The A to Z April Blog Challenge!

I started blogging as a way to record my adventures as a parent so I would remember them. I also secretly missed writing and wanted a way to get myself back into the writing groove once more. I have enjoyed participating in the The Red Dress Club as a way to spread my creative wings and have fun, but I thought that perhaps I needed something else. With that in mind, I decided to sign up for the A to Z April Blog Challenge.

The challenge, as far as I can tell, is to write a blog each day in April that begins with every letter of the alphabet. Sundays are 'off', which leaves 26 days to the month for blogging. So the first letter of my blog on April 1st should begin with the letter 'A'. I have no idea what I'll write when the day is 'Q', but I guess I'll figure it out as I go. Wish me luck!

Or is it more appropriate to wish a writer something like 'Good Spelling!' or 'Don't let your participles dangle!'?

Hysteria

Zane had a meltdown the other morning. He got out of bed relatively well, got dressed, etc., without incident. Larry and I locked up, put Zane into his car seat and we were off to face the day. We had to pause for a train on the way to the daycare, but otherwise we were running on time.

Except my son chose this moment to want his action figure, Captain America.

Captain America. Captain America was not in the car on this day. Captain America was at our house.

Larry and I both explained this to our son, thinking that we were being reasonable.

Zane did not want Captain America to be at home. He wanted Captain America to be in the car with him. NOW.

We explained, again, that Captain America was at home, and that we would not be turning around to go retrieve him, but would continue our progress toward the daycare. Again, perfectly reasonable, we parents. Captain America would be waiting for Zane when he got home.

This would not do for Zane.

Whiny Voice was engaged. Crying Began. The heavy breathing that signals a serious tantrum filled the car. Zane upped the ante by kicking the backs of our seats. Up until that point, I had had no idea that his legs were now long enough for him to do that.

We live about a mile from the daycare, but by the time we got there, Zane was in full out Evil Kitty mode--a ball of spitting, hitting, kicking, screaming child. It was next to impossible to get him out of the car seat once we got to the daycare. Zane kept trying to rebuckle his straps, as if doing so would cause us to throw up our hands and drive him back home so he could be with Captain America.

I was not in a good frame of mind myself. I've been under a lot of stress at work, and I suppose that it was catching up to me. I felt like I was having a panic attack, like people were out to get me, like all of my world was going to explode. I was going to end up on the corner, holding up one of those cardboard signs that says "Will work for food". Completely unreasonable stuff, like most panic attacks. I was determined to NOT give in to my inner crazy, so I was trying to speaking calmly as if I were not on the verge of exploding out of my skin.

Zane's distress, whether warranted or not, had me fighting back tears. I carried him into the daycare, him kicking, wiggling, and wailing, and me with a trembling lower lip. We went through the two security checkpoints, down the hall and into his classroom. I handed him off to the teacher without a word, and I walked out the door back to the car. Larry, thankfully, did not say a word, but put the car into reverse and backed us out of the parking spot.

And of course, five minutes later when I called the daycare, Zane was just fine. It took me a little longer to calm down.

Kindergarten Lock Up

NOTE: For this week's RemembeRED prompt, we are supposed to remember kindergarten. Knowing what I know now, I can say that kindergarten behavior is really not that different from teenager behavior on most days.



Sitting in a corner of the Kindergarten classroom, I looked out at my peers.

They were having their morning snack at their desks, talking quietly with each other.

I was not. I was in trouble. Children who were in trouble did NOT get snacks while they sat in the corner.

Mentally I was stomping my feet. I remember standing with my fists clenched. I was angry at my peers because they got to have their snack, a delicious handful of animal crackers. How dare they? They all KNEW that I loved animal crackers/m&ms/cookies/etc.! I wanted to run screaming to each group of desks throughout the room and fling my arms over them, sweeping all of the animal crackers onto the floor and then trompling them into the merest crumbs so that no one got to enjoy them. I sniffled a bit at that thought.

I was even more angry at my teacher. After all, it was HER fault I ended up in the corner, not having snack. She gave me the instrument of my destruction, although she did not force me to act.

The human brain installs the "Scan for Reasonableness" device necessary for proper decision making. This "Scan for Reasonableness" button, when applied, tells the person asking if what they are doing is 'reasonable' or not, and allows the person to make better decisions.

We were supposed to cut out pictures or something; the actual assignment may never be known. I did not have the "Scan for Reasonableness" part of me available at this time, so when I was given a pair of kid scissors that morning, I did what any normal five year old would do. I cut a lock of my hair. Just a lock that was about an inch wide. Just enough to get my teacher's attention, apparently.

Mrs. Pasternaki yelled like there was a rat or two in her hair. Then I was unceremoniously grabbed by the arm and pulled toward the inevitable: The corner.

I can still remember the anger at being punished. I was white with indignation. Why was I being punished, I thought? I was the one who made the decision. I did not hurt anyone, not even my self, when I cut my hair. What was the big deal? I could certainly understand if someone had cut off a lock of someone's hair and had botched it up. But that wasn't what had happened. So why was I being punished? I couldn't get any sort of an answer from my teacher, except that I should GO SIT Down."

My teacher had informed me when she sat me in the chair that I could stay until I had a better attitude, and I was determined. So that is where I stayed. I showed them! I never did apologize. I think that I even took a short nap.

Book Review: Here Burns My Candle

I admit freely that I am a fan of historical novels, not only because they often have a happy ending, but also because I can learn something while I am reading. This is why I chose Here Burns My Candle by Liz Curtis Higgs.

The story takes place during the Jacobite Uprising of 1745 in Scotland. Elizabeth, the main character, is a commoner who is married to a nobleman, Donald. She lives with him and his family, which includes his mother, brother, and sister-in-law, in what amounts to an apartment in Edinburgh. Her mother-in-law, Marjory, doesn't seem to think much of Elizabeth--she's a commoner, and a Highlander to boot. Elizabeth tries extremely hard to please everyone, especially her husband, while Donald is philandering about town. Then Bonny Prince Charlie shows up and charms everyone into becoming a Jacobite and joining his cause. Donald and his brother up and enlist and they run off to war, while the three women are isolated and abused as traitors as soon as the rebel army leaves town. Their lives go downhill from there. This was a good story(it is supposed to be a variation of the Book of Ruth), and I do want to read the sequel, but there were a couple of problems which marred my enjoyment.

First, Elizabeth practices the "auld" ways, and much is made of this. It is never really clear, however, what those "auld" ways are--druid, perhaps? Elizabeth doesn't actually 'worship' these 'auld' ways, based on the descriptions in the novel. She only seems to go through the motions, saying a few words on certain days because that is what she was taught to do by her mother. That hardly qualifies as a practice, or the big secret that she seems to think it is. The entire Kerr family seems to attend church primarily as a social necessity rather than from any sort of religious fervor, at least at the beginning of the novel, so I was rather underwhelmed by Elizabeth's angst over this.

It was also suspect to me that the main heir to a noble family would have been allowed by either his parent or his church to marry a commoner. It might have been fairly common for second or third sons to marry commoners, but not the head of a family, which is what Donald would have been considered, once his father passed on. It would have been Lord Donald's 'job' to produce an heir to carry on the family name, and it would have been his responsibility to be the family leader, not the Dowager Duchess. Noblewomen weren't supposed to do much of anything except look pretty and have babies back then. But that would probably have formed a different focus for the novel, and would not have been consistent with the Book of Ruth, so I suppose that it was necessary.

Finally, the men in this novel really came out looking rather shabby. Lord Donald, the guy who was supposed to be the head of the family, couldn't keep his hands off other women, and cared so little for his family that he deserted them and then ruined them(because he was a traitor, the three women were reduced to starving themselves). For Donald it was all fun and games, and for his brother it wasn't much improved. As for Rob, he was under the mistaken impression that if he gave everything to Elizabeth, she would love him, and he didn't seem to want to take 'no' for an answer. Throughout Here Burns My Candle, the menfolk seemed to make the messes and the women were left to clean it up. Actually, that is pretty much the same as it is today, so maybe the author is onto something.

Here Burns My Candle is an enjoyable novel. I did become engaged with the characters and shed a few tears while reading. I am fond enough of the characters to want to know what happens to them. I was happy to hear that there is a sequel, and look forward to visiting with Elizabeth again.

Disclaimer: I received this book for free from WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group for this review. This company did not tell me what to write with regard to this book, they only provided me with a free copy.

It's Hard To Say Goodbye

I need a new computer.

Hal and I have been together since 2005(if you don't get the 'Hal' reference, turn in your geek card and go watch 2001: A Space Odyssey). Hal's been a faithful, reliable companion, and he's never been tempermental. He always turned on when he was supposed to. He never ate my files unless I accidentally told him to. He communicated efficiently with all the applications and printers and scanners and flash drives. Even when he began overheating during my LOTRO game play because of my video card, Hal still managed to keep my data intact. Even my husband's computer, with all it's fancy bells and whistles and special fans, never did that!

Lately, however, the old boy has been having some difficulty getting started when I turn him on in the mornings. My husband has been talking about Hal's 'power supply' in a hushed tone. Various applications have begun to 'freeze' or require a reboot. One of my hard drives is no longer accessible. This morning, the DVD drive would not open, even when I said 'please'.

It's time to put Hal out to pasture. This will be difficult for me. I've always had a difficult time saying goodbye to electronic devices; I'm pretty sure that I still have the very first cell phone I ever bought somewhere. This also means that I will need to sunder my attachment to Windows XP and give myself wholly over the most recent incarnation. There will be growing pains to go along with the change to a new computer.

But Hal won't be completely gone; my husband loves to 'tinker' with computers. He will disassemble Hal and harvest those parts that still work, so that Hal can live another day in another incarnation.

Such as a computer on a spaceship...

The Weekend is No Picnic

I have a bajillion things to do. Seriously, it's a bajillion. I counted. I should be happy that it's not a bazillion, I suppose.

I will be the first person to admit that I am a procrastinator. I know that those of you in Blogland are shaking your heads in disbelief, but it is the truth. Oh my intentions are always good. It's just that I get interrupted. I've been interrupted seven times just since I sat down to write this paragraph. I sit down in front of my computer...

The cat wants out.

The other cat wants a treat.

Put load of laundry in washing machine.

The first cat wants in.

Zane needs the light turned on in the bathroom.

My coffee is cold. I put it in the microwave.

Zane can't find his underpants.

Zane is traumatized by his underpants because they are not his Hulk underpants.Negotiations conclude with Wolverine underpants being deemed acceptable.

The cat wants out.

Pull coffee out of microwave. Still cold. Put back in microwave and turn microwave ON this time.

Zane needs help washing his hands.

Zane wants to brush his teeth.

The cat wants in.

Zane needs a sticker for washing his hands. And brushing his teeth

The cat wants in. Oh, wait, that's not my cat at the door.

Feed Lalo, the Feral Cat, who is only Semi-Feral. Sort of like Semi-Retired.

Locate Hulk underpants in washing machine. Turn ON washing machine.

Extricate Zane from the web he has made from an Ace bandage his father left sitting out.

Zane decides that he wants to be Aqua Lad from Young Justice.

The cat wants out.

Take coffee out of microwave. Still cold.

Gather up recycling.

Cat wants in.

Other cat wants petting.

Zane decides that he wants waffles. With butter.

Cat wants out.

Sigh.

Temptation

NOTE: This week's prompt is simple: write a piece, fiction or non-fiction, inspired by the delicious shot. I chose to write fiction, and I don't even know anybody named Casparelli.




That damned doughnut would kill me, I thought, right here in the break room. There it sat, a brightly colored pastry of deep fried lard, butter, flour and sugar, in a box on the table in front of me. I had made sure this was the last doughnut in the box, and it was therefore the BEST doughnut in the box. I desired that doughnut in the same way a sailor craves shore leave. Under other circumstances, this doughnut would have been a mere memory, but this one was special. I suddenly realized that I had someone looking over my shoulder.

"Go on and take it," I said to Mr.Casparelli, even as my mouth watered uncontrollably. My boss had the same look of covetousness on his face that I did. I could see saliva beginning to pool in the corners of his mouth. He pushed his glasses back up to the top of his nose.

"Oh no, I couldn't," he replied. It was a well-known secret that the boss often rummaged through the fridge and unoccupied desks, stealing food from his subordinates. Only yesterday, he had been observed by my coworkers stealing a box of Girl Scout cookies from my desk. He wasn't fooling anybody, pretending he didn't want this doughnut.

"I insist, sir," I smiled. "You deserve it."

"Well, since you insist," Mr. Casperelli chuckled and swiftly lifted the luscious pink doughnut to his mouth. He took a huge bite and sighed, the beginnings of a smile lost as he began to chew. I kept the smile on my own face as he walked back to his office, munching away, and shut the door. I poured myself a cup of coffee, then went to my own desk to start the day.

Mr. Casperelli would be alone in his office for the next hour or two, officially making phone calls, but in reality to take a nap. Considering the amount of foxglove I put into that doughnut, he would not be waking up. Killing my boss had been surprisingly simple, I thought. The hardest thing had been resisting the urge to eat the doughnut myself. I opened a drawer in my desk, pulled out a box of Girl Scout cookies and opened it. I bit into the dark chocolate.

NOBODY steals MY Thin Mints.

Miscommunications

We have an open office. We have our own cubicles, and it's downhill from there. My brain tries to hear everything, even when I leave very specific instructions to the contrary. I'll put on earphones and blast my ears with music, but this only makes them work harder to hear every little thing that is going on around me.

This morning, my coworker Kim is at her desk in the cubicle next to mine, making phone calls. I am listening to my music on my earphones, there's a lull in the music.

"I need to know your prices for a crack pipe?" My brain hears this, and slams on the brakes. The Red Alert alarm from the original Star Trek begins sounding.

"What?" I asked. No answer. I peek around the corner to find my coworker listening to someone on the other end of her phone. I sit back down. The rest of the conversation was just as interesting.

"What do you charge per joint?" More talking on the other side of the phone.

"We will need 25 joints. Do you deliver?"

By this time several other people in the office had gathered around my coworker, their curiosity piqued. Kim hung up the phone and looked at us all.

"What?" she asked. One of us explained. She threw back her head and laughed.

She had been referring to the supplies needed for a metal fence for her house...

Forgiveness

NOTE:This week's prompt is about forgiveness. Forgiving others, forgiving yourself. Write about a time of forgiveness.




It was a summer made for flings, fluffy moments of cheerful passion that fade along with your tan. I sat at the bar at the end of August 1986, waiting for your bartending shift to end, nursing a Colorado Bulldog. Our eyes meet in the mirror behind the bar, you smile and wink at me, and I decided yet again that you were the most beautiful man I had ever seen up close. Dark mahogany hair, intense blue eyes, a rightously square jaw, brilliant white teeth--you are the total face package, indeed, that no woman can resist.

And I certainly did not resist when you asked if I wanted to dance, or when you asked if I would take you home with me. That was at the beginning of the summer, and it had seemed natural. Easy to go with the flow of the river, especially since I didn't really have anything better to do when I wasn't studying. I had more laughter, more daring and more fun that summer and I can honestly say that it was because of you. I didn't love you, and you didn't love me. Uncomplicated.

"Who keeps on trusting you, when you've been cheating, spending your nights on the town?"

Lyle Lovett sang to me from the juke box, and I listened to what he had to say about cheating. While I listened, I turned my back to the bar and gazed out at the room full of patrons. I could still see you, quite clearly, in my peripheral vision, but you would not have noticed from your vantage point.

I observed you as you chatted with the petite blonde waitress while you were filling her drink order. I watched you put your hand on her arm and pull her in for a quick kiss, then glance my way to see if I was watching. Emboldened by my apparent inattentiveness, you slipped her a note along with the last beer that you placed on her tray. I am sure that the note contained your cell phone number. I turn your way and catch you in a flirtatious posture, smile bright on your face, all for that little waitress in front of your bar. This was certainly a dealbreaker for any relationship, but I just could not summon any anger toward you. Instead, I laughed aloud. You heard me laugh, and threw me a wave. Lyle Lovett concluded his song, and I made up my mind.

"God does, but I don't, God will, but I won't, and that's the difference between God and me."

It was time for me to forgive myself for my summer indiscretions, clean myself up, and get back to finishing my degree. Time to move on, away from this bar stool. I toss back the last of my drink, and get up and gather my things. This, finally, gets your attention away from the blonde waitress.

"Where are you going, pretty lady?" I hear you calling me. I turn, smile, wave. "I'll see you at your place later?" you ask. I take one last look at that beautiful face, and smile.

"No, sweetie, you really won't." I turn. I exit the bar and head into the evening light, to see what autumn brings.

Epiphany

"...So if you're tired of the same old story, oh baby, turns some pages..."

I love this song. I've heard this song a kajillion times since the album came out, so much so that I usually don't even hear it when it plays on the radio. Then one day, when I was standing in one of the valleys in my life, this song was playing. That line just stood out, like it played at a louder volume than the rest of the song.

An epiphany is, according to dictionary.com, "a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience." This is what occurred. I had an epiphany.

It was like the Hand of God reached down and slapped me upside the head, and I finally understood what that lyric meant. That day I realized that we never have to keep to the same path we start on. We can change our direction, choose a new destination, go another way. If we find ourselves on the road to ruin, as they say, we are not bound to stay on that road--we can exit to the left or to the right or even turn around completely.

We are only stuck if we allow ourselves to be. If you are tired of the same old story...turn the page and start a new story. Maybe even one you write yourself.

Inner Sanctum

My husband is looking for certain action figures for my son to play with. He's been a little OCD about it, looking them up online, bidding on eBay, and driving all over the place looking for these figures. Today our journey took us to a store that sells comic books and other collectibles. There aren't very many of those stores around anymore, unfortunately.

I have a special fondness for comic books. When I was growing up, my parents were very indulgent about buying my brother and I any sort of reading material that we wanted, and comic books at the time were a quarter. We had a footlocker full of comics, several of them first issues, that I read just about every day. One day we came home from school and they were all gone. We were moving back to the States, and we had to make weight, my mother said. She had taken them all to the base thrift shop. (I still give her a hard time about selling off our college fund.)

This particular store was on the other side of town, and is one of only three or so stores in the San Antonio area. We walked into the store, and it was like we had walked into a cathedral; a reverent silence permeated the place. The people who were in the store spoke in hushed tones so as not to disturb the air of hallowed sanctity. It was such a distinct change that I automatically looked around for the pews, and I expected to smell incense.

Then my eyes adjusted to the lighting inside the store and I saw them. Comic books. On every wall. All of them sealed in those plastic bags with the board in them so they didn't bend. I think that my eyes sort of glazed over as I began wandering about, looking for familiar titles. I found Batman, including issues written by Neil Gaiman(he wrote Coraline), and Kevin Smith(writer/director of more movies than I can name). I found Green Arrow, Green Lantern, and even one of my very favorites, The Tick. It was Nerdvana.

Of course, I wanted to buy them all. Buy them all and take them back to my house, hoard them away. And then tuck myself away into a corner of my room, just like when I was a kid, and read them all. I demonstrated great restraint, and did not whip out my credit card and go crazy. This proves my overall theory that I can behave like an adult on occasion.

I did buy two of the Kevin Smith books. Just the two.

Jobs That Would Suck

Let me be perfectly clear in saying that there is absolutely NO shame in any kind of honest work. Well, except partisan politics. And corporate lobbying. But honest work for honest pay is to be commended, especially in these days of selfishness and greed. If I am completely truthful, however, there are some jobs that I wouldn't last even an hour attempting. Maybe not even five minutes.

For instance, those guys who stand on street corners, holding signs that advertise new homes or a going out of business sale? I wouldn't be able to do that job, even if it paid 50 bucks an hour. The exhaust from passing cars would trigger an asthma attack, my ankles would swell from standing too long, and my arms would give out from holding up that danged sign. And if the temperature is more than 75 degrees outside, I'd probably faint from heat exhaustion. On the other hand, people who saw me out there would likely feel very sorry for me and might give me money to buy myself a chair. And an umbrella to keep the sun from boiling my brain.

I need a job that keeps me somehow occupied mentally. Waiting tables, pumping gas, digging ditches, window washing--these sorts of jobs involve more thinking than most people consider. Holding up a sign for hours--not so much. I would start thinking about how hot it was, and how my feet hurt, etc. It would be as if my aches and pains were several whiny children in the backseat of the car trip from hell. Not productive or helpful. Holding up a sign on a street corner is one job that, for me, would suck.

Mr. Smartypants Strikes Again

In our efforts to get Zane to increase certain behaviors, we have been using sticker charts. He gets a sticker when he brushes his teeth, picks up his toys, etc. When he gets so many stickers, he gets a prize. This system worked very well for potty training, so we trotted it on over to other behaviors.

Zane really likes getting a 's'prize' He will do just about anything to get enough stickers so that he gets a prize. Most kids will do that. If I think about it, most adults will do that as well.

The other night Larry brushed his teeth while Zane brushed his. After the teeth had been properly polished, the two of them went into the kitchen and counted the stickers that Zane needed to get his prize. They counted out the number of stickers Zane already had on the chart(4), and then Larry told Zane that he needed two more for his prize. He gave Zane his sticker for the night's tooth brushing, and Zane put the sticker on the chart.

"You only need one more sticker to get a prize," I heard Larry tell Zane.

"Daddy, you brush your teeth," Zane said.

"Yes, son, I brushed my teeth," Larry replied.

"You get a sticker!" Zane announced.

"I do? Wow, that is great, Zane!" Larry responded. "But I don't have a chart. I guess I could put the sticker on my hand."

"That's okay, Daddy, I'll hold your sticker for you." And Zane pointed right at the last empty spot on his 'teeth brushed' chart.

I would have given him a sticker just for coming up with that idea in the first place. This is why I am not in charge of the stickers.

So now that I made you laugh, if you would like to contribute to a good cause, follow the link below. Or go to the Red Cross and make a donation--they are very good at knowing what to do in these situations. No pressure--I know that we are all tightening our belts these days.

Tipping Point

NOTE: This week's Red Writing Hood assignment is to write - fiction or non-fiction - about a time when you took a detour. Where had you intended to go and where did you end up?



The thought crossed my mind that sleepless nights were meant for introspection, some sort of mental airing out of problems. And as my fiance' snored next to me, I gave myself to an internal glare in the mirror. I had my entire life mapped out: finish grad school by 26, get married at 27, have 2 kids by 30, and live happily ever after. I was close to finishing grad school, and I was engaged, perfectly on schedule.

Except that it wasn't perfect. Just that evening, Jason had grabbed my arm brutally, pulled my face close to his, and told me in no uncertain terms what he was going to do to me if I defied him again. I had done something I wasn't supposed to do without his permission. Something that would seem trivial to others, such as taking out the trash and saying 'hello' to the man who lived next door on my way back to the apartment, was not allowed. I had to learn my place, my fiance' told me, his breath hot on my face. This time I did not flinch at the pain in my arm, and when he let me go, I went to the freezer for an ice pack without saying a word.

There had been glaring red neon signs along the way, of course, that told me in no uncertain terms that this man was going to be abusive. But Jason was the only one who had ever asked me to marry him, and he 'fit' into the map of my life. I moved in with him, pretending that his emotional and now physical abuse would get better.

What I did not foresee on my road map was the tiny blue flame that was kindled the very first time Jason told me that I was stupid and worthless. Each new derogatory comment or insult fed the fire growing inside of me, and this was the culmination. I felt white-hot with the conflagration within me.

I would kill this man sleeping next to me if he hit me. He would hit me and I would kill him. I knew this certainty within my bones. I lay there next to him, and I thought very hard. I could stay where I was, marry this abusive man, kill him, and go to prison. Or I could leave him, go on with my life, and to hell with what everyone else said about where I was supposed to be at my age. I sat up in bed and looked at Jason. I could barely see him in the darkness.

So not worth prison time, I decided. If that meant never marrying, so be it. My road map was adding a detour. I have never looked back.

The Perfect Mother-Son Picture

There is a picture of my son and I. The two of us are relaxed, smiling at each other, oblivious of the camera. My son's hair is not going in fourteen different directions, and neither is he. My makeup has not slid off my face and my hair has not fallen flatter than Charlie Sheen's television career. We are having fun just being together, my son and I. All is well. The moment is perfect.

This photo does not exist. Well, it exists, but only in my head. I have exactly two decent pictures of me with Zane, and they are both when he couldn't walk. Since he's been ambulatory, Zane is anti-sitting still. This does not make for good photography. He also has adopted some sort of fake pose where he says "CHEESE!!!" and moves at the same time. It's frustating. I generally have to follow him around with the camera like I am one of those "in the wild" photographers.

We go to one of those photo places, seeking relief. We throw toys, we make noise, we yell, and still the final picture looks like crap, my son a blurry image too fast for the camera. So I carry a camera around, and have it on sports mode, which is supposed to be for people trying to take pictures of things at a football game. Which means that I don't get photographed at all, not even a lousy blur spot. Normally that would be a blessing, except that then there's no mother son photographs. It is very sad for me. I just would like to have one good photograph that I can cherish, put on my desk at work, and brag about. But I suppose that it is not to be.

This sucks. I guess I could give the camera to my husband and tell him he's getting a promotion to lead photographer. Then he could take a few pictures of my son and his mother. It kind of hurts my feelings that Larry has never even offered to do that, if I think about it. But I'll get over it.

Edit: This is a bit disjointed due to my very tired brain. I apologize.

Semi-Wordless Wednesday: Things I Find In My Car

I never know what will show up in my car these days. The other day I got into the driver's seat and found this guy:



Once we had established that Captain America did NOT want to drive, all was well. He never would tell me who put him up to the joke, because he IS Captain America. He never reveals those sorts of things.

Then a couple of days later I found this guy in the back seat:



I was a bit concerned as to whether Mr. T-Rex had eaten recently, but he assured me that he had dined the previous evening. I told Mr. T that he was welcome to eat all the june bugs or squirrels he wanted, but cats were strictly off limits.

I am not sure how I feel about finding these particular critters in my car. I have visions of my vehicle being driven off by the entire Justice League, for instance. And truly, this is all I want to see in the backseat after a long day! That sweet face is a blessing to all who look upon him, as far as I'm concerned. He is worth all the extra passengers I find in my car.

Vegetables

Note: The prompt for this post is to share a memory about a vegetable, and not the politician-kind.



My grandmother's house was pink when I was little. Not a flamboyant, flamingo pink, because that is not the way of farm women of 'True' German descent, but a respectable shade of Bright Blush. The paint store probably had that color on sale or clearance, I always thought, even as a kid. The Not Flamboyantly Pink house was pretty isolated back then, off of a gravel road somewhere near Camp Point, Illinois. My parents and my brother and I would visit my grandparent's farm at least once a year, usually during the summer.

My grandmother had a garden behind the pink house, where she would grow tomatoes and other vegetables. When I was much younger, I would 'help' my grandmother gather the vegetables for the evening meal. We would talk while I 'helped'. Our conversations, as I recall, consisted of lengthy monologues by me on topics of significance to me, and my grandmother's responses to all my pronouncements were always the same.

"Yup," my grandmother would say. On this particular day she was picking green beans while I 'helped'. When enough beans were picked, we took the bucket of green beans to the water pump to wash them, and then we carried the beans to the porch. There my grandmother and I sat, and we prepared the beans to be cooked. My mother came out to help, and the two older women talked.

This first time, I remember the crisp snapping sound of the beans as my grandmother would break off the ends. I tried to imitate her, but my small fingers did not have her strength. In an effort to try and solve the problem without adult assistance, I decided to bite the ends of the beans off. The taste of those green beans were, well, green. Like freshly mown grass smells; that was the taste of those beans. It was not unpleasant.

My mother noticed what I was doing at this point, and freaked out a little at the realization that I was eating everything BUT the beans, including a few small, unfortunate bugs. (I was five or six, what the heck did I know about what green beans looked like?) She began scolding me. Just the fact that my mother was concerned was enough to make my tummy hurt; I thought I was in trouble.

My grandmother was one of thirteen children. She had raised eleven of her own, including my mother. She had seen it all before, likely worse. She just sighed heavily, picked up the bucket of beans, and went into the house. The screen door punctuated her exit, and that was as effective as if she had yelled at us. My mom and I stared at each other, then got up and followed my grandmother into the house.

Coming Undone

This song, Coming Undone, by the band Korn, perfectly describes the postpartum anxiety I experienced after Zane came along. (It's sort of a heavy song, which is why I am posting lyrics instead of the video.)

Keep holding on
When my brain's ticking like a bomb
Guess the black thoughts
Have come again to get me

I was prepared for depression. That would have been easy for me.

I was prepared for posttraumatic stress, considering Zane and I both coded on the day he was born.

I was prepared for rampaging hormones.

I was not prepared for the unwavering voice in my head describing all the terrible things that could possibly happen to my child.

What if an airplane crashes into the house? What if there's a flood? What if I forget to turn off the stove and the house burns down?

I am an anxious person on a normal day, with lots of 'what ifs?' flowing in and out of my consciousness as I go through my day. While Zane was in the NICU, it wasn't so bad, because there were lots of people taking care of Zane, not just me. Once Zane came home, however, it was as if the floodgates opened, and every worry ever created, however impossible, poured through my head.

What if the cats attack? What if there's an radiation accident at the Air Force Base? What if a meteorite falls to earth and hits our house? What if we are crossing the street and there's a parade float from somewhere that breaks loose and runs us over? What if aliens attack, and they land on our street?

Wait, I'm coming undone
Unlaced, I'm coming undone
Too late, I'm coming undone
What looks so strong, is so delicate

Wait, I'm starting to suffocate
And soon I anticipate
I'm coming undone
What looks so strong, so delicate

It was awful. It felt like I was a horrible mother because I kept thinking of all these terrible things happening to us. What kind of mother thinks of these things, I thought. I tried to explain to my doctor what was going on, but what came out of my mouth sounded crazy.

"I keep thinking that an airplane is going to fall on us when we are in the back yard." Yep, that sounded really crazy. But I wasn't crazy, because I knew I sounded crazy. Right? Did I just say that out loud?

Choke, choke again
I find my demons were my friends
Getting me in the end
They're out to get me

My doctor looked at me more closely, which was good, since he's been my doctor since 1987. Then he wrote me a prescription for Prozac, because apparently he HAD heard this sort of thing before. Prozac helped me push the 'what ifs' to the back of my head, until the Doomsday voice finally receded into silence after about a year. When I heard this song on the radio, however, it definitely struck a chord. Because I did feel like I was coming undone. I felt exactly like that. Only the thought that I had to care for my son kept me together.

I don't think that the members of Korn had postpartum anxiety disorders in mind when they wrote this song. Maybe they were thinking of anxiety disorders in general, or depression. But they described it perfectly. If it describes what YOU are thinking, go talk to your doctor or a therapist. It does get better, but sometimes it takes a little help to get things going in the right direction.

[From: http://www.elyrics.net/read/k/korn-lyrics/coming-undone-lyrics.html]

Zane's Peoples

We were in Chik-Fil-A, and after eating the required one bite of chicken, Zane ran into the play area. On this particular evening, Zane was the only child in there.

The next thing we know, Zane zipped past us.

"Zane, wai--" Larry turned and made a grab, but was way too slow. He got up and followed our son. Zane ran right to a table where there was a little boy eating with his family. By this time, Larry had caught up to Zane, picked him up and brought him back to our table. Zane was not happy.

"I need my peoples!" he wailed. Zane did not want to play alone, and when no one showed up, my son determined to go out and get himself some "peoples" to play with him.

We all need 'peoples', I guess.

I'm a Crazed Fan!

NOTE: I am very excited to be a featured blogger over at the Crazed Fan Blog Hop. Welcome to all visitors! Please fasten your seatbelts and keep your hands, feet, and all objects inside the vehicle while it is in motion.


The Blog Entourage is back at ya with another great weekend blog hop! It will run all day every Saturday and Sunday. It was a big hit last weekend. Let's make it even bigger this time!

And hop however you want, but I am not going to put in the rules that you should follow back anyone who follows you. Follow whoever you want to follow, and I encourage you to only follow blogs that you are genuinely interested in reading. Then you will be more likely to go back to those blogs and comment, which will get you more genuine blogging friends and readers, as opposed to the dreaded copy and paste of "I followed you, now you follow me."

Just a few things to do before you link up:
1. Grab the code for this hop:

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*Post this in a new blog post today, or add it to your page.
2. Follow The Blog Entourage (if you already do, please follow on Twitter, FB, etc.)
Click here to  join The Blog Entourage on Facebook, where you can share links to your posts everyday!
And if you want to, please visit my other blogs, Kaitlin & Kylie's and The Green Girl.
3. Follow my lovely co-host, The Unexpected Mother. And follow this week's guest co-host, Not Just Another Mommy Blogger.
Your link will show up on all lists, so you only need to enter it on one.
4. Pretty, pretty please tweet, share, email, and post about this hop! There's a tweet button right below the list, along with a other sharing links.
5. NO SEXUALLY EXPLICIT BLOGS/BLOG POSTS!!!
**Please follow the rules! I pay for my linky subscription, and I spend time and effort promoting this hop.
**I will randomly pick someone from the list every week to be a featured co-host. But if the blog hop button wasn't posted on your blog or in a blog post, I will select someone else.

Congratulations to this week's guest co-host: Not Just Another Mommy Blogger

How long have you been blogging? I have been blogging a little over a year.  Not very long, in the grand scheme of things! 

What do you blog about?   I started out blogging about my son, who is now three, and his shenanigans.  I also blog about the things I see around me, including my cats, my husband and my work with special needs kids. I have posted some book reviews, when I have time to actually read.  Recently, I've started trying my hand at creative writing.  But ultimately, my son seems to take center stage--he is my muse!

Which kind of blogs do you like to read?   I am a big fan of biographies, so the blogs I love the most are the ones that describe the ups and downs and sideways of a family's life, warts and all.  Life is messy, but that's also the best part!

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ugly

Prompt: Write a short piece, either fiction or non-fiction, about something ugly – and find the beauty in it.




"That has to be the ugliest cactus I have ever seen," my new husband told me as we were moving into our new home.

"I don't know," I shrugged. "It's not that bad."

The cactus was hideous; it was three feet tall, awkward, and narrow, with a couple of stubby outgrowths that couldn't really be called branches. It was covered with so many spines that it looked a mottled gray instead of green. I had tried improving the look by placing the cactus in a brillantly scarlet pot, with no success. It was now ugly in a pretty pot. I had taken to calling the cactus Jezebel.

Jezebel weighed more than I could lift by myself, so I asked my husband to help me move it from the truck to our patio. Larry put his back into the job and was covered in spines before he was able to put the obnoxious plant down. I knew from many firsthand experiences that those spines were painful; they were so fine that they were almost impossible to see and therefore difficult to remove from the skin. Larry complained loudly as he went into the house to change out of the sticker-infected clothing. I resigned myself to spending our first evening in our new house with tweezers instead of a cabernet. I stared at Jezebel sitting on my new patio.

The cactus was ugly, no doubt. I remembered pulling it from a bargain bin at a nursery. I'd nurtured it from a small gangly twig smaller than its spines. I bought it special cactus soil and special cactus food. I talked to it. I did not overwater. I brought it inside when the weather turned freezing. That this particular plant had made it this long was a testament to the will to survive that exists in all things. Still, I had had many opportunities to rid myself of Jezebel over the years.

"Why are you here, Jezebel?" I said aloud. I went back inside the house to finish some more unpacking and take care of my husband.

The morning after an exceptional benevolent spring rainstorm, Jezebel greeted me one morning completely decked out in tiny, bright, purple flowers. I was struck silent by how intensely beautiful it appeared. Within a month, Jezebel was dead. It seemed to me, at that point, that the cactus had only been waiting for the right opportunity to let its true beauty shine forth.

The Secret to a Happy Marriage

I've been sick this week, with either a cold or allergies. It's kind of difficult to tell at this point. I just feel cruddy, but I don't have a fever, and I can't take off work this week because next week is spring break. So I've been muddling through. Emphasis on the word 'muddle'.

I hate to be sick. I hate not feeling like myself. I hate wanting to sleep so bad that I start nodding off in the middle of conversations. I hate feeling like my brain is in a fog. I hate being so irritable that I want to just start smacking everyone around me for no good reason. (even when I'm perfectly healthy, I sometimes want to smack someone. But I usually have a reason.) I need TWO spring breaks. If all this sounds odd, it's likely the cold medicine I took so I could get some sleep. It apparently makes you wacky. It actually says that on the box.

But enough about my wallowing in the self-pity trough. The Secret to a Happy Marriage is (drum roll)...separate bathrooms. Even if you don't have indoor plumbing, you need to have a "two seater" separated by a partition. Everyone needs their space, especially married couples, who are 'supposed' to want to do everything together. Togetherness is nice, but a little of that goes a long way, especially in a marriage.

Some of us are downright slobs(*raises hand), while others are obsessive compulsive neatniks. Separate bathrooms allows each person to express their personality to the utmost without fear of the other person completely ruining everything simply by crossing the threshold. One can leave the toothpaste sitting out all day, for instance, and nobody cares, because it's not in the other person's space. No random arguments that escalate over time until Cold War is declared!

Discuss.

Changes in Routines are Not Good for Me.

We spend every morning as we drive to daycare rehearsing with Zane what will happen when we get to the daycare. We talk about what room he will be going to, which teacher he might have, which friends might be there, and what sorts of activities might occur. We do all of this because I do not want my son to have a fit when we get to the daycare and have to leave him. For a long time, it seemed as though any little change in his routine would ruin his whole day.

Most days this schtick works well. I walk Zane into the daycare and leave him in his classroom, he runs off without a second glance, and everything is wonderful. Some days are not so great, ususally when Zane doesn't get enough sleep or is getting sick. On those days, Zane clings to me, cries, the teacher has to pry him off of me and carry him to the other side of the room so I can leave. I hate those days. They seem to set a tone. To sum up, as long as every day is exactly the same, everything is cool.

Except that every day is NOT exactly the same. Sometimes the teacher is late. Sometimes we are running late. Sometimes the teacher is sick. Sometimes the door lock code thingamajig doesn't work and we can't get in. Sometimes the preferred temperature is not available. Lots of little things that we can't always predict, and we won't know until we walk in the door. Zane has to learn to roll with it, because they are part of everyone's life. And I guess that I need to learn to roll with those changes as well. (Yes, I know that's an REO Speedwagon song. That's another post for another time.)

This morning when we walked into the daycare, the first teacher that we saw told us to take Zane to sit with the "Big Kids". Huh? went my tiny brain. He pointed in a direction, and that's the way we went. To the "Big Kids" room. My baby. Going to be the the "Big Kids". I'm getting myself worked up, I can feel it. What kind of kids are these "Big Kids"? Are they going to be nice to my boy? Does this teacher know Zane? Is he going to freak out about the whole thing? Are we going to have a meltdown? There was a lot more where all that came from. When this sort of thing happens, I hear the Red Alert alarm from the original Star Trek series in my head.

We arrived at the "Big Kids" room. I take a deep breath. I look around. The other kids did not appear to be all that big. In fact, they are all just about the same size as Zane. Check that one off the Gargantuan List of Anxieties. The teacher is someone I recognize as having worked with Zane previously. Check that one off the List as well. It's almost 8am, his regular teacher should be here soon, so that's checked off. I take another deep breath.

And as I am standing there, thinking that I am so secretly wrestling with my own anxieties, Zane pulls on my hand. I look down.

"It's okay, Mama," he says. "Now calm down."

Blasts from the Past

NOTE: This was from another prompt of the Red Dress Club; we were supposed to write about finding a forgotten item in the back of our closet. I wrote in my notebook, and then promptly forgot about it. Seems a shame to waste it, so here it is.

I found a tiny piece of fabric on the floor underneath a box in the back of my closet the other day. I picked it up, thinking that it was something that had fallen from a dress. Then I felt the tell tale signs of an underwire. I looked closer. It was a black lace demi-bra. So tiny! I checked the size: 34A. I was momentarily taken aback. Was this MY bra? I cannot at first recall the last time I wore a size 34 bra, let alone an A cup.

Then it came to me, the memory of a perfect dress of formfitting black lace with the perfect black lace bra, panties, garter, and stockings to go with it. A night, so very long ago, when I looked exceptionally hot and knew it down to my bones. A night of confidence, when I didn't worry about whether I had something green on my teeth or whether my thighs were too fat. A night of dancing, laughter, and fun with my friends. Good times, I recall, and smile to myself. I pause. I cannot remember my date for that perfect evening, and as he was so easily forgotten, he must not have been all that wonderful.

I should have put the bra in with the clothes earmarked for Goodwill. I had every intention of doing so, of letting go of the distant past. But somehow the tiny bra stayed in my hand, and was lovingly put into the lingerie drawer. The dress is gone, but the bra shall remain, since it triggered such fond remembrance. Happy memories are like gold, and on my more melancholy days, I find that I have a need to remember the 'transgressions' of my youth, however incomplete those memories might be.

This Is Why I Never Like to Go Out

We decided to have dinner at our favorite Mexican food restaurant. The moment we sat down, Zane announced the he had to use the facilities. My husband announced that it was "my turn". I have no idea by what process a parental 'turn' is determined, but I have learned not to argue.

Zane ran ahead of me and down the little hallway where the bathrooms are. I followed. Zane opened the door to the first room and went in in. I followed, talking to Zane the whole time about staying with me and not running ahead like that, and then two things happened in EXTREME slow motion as I was halfway into the room.

First, I noticed that the sign on the door said "Caballeros", and the tiny refrigerator light in my head went on about five seconds after that as to what that word meant. Second, I saw a man in the room I was about to enter. Lucky for me, he had his back to the door. (there's really not any kind of face-saving comment if he had been turned any other way, is there?)

I think I turned about 72 different shades of red(it was REALLY slow motion!) and backed out of the room, apologizing the whole time. Then I had to stand outside of the room and try to get Zane to come out of there, too. The man in the bathroom was polite, and offered to help, and that was all it took for Zane to open the door and exit.

We moved on. I checked, then checked again, that this next door did NOT say "Caballeros". It did not. Zane and I went into this room, and I locked the door. Zane pulled down his pants, and was trying to pee like he always does--standing up. Except that this bathroom only had a toilet that was the correct height for a person in a wheelchair, not the correct height for a 3 year old who wants to pee standing up. I had a chance to notice that Zane's planned trajectory would not reach the correct landing, and I did what any other completely oblivious mother would do.

"Zane, stop!" Zane did not stop. Zane did, however, turn toward the sound of his mother's voice. And peed all over my shoes, as well as the floor, in the process. I grabbed Zane and sat him on the toilet. He protested, but I tersely pointed out that he was too short and there wasn't a step stool in this bathroom. At this point, someone knocked on the door to indicate that they also needed the facilities, increasing my general sense of panic. While Zane finished up, I grabbed as many paper towels as I could and cleaned up as much as I could(Praise God for the pocket version of Clorox wipes!). Then I washed my feet, then my hands, then I helped Zane wash his hands, then I had to wash MY hands again. Then we had to use a ton of paper towels to clean up THAT mess. Or rather, I had to clean up the mess; Zane had moved on to trying to unlock the door so he could leave the bathroom.

When the two of us finally got back to our table, Larry asked us what took so long. So I punched him right in the face. Okay, I only did that in my head. I actually only glared at him.

But if I had punched him, it would have been totally justified.

Superhero Questions

My son loves Ironman. Loves him. He has an Ironman figure that he carries around the house. They are BFFs. One day I overheard Zane asking Ironman if he had to go 'potty'. Ironman apparently answered in the negative.

"But Zane, what does Ironman do when he has to go poop?" I was genuinely curious as to what the answer might be, because they never address this sort of thing. Ironman doesn't ever come running out of the men's room with a piece of toilet paper stuck to his boot when there's an emergency. Neither does Superman, but he's an alien, so he gets a pass.

"Ironman no poop!"

"Does Ironman eat?" I asked.

"Zes(Yes), Ironman eats 'eminems'(M&Ms)." Zane replied.

"If Ironman eats, then he has to poop," I was attempting reason. With a 3 year old. I should have known better.

"Mama! Ironman NO POOP!" Zane was very firm about this. It was nonnegotiable.

Sorry, Ironman.

Changes

The one thing that everyone on the planet should know about cats is that they hate change. HATE it. In fact, most cats would rather chew up change, swallow it, hack it up as a hairball, then bury it in the back yard. Most days, I would have to say that I agree with their perspective, except for the hairball part. Ick.

But change does come to all, even cats.

On the day that our cat Tiger died, which was three weeks ago, the only cat in the house who seemed to notice was Pounce. She paced, she called, and she remained agitated for most of the day. I understood her angst; Tiger raised her from a kitten. Since then, she's been acting a bit schizo. Well, more schizo than the average calico.

Morris, being a boy cat, immediately moved downstairs and started rubbing his face on everything to mark it. He wanted to go outside and mark everything out there as well, including the neighbor's Pomeranian. The little dog did not appreciate being stamped with the Morris Seal of Approval, and that ended Morris' adventures outside. But he's become much more bossy since Tiger has gone.

And about a week after he passed, we found the kitten Zena wedged under the bed in the exact spot that we found Tiger. Pounce was stalking her. It took us a bit to get her to come out, but we did, and she's seemed okay since. I guess that she had to say goodbye in her own way.

Even Lalo, the feral cat who lives in the backyard, began pressing his face against the glass of our back door every chance he gets. He has been spending the night on our back step instead of his perch in a patio chair. He seems to be looking for something, and we think he's looking for Tiger.

Or food. You never can tell with cats.

No Water

NOTE: This is in response to a writing prompt from The Red Dress Club. This is my first attempt to write fiction, and I am not sure of myself, so try to be gentle!

In the moments after my car was run off the road, I lost consciousness. When I awoke, my first thought was of my son. He had been strapped into his car seat.

“Michael?” I say his name.

Silence.

A moment of panic spikes through me. I tell myself to breathe. I take a deep breath, and try to turn my head. He is there; I see his chest rise and fall out of the corner of my eye. My son is breathing, and so I now breathe. He is sleeping, I realize. He slept through the entire accident.

Suddenly my car door is ripped open, and I turn again, this time painfully. A gun appears, pointed at my face. “Get out,” a voice says. I glance at the source of the voice, at a man with no hair. His head is covered in blisters from sunburn, and he is dirty. My revulsion must have shown on my face, because the gun suddenly was shoved into my lip hard enough to split it.

“GET OUT NOW!” He yelled. I reached for the seatbelt release, and got stiffly out of the car. I kept my hands up, and let the blood run down my chin.

“Where is it?” A shove with the gun, and more blood gushed from my fast swelling lip.

“What are you talking about?” My incomprehension had to have been obvious.

“Water! Where do you keep the water?” The man's voice was desperate.

Now I understood. Water. I looked around; there was no vegetation to be seen, and lots of dust. There was no more water out here; it had all been piped into the cities, where it was doled out by the thimbleful to those residents lucky enough to be able to pay for it. The ones who did not have the money, went without, and died. Water gives life. Water takes it away. Soon, there would be no more water at all, except for what was in the polluted oceans, and that was unfit to drink.

“I don’t have any water.” I was sorry to have to tell him this, and not just because he had a gun in my face. I could see that he was only sweating lightly in this heat, and that was not a good thing. “I would give you water if I had it.”

“You lie!” The man yelled. “Nobody travels this far out from the city without water!” He looked into the car, and saw my sleeping child.

“Get the boy!” For the first time I realized that there was another man; I had been focused on the gun in my face. My son was unceremoniously ripped from his car seat. He began to cry and struggle. The man who pulled him from the car brought him over to where I was standing, and put a gun to my son’s head. I was instantly angry, and afraid.

“I do not have any water. Please let my son go,” I tried to keep my voice steady, my eyes on my child. It was no use. Before I could shout “NO!” my son turned himself in the man's arms, opened his mouth, and ripped the throat out of the man holding him. I quickly pulled the small knife I had hidden in my bra and sliced the throat of the man holding the gun on me. He had been staring at my son, and was dead before he realized what was happening. I caught him before he landed the wrong way and spilled everything.

“You should have waited until Mommy got out the bucket, “ I told my son. He was drinking greedily and ignored me. I sighed.

Water gives life. Water takes it away. Unless you adapt.

Young Love and Anxiety

My son met a girl today. He and his father were outside, Zane pedaling his bike, when Zane rode his bike over to a cute little girl on her bike. The little girl was with her mother. Zane asked the mama what the little girl's name was, Larry said. The little girl was right there in front of him, but Zane asked the mama for a proper introduction. This cute little girl is named Scarlet. Zane and Scarlet had a friendly conversation about their bikes which ended with the random fact that giraffes have ears. Typical small child communication.

When Larry related all this to me, my first thought was, "That hussy!" My second thought was, "She's what--two? What the heck are you worried about?" Because I AM worried. It's my nature to worry, unfortunately. Mostly I keep my worries to my self. Every single "what if?" that a person can think of runs through my thoughts. They play in a constant loop in the back of my mind, sort of like muzak. I probably should take medication for this.

All I could think about for the rest of the day is that my son and this girl are going to grow up on the same street, and he'll probably end up marrying her, and having 70 babies before she turns 25, and things sort of went south from there. Completely ridiculous stuff that, even if it were to happen, are too far in the future to predict all the ramifications. And I will go crazy before my son turns 5 at this rate.

I am going to have to figure out a way to stop this constant 8-track playing in my head. It was bad enough before I had a child! I was thinking that some sort of electrical jolt every time I find myself sidetracked with vague worries. Maybe a cattle prod? Too much?

My Son Takes After Me

Larry went to wake up Zane this morning. I was in the bathroom, getting ready to blow dry my hair.

"Zane, it's time to get up," I heard Larry say. No response.

"Zane, wake up!" Larry tries again. I hear stirring.

"Daddy, I still sleeping!"

Of course I had to laugh, because that just so happens to be what I say on most work days.

The Amazing Miracle Cure-all

One of the membership requirements for being a three year old is that you acquire every single random bacterium/virus/paramecium that happens to be floating by on a dust speck(I blame Horton. A second requirement for membership into this exclusive club is that you perform daring feats which scare the bejeebus out of your mother and leave you with various scrapes, bumps, cuts, and bruises.

My son excels at both of these skills, but he's exceptional at acquiring minor injuries. If there were a contest to see who could accumulate the most bruises and scrapes, he would win. If it's a just a small scrape or bump, Zane plays up the drama and demands that we kiss the site, then goes merrily, a song in his heart, to leap off the very next tall structure he sees.

A more severe injury requires more attention, of course. Zane screams his head off when he is in pain, just like most every other person on the planet. We pick him up, exam him carefully, and hold him. Zane will then ask for one thing: an ice pack. I suppose that he picked up this love of the magical ice pack at daycare, and that's just fine. No matter what sort of pain Zane has, give him an ice pack. No particular ice pack is required, just AN ice pack. You could put a couple of cubes in a ziploc sandwich bag and that's an ice pack to Zane. He carefully holds it to the injury for a second or two, and he's 'cured'. He will hand the ice pack back to you and take off.

If I have one of my migraines, Zane will tell me that I need an ice pack. Eyes bothering you? Ice pack. Corns? Ice pack. Loss of kidney function? Ice pack. Ice is the ultimate cure for what ails you, as far as Zane is concerned.

I am sure that he's bound for medical school.

Not-Wordless Wednesday: Save The Words!

I love words. I find it fascinating to contemplate our ability not only to speak our thoughts, but also to translate that speech into written symbols--writing. Words that, once written, can be shared with others. Words are one of the reasons that I love to write, which might be a no-brainer to some. Others might disagree. When I was a kid I used to open the dictionary and randomly put my finger on a word so I could increase my vocabulary. It was also fun for me to explore the history of a word, and I thoroughly enjoyed discovering all the permutations of the words I selected.

There is this extremely cool website that I've stumbled across a few times, then lost, then found again. It's called Save the Words, and the site's purpose is to keep words that are in danger of being removed from the dictionary FOREVER. I find this simply atrocious. What if the exact word I am looking for, the one word that sums up the point I am trying to make, is gone when I open the dictionary to look for it?

Visitors to the website can 'adopt' a word, if they pledge to use the word as often as possible. I seriously considered a few words for adoption.

tortiloquy--dishonest or immoral speech I confess that, at first sight, I thought this word had something to do with tortillas. But I'm sure that was just because I was a bit hungry.

gardeviance--a chest for valuables, a traveling trunk Wow, I never would have guessed that definition!

quaeritate--to ask That's a fifty dollar word, my grandfather would say. And you would feel pretty smart saying such a word.

These are all prerry interesting words, looking for good homes. I wish that I could take them all home with me, but the requirement that you have to use them often means that nobody would have the slightest idea what the heck I was talking about. I think that might interfere with communication.

The Road Less Traveled

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

This is from Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken, and much has been written about the last three lines. The road less traveled is supposed to represent individualism, the person who marches to the beat of a distant drum, as opposed to the cadence of conformity. People who follow their own path in this manner are admired as adventurers, discoverers, and trailblazers. Such people founded this country, and such people made this country what it is today. Well, what it would be if we weren't so busy conforming to our nonconformity. It's no fun being a individual unless everyone else is doing the same thing, I guess.

Robert Frost got lucky in his choice of paths. But what if there's a reason a road is less traveled? What if the road less traveled is a weedy, overgrown dead end that drops off a cliff? What if the road less traveled leads to a cave full of angry rattlesnakes who are in a bitey-kind of mood? What if the road less traveled is actually an endless loop? Sometimes it may be good to stay on the well-traveled path! Or not--the well-worn path can also be the road paved with good intentions, as most of our mothers warned us. But this leaves us back at those diverging roads.

Ozzy Osbourne, who occasionally is wise, sang that "The road to nowhere leads to me." Perhaps the road that seems to go nowhere, the one that leads us to ourselves and who we were meant to be, is the road less traveled. Maybe that would make all the difference.