to mark the moment. And I fantasize about spending the evening clubbing rather than homework helping. Or having a complete image makeover and dying my hair a vibrant shade of red. Just little, teeny acts of rebelliousness. Or independence.

I’ll keep you posted on my journey. And I’m open to suggestions. And if anyone wants to join my on my Mid-Life-ing Adventures, just let me know. We'll do it together.

Report Card

Little Squirt received his first report card of kindergarten today. Frankly, I’m disappointed. Where is the verbiage about his intelligence? His brilliance? His Harvard-bound smarts? Does his teacher have no discernment?? Perhaps I should share a few vignettes with her about his incredible resourcefulness. Oh, soooo many stories! The child is amazingly clever. How can she not see that??

Behavior: “Demonstrates improving behavior.” Improving. Improving? He’s gotten through the past 4 weeks without another Poopy Pants Incident and nary a toilet seat stuck on his head. I’ll say he’s improving! She doesn’t know the half of it.

Work Habits: “Needs some assistance.” Well, duh! My flirtatious little boy loves women! Why would he work independently when he could have his adored teacher help him to form his lower case letters? The male version of “the damsel in distress” sort of thing. He ain’t no fool!

Effort: “Average.” Average. Average?? Now that really bothered me because it made him sound so……. “average.” And “average” my boy is certainly not. Of course…..Little Squirt does only want to do what he loves to do. Things that he finds adventurous and breath-taking and spine-tingling. And seat work is definitely none of those things. Little Squirt has told me that seat work is “boring.” That he wants to “quit seat work.” That he likes recess and gym best of all. And “singing class.” So…… I suppose if he was doing something he vastly disliked, such as seat work, he might show minimal to average effort.

But still. He’s my baby and I know in my heart of hearts that he’s special. And today he drew me a picture with markers. It was a portrait of Moi with bright yellow hair, a blue dress and radiant ruby lipstick. And he wrote on it, “Mom,” without asking me how to spell. It was a darned good A+ Brilliant Adaptation of Me That Showed Greatly Improved Independent Effort of Excellent Proportions, if I do say so myself.

Homecoming

All The Homecoming Hoopla at The Teens high school is officially over for the year. And frankly, just watching Butterfly embrace the festivities was exhausting to me, a mere observer! She pranced through the week with the energy of a colt let out to pasture. Her main focus was wardrobe. (God love her- she is my daughter through and though.) Every day after school she went on a mission to purchase the perfect accoutrement for the theme of the following day: Country-Western, Beauty and The Geek, Cross-Dressing, etc. If the girl would put that much effort into her studies, she’d be a competitive candidate for Oxford U. Then there was the Homecoming Football game of which she is a Super-Fan. She bathed in green and gold paint, hosted a tailgating party for much of the senior class, and cheered loudly to the 35-point game win. Then danced the night away with her friends at the Homecoming Dance.

Rock Star is a more sedate freshman. He didn’t actually think about his wardrobe until each morning, when he’d climb into the costume his sister laid out for him. But he thoroughly enjoyed his first Homecoming weekend with its parade, football game and “crank that” at the dance. He walked through the door at 1:30am, his shirt and tie crumbled into a ball in his fist, sweaty and tired after a post-party. But he’s completely encompassing the high school culture.

The Glory Days.