fishsticks on friday

Happy Annunciation!

2011-03-25T07:00:00.001-07:00

In My Hand

A Verse for the Annunciation

Lentils strewn

across the wall

in a dusky wave

These things I remember

Mid-day hunger

we had an onion

so the stew smelled rich

I filled my bowl to the brim,

heard a rustling,

like leaves

or the tops of juniper trees

swaying in the wind

And turned

"Hail, Full of Grace ..."

Light broke the room

with a voice

terrible,

but sweet

I could see him

yet through him

he was golden,

white and blue --

with silver specks

sparking off his skin

like moonlight on water

And the lentils,

they flew

from my hand

when I jumped

and gasped

and grabbed my throat

to find it silent

Only the sound

of a wooden bowl,

clattering across stone,

and his words,

"Be Not Afraid,"

filled the room

As strong and as real

as the fire beneath my pot

As strong and as real

as the cold beneath my feet

As strong and as real

as the waft of lentils

for which,

I was no longer hungry

These things I remember

I hold them in my hand

like the same wooden bowl,

now cracked on one side,

my finger finds the line often

and traces it

like a scar

Especially when I feed

my Son of the Most High

lentils or pottage or goat curds,

His favorite,

and He squeals and smacks and splats

them on His face,

in my hair,

on the wall

I laugh at the Child's dancing brown eyes,

but words spoken over Him

grip my heart all the more

as He now reaches

to grip my hand

"And of His Kingdom there shall be no end."

Yea,

Be it done to me according to thy word

--Sarah Johnson

Pope John Paul II, Pray for Us

2010-06-22T17:30:00.000-07:00

I read this today and had to write it somewhere:

"Following Jesus as Redeemer means accepting the practical way by which he achieved the salvation of humanity. This way is the Cross. The present economy of salvation passes through the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus; it passes through the Paschal Mystery. Therefore, being a Christian means accepting the logic of the Cross in one's own life; it means following Jesus carrying the Cross."

-- Pope John Paul II

June 25, 1989

King Henry

2010-05-03T18:05:00.001-07:00

Henry the Brave

I'd gladly slay a fire-breathing dragon,
Crawl bare-kneed across Antarctica's shores,
Swim though mud motes the size of Wisconsin

To behold you,
if only for a breath

King Henry, to you I bow

Honored

Honored

Honored

to be your Mom

***

Announcing: Henry Joseph Johnson
Born: April 9, 2010
6 lbs 4 ounces

"Henry" (Germanic) means "Ruler of the House" and is the name most frequently used by kings in recorded history. "Joseph" is Hebrew and means "God will increase." We chose Henry simply because we like the sound of it and for its meaning; Joseph in honor of St. Joseph.

Thanks to all who prayed & helped out during Henry's stint in the NICU. He's doing very well and is finally home.

Our joy is now complete.

* * *

Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The LORD, the LORD, is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation. --Isaiah 12:2

We Are Living Our Dream

2010-02-15T18:56:00.001-08:00

I was handing him his lunch,

or maybe stepping out of the shower

when the new day's light

crossed his face

in a way

that made me realize

we were living our dream.

So I told him,

and he smiled at me

the way he does

when something

is perfectly

good,

right

and

true.

The Fertile and the Fallow

2009-11-12T18:20:00.000-08:00

The garden is barren

So is the blog

But my womb is a flutter with a new set of feet
that tap, tap, tap
and twist when I sit by the shine
of my reading lamp

* * *

I think I'm done blogging --
at least for a while

No real reason other than I've picked up a few other hobbies,
and time, as you know, is a finicky thing

* * *

So, goodbye for now

Perhaps, a new baby will mark a return

Or, perhaps guilt over keeping no family photo albums will move me into slapping up a Christmas Post.

If not, au revoir, FishsticksonFriday, au revoir.

Much love,

Sarah

Our News

2009-08-26T18:45:00.000-07:00

The baby above is about 54 days from conception. Although I'm not quite so far along, it's sweet to think of my newest baby hard at work -- growing bone and skin, eyelashes and a healthy, blood-pumping heart.

Grow, baby, grow!

***

Dear Baby, I am so blissfully aware of your presence. You are my fourth child and I am so honored to carry you.

Your oldest brother's arrival in my womb, I greeted with the hyper-excitement of a 7-year-old about to get her first puppy.

Your other older brother -- I greeted with ... I hate to say ... fear ( "how could I possibly handle 2 babies?!")

And your other, other older brother, again -- fear ("3?! -- yup -- we're Catholic now!")

But you ... you have made me so deeply happy. I had a feeling you'd be coming, and now that your here, I sense God's love and mercy in a way I hadn't before you arrived. The fear must have been hammered out of me -- stomped out by an army of muddy sneaker-clad brothers. Because, I only wish you were already here in my arms.

This Boy

2009-08-16T18:54:00.000-07:00

5 Years ago today ...

This Boy

stole my heart

and made me a Mother

Happy Birthday, my Little Prince

Do it Again

2009-08-11T10:46:00.000-07:00

Here's my latest column at Blue Mountain Moments. Enjoy!

Do it Again

“Do it again,” my son squeals from the swing, “Do it again!”

I sigh then “run under,” pushing him up, up, up so high over my head till he laughs and screams like he was flying through the air for the very first time. He swings a little, slows down … down … down, then beckons, “Do it again!”

And again, and again, and again and again. Oh, the park. My mini-van knows the drive by heart. It could probably even get there on its own -- back out of the driveway, turn right, then left, then right again. And voila, arrive at a primary-colored playground for the 9,765th time. I could make the drive in my sleep … or in a coma. I’ll probably keep driving there even after I’m dead. But, oh no, now I sound morose or at least ungrateful. So, just ignore that last part (the part about me driving to the park when I’m dead) and let me take a moment to explain my tone and the bone I’m picking with the park.

You see, there are certain parts of a mother’s life that are, most kindly put, monotonous. So much so, I’ve come to conclude, it is this way by design. And the park, I tell you, is a case in point. That point being that children love the park for the same reasons adults find it boring: it is always the same, it is always open and its target audience is about 3 and 1/2 feet tall.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE the park. It’s the answer for so many of this mother’s challenging moments. Cranky kids? The park! Skipped naps? The park! Frazzled from cleaning a house that is simultaneously being destroyed? Let’s go to the park! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pulled up to our jungle-gymed field, slid open my mini-van’s door and felt all my mommy tension simply disappear as my boys dash into a space set aside just for fun. They jump and run and pretend they’re pirates up on the play castle they swear is really a boat.

I watch them and smile. They give me space they don’t at home in the kitchen. They forget about their many needs and simply play. Fresh air. Other mothers to talk to … yes, I love the park. But sometimes . . .

I really hate it. Because sometimes, you see, it lacks the 30-something age-level excitement I crave. The excitement, or rather the glamour I had expected to arrive by this point in my life.

“Do it again,” my son screams and the old lady beside me on the bench asks to hold the baby. I comply, run to pump the swing and return to her smile. Her eyes are blue as cold water and her skin almost matches. She waves a crumpled tissue over my tots like the Pope waves his staff in a blessing.

“Enjoy it,” she says then tells me about her kids all grown and gone. “If I could, I’d do it all over again,” she says, “I’d do it all again.”

She hands over the baby and shuffles away, casting a shadow long and dark across the blacktop. Whether it be her wrinkled hands or the wisdom of her words, the acquaintance reminds me once again of time’s indiscriminate swiftness -- its viscous flow, its rapid flight. I realize quite clearly that I’ll surely warm these benches as well when I’m an old lady, dreaming of my son’s golden curls -- longing to ruffle them just one more time. And with a spark, I jump to launch that swing through the clear summer sky – simply delighted to “do it again.”

-- Sarah Johnson can be emailed at bluemountainmama@gmail.com

What You Got to Say About White Trash?

2009-08-02T19:12:00.000-07:00

Say it to my face!

Freebird!

A Vacation All Along

2009-08-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

Simeon squealing at fish,

and I'm waiting for my vacation to begin

Executing a long-anticipated train ride,

and I'm smiling till it hurts but still waiting for my vacation to begin

Snapping shots of Manny with her sweet Simmy

... still waiting

A happy docent displays dinosaur teeth to my fascinated babies; I jump up and down but deep, deep inside, yup, I'm watchin' that clock, wondering when that vacation I heard about was going to begin ... for me?

Awww, my Gus and his daddy staring at Geckos; I couldn't drag them away. [BTW: Did somebody tuck that thing called a vacation in a drawer or a cupboard somewhere deep in the back of the pantry? Did they cover it with foil and stick it behind a ham? Cause I looked and looked but... I'm ... still ...waiting ...]

Oh, this felt like it! It really did! I thought the vacation had finally arrived. But while the fountain cooled our weary feet, I was ... still waiting ...

Because it came much later. After this hot day cooled to night, my parents (we were staying at their house) skipped town for a trip of their own. My husband's eyes caught mine and I mouthed "hot tub." With skipping and hopping we threw our tired tots in bed and raided my dad's liquor cabinet. We hit that hot tub and talked like we hadn't talked in months (and I mean talking as in verbal conversation so don't get yucked out as I wouldn't do that to you). We left the house a mess cause there was no one there it would bother. We watched a movie & before we drifted off to sleep I sat up and said with a start:

"THAT WAS IT!!! THAT WAS WHAT I WANTED FOR MY VACATION!!! IT FINALLY ARRIVED!!!"

But then I felt so sad because I realized we had to leave in the morning.

When I woke, Pete had already packed the car.

And as we drove home, I struggled with self-pity until I realized that no matter how many times I'm told, and no matter how counter intuitive the fact remains: The World Does Not Revolve Around Me. [Although, I am the starting point from where I stand -- and therefore find this concept difficult to believe -- but still, it's just got to be true].

So ...

Simeon got his fish
Haven, his fossils
Gussie spotted a gecko
Pete did too
I had a date, if only for a moment

And realized, as we headed home, that
the vacation ...
well, I had it all along

Diary of a Garden: Once Again, I've Lost Count

2009-08-02T18:00:00.000-07:00

Things aren't going so well.

I have a feeling these tomatoes will protest their propping, and decide to remain green.

Because when a trip to the local Lawn and Garden means dragging along a rabble of knee-high banshees, one learns to make do.

And to make do and to make do ...

So Stinkin' Cute

2009-07-13T10:30:00.000-07:00

Latest Column

2009-07-13T10:25:00.001-07:00

Here's my latest column at Blue Mountain Moments. Enjoy!

Everyone is Interesting, A Series:

This Month: Joe Marzen, In the Nuts and Bolts of a Community

When I announced I was heading to the hardware store to conduct an interview, my 4-year-old son blocked the door. Furiously waving his toolbox through the air, Haven petitioned to come along. I agreed on the condition he help ask a few questions. Haven gladly complied.

"How can we keep bunnies out of our garden?" my son asked a smiling Joe Marzen as the doorbell at Marzen's Hardware Store in Jim Thorpe clamored again and again on a breezy afternoon.

Joe answered with a variety of solutions from fencing to a new herbal spray designed to keep rabbits and deer at bay.

"What about a scarecrow?" Haven asked, his hands up in claws beside his scowling face.

Joe chuckled, ruffling my sons curls and said he thought one would work just fine.

As Haven and I conducted our "interview," locals filed in and out of the store. Summer yard work showed muddy on their boots as they hollered off cheerful "hello's" and "hey there's" to their flannel-clad friend, Joe Marzen. A sudden wave of customers swept Haven and I over to check out the flashlights while the 2nd generation hardware store co-owner tended to his customers’ many needs. [Joe and his brother Bob share the business since partnering along side their father, also Bob Marzen, who worked late into his 60’s before retiring. Bob Marzen Sr. originally purchased the store in 1951, which at the time and since its 1898 inception in a local’s living room was known as G.M. Genshart’s Hardware.]

As I was wrestling a ratchet out of my tot’s clenched fists, a neighbor stopped by to pick up a new mailbox. He nodded curiously at the notepad tucked under my arm. When I told him I was writing a feature on Joe, he paused thoughtfully and said: "You know you're dealing with a pillar, right?"

And even though I'm relatively new in town, I nodded astutely so as to let the friend know I'd cover the two-term Borough Council Member, proprietor, and father of four with all the dutiful moxie I could muster while smacking my son's hands away from socket wrenches and paint spinners.

The crowd thinned and Joe made his way back to the counter with a photo in hand. "Here are my kids," he beamed.

Joe went on to tell me about Lee -- "a local cop who was even involved the recent drug bust;" Melissa -- "a full-time mom with two little ones and another on the way; " Joey -- "very smart -- a meteorologist;" and Eric "just a great kid who's busy with his own career but still manages to help out around the store."

Then after a bit of prodding, as this quiet man is obviously more keen on listening to others than he is talking about himself, Joe shared a bit about the difficult time he had when his children were young. He told me about how his kids lost their mother in a tragic car accident when the oldest was not even yet a teenager.

"But look at them," Joe said proudly, admiring the portrait, "They all turned out beautifully -- just beautifully."

Joe never remarried but explained how his mother and extended Marzen family -- a clan with roots dating back to the mid-1800's in these parts -- "pitched in" with childrearing.

Since his kids grew up and left home, Joe’s filled his time with hard work -- “it’s nothing to stick around this place till 8 or 9 p.m. a few nights a week”; church -- he’s a lector and an usher at St. Joe’s where his family has been active for generations; and community service -- appointed to fill a vacancy on the Borough Council in 2002, Joe was reelected for a second term in 2007 and cites “personal service, not politics” as his daily motivation.

As our time together was quickly encroaching on my tot’s nap, I wrapped things up with a few heavy hitters.

“So tell me the truth,” I cut to the quick, “Would you have rather been born into a Nascar family? I mean if you could have done anything else in the world as a profession, what would it have been?”

Of course, Joe grinned. And of course his eyes twinkled. He then looked down thoughtfully and took a minute before he answered.

“Just this,” he said as he tapped a worn counter with the palm of his hand, “I like it here,” glancing up at the ceiling and around the room, “I wouldn’t have done anything else. I would have done just this.”

Wanna know more about a particular local? Email Sarah at bluemountainmama@gmail.com to recommend someone for the next Everyone is Interesting column because … Everyone. Is. Interesting.

"Shot a' Tabasco?"

2009-07-03T05:15:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday Choppy! (short for "Manchop" for those of you who don't know)

You are our SPARK and the SPRING IN OUR STEP.

This little family would be lost without you.

As long as I blog, I'll link to the story of your treacherous beginning (below).

I'll do this because there is nothing today, except for a little scar on your neck, to remind us that you are GRACE. You are MERCY.

You're also a whirlwind of 3 -year-old manpower, and we adore you.

Happy Birthday, Gus!

http://www.animachristi.blogspot.com

The Wolfes Stopped By

2009-06-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

So we're slowly redoing our bathroom (I'll do a complete before and after post when it's done); We popped off the old medicine cabinet.

I stood staring at the marks on the wall behind it; wondering who wrote them and when; whether he lived in this house, etc., etc.

Then I looked to the left and saw this: "H. Wolf. Aug. 1956"

And to the right and saw: "Rose Wolfe, August 1956 & Rosalie Wolfe 1956"

That means my medicine cabinet was over 50 years old! I'm definitely going to look these Wolfes up; Charlotte, I'll need your help!

Diary of a Garden; Part: I've Lost Count

2009-06-24T19:00:00.000-07:00

The first salad I ever grew myself! What fun!

Thankless

2009-06-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

Jesus stopped by just as my son screamed for more --

More syrup, More butter,

More, More, More!

The Messiah pulled out a seat,

his robe drug across my filthy floor

"You see that?!" I demanded as my kid ran from the table

"You see that?! I slammed my fist, "It's Thankless -- Motherhood is Thankless!"

He sighed and smiled, then helped me clear the dishes

Later, he joined us on a walk where my boys stomped the life out of me with muddy boots and demands for hoists to the highest branches

As we shuffled home, I cried again "Thankless, Lord -- Motherhood is Thankless!"

He nodded then took the stroller at the steepest part of the hill

Back home, it was ANOTHER meal with every morsel heated just so and every sippy cup filled just right and every screaming tot in my litter regarding my work with a MAGNIFICENT lack of appreciation

This time, I just shot Him a look

Again, He nodded

I threw the kids down for naps then collapsed on the couch

Christ sat on the floor beside me and took my hand

I felt his palm -- my finger traced callouses then stopped at the hole in its center

"It's Thankless, Lord, " I said, "Motherhood is SO Thankless"

And as I fell asleep, He stroked my brow then covered me with a blanket

He closed my drapes and turned on the fan, knowing I like its hum

He then whispered in my ear before He slipped out the door,

No dear, Motherhood is not Thankless,

Because it is Precisely How

You Thank Me

My Kid is Weird, Post #5,956

2009-06-11T17:51:00.000-07:00

By the chance your mother provide you with the pink, pig piggy bank you demand,
be pensive

until evening falls ... then swaddle him tight with papers and rags

and tuck him safe in a box made for shoes

Ahh

Then slide him into his "cubby hole" (your mother's computer chair will do)

And bid him fair dreams, lulled by the clacking of computer keys above him

The Season Pass

2009-06-08T10:09:00.001-07:00

Here's my latest column at Blue Mountain Moments. Enjoy!

Season Pass to the Lake:

Help Me "Pay This One Forward"

Last summer, my little family was nervously wading into the waters of opening a new business. My husband had been laid off the previous winter, and with no job prospects in sight, we gathered up every extra copper – in the couch and under the car seats -- and bought a field to fill with seed (or something like that).

In short, last summer we were B-R-O-K-E. I don’t just mean broke. I mean broker than broke. But to put it more tastefully, as the season had its sweet spots, let’s just say we were on a Budget [note: a budget with a capitol “B”].

For example, it was with glee, joyful shouts and a jar of bacon grease, we wedged our third son’s car seat between his brothers when he joined our family last spring. Cause, yup, the minivan savings plan had been sunk into the field. We had three boys crammed into the back of a Plymouth that had seen better days -- specifically, those of the Reagan era. The rusty sedan sputtered and spit and shook like it housed a rabid family of silverware-sparring squirrels. That, and it would overheat over the smallest annoyance – like its driver glancing in the rear view mirror (oh wait, it didn’t have one), or a power-walker passing in the wrong shade of purple, a southerly rainbow, a northerly one, fog.

Suffice to say, last summer our vacation plans amounted to those of a “staycation.” However, until a dear, true friend sacrificed some of her hard earned dollars to bless us with a special gift (which I’ll tell you about in a second), the only ideas I had in mind involved a hose and a well-worn kiddy pool.

So here’s the best part. I’ll never forget returning from an outing last June just as summer settled over the town for its heavy, three-month nap. The air was a wet, wool blanket. The kids were cranky. The sedan, smoky. And I was overwhelmed with it all – the new baby, the new business, the perpetual broke-ness. [Forgive me if this sounds whiny, or humor me if you’ve never been so broke you cannot relate, but the debate between “deodorant or Nair, deodorant or Nair … ‘hmmm, do I want body odor or a mono-brow’” GETS REALLY OLD!!!].

It was on that sweatful day, I dropped my limited drugstore purchases on the counter to find a Hawaiian lei taped to my fridge with five season passes to Mauch Chunk Lake pinned to it snugly. I cried. Then I dried my eyes, called that dear, true friend to thank her and pinned passes on diapered bottoms to the left and right of me. We headed up the mountain to waters that nurtured my soul and didn’t return till September.

I could write for days about my baby boys running and jumping at the foamy lake’s edge. I could write novels about cool winds blowing over the water and how they cleared away life’s stresses, putting them into perspective. I could write about how when lost in a moment of splashing I caught my reflection in the water and saw hope in my eyes.

I could write about all that, but it would take more space than this kind paper could allow. So instead, I’ll sum up with a request. Here it is. That field I mentioned worked. I mean it flew. Or better put, it grew enough barley for the basics. Late last fall, we scrapped the sedan [sigh] and bought a “new to us” minivan. I beamed. By winter, I even hit the toiletries aisle at the drugstore with a tad more freedom. Not only did I leave smelling like flowers, I picked up a [...drumroll...] mascara as well. I beamed again. Those around me did too.

So what’s the request? Just this. Help me pay this lake pass forward. Here’s how. If you’ve faced hard times and could use some sandcastle building with your kids, shoot me an email and I’ll drop your name in a hat. Winner gets a family lake pass for the season [I won’t publish your name, but I will snag your sand toys if they’re cooler than mine when our play dates collide]. Or, if you’ve experienced more fruitful times as of late (and this is truly relative), receive inspiration from the dear, true friend I mentioned (who, by the way, was not void of pressing needs when she graced my family with the priceless gift of thought, care and fun) and pick up a pass for someone in a rough spot.

Pay it forward. It doesn’t have to be a lake pass. But how great if it is! Perhaps for you it will simply be a phone call to a friend going through a tough time or a glass of iced tea to a thirsty soul. Pay it forward, and when you pick up that pass at the pavilion labeled Mauch Chunk, tell ‘em I sent you.

*Note: we have a winner; I won't print her name but she knows who she is; and listen, lady -- your cool sand toys are all mine!

A Successful Man

2009-06-01T18:48:00.000-07:00

It was Pop Pop's birthday so we headed down for a day of fun

Pop Pop bought the things he wanted most of all: a SHARK water slide for starters,

a pool complete with another (you guessed it) SHARK!

Simeon watched from the sidelines

Gabe scared us all with a "Boo!"

And Haven only cried 500 times but was thrilled nonetheless. Joy!

R.I.P.

2009-06-01T18:39:00.001-07:00

As many of you know, the late-term abortionist George Tiller was shot and killed in his church yesterday morning.

There has been much to say about the sobering event. I'll add only this:

I'm rejoicing that his schedule was cleared today.

It is my duty to pray for Mr. Tiller's soul and so I do.

Please join me in this act of charity.

Diary of a Garden; Part IV: Sprouts

2009-06-01T18:06:00.000-07:00

Can't help but smile, right?

Pray the Rosary

2009-05-23T19:02:00.000-07:00

"Taste and see."

This statement of Christ's sums up the Rosary to me.

A Christian tradition dating back to the 13th century, the practice truly is a mystery (not in the sense that its meaning cannot be plumbed; but on the contrary: that it is revealed bit by bit).

I just really liked this video and thought I'd share it. Enjoy!

My 1st Bath With The Big Brothers!

2009-05-18T19:22:00.000-07:00

Oh Boy!

Oh Boy, Oh Boy!

Oh Boy, Oh Boy, Oh Boy!!!!

Phew, time for bed.

Little Mama

2009-05-18T18:40:00.000-07:00

You must have clung

to a faith stronger

than the one I whistle when pleasing

because you buried two sons --

one 7 -- maybe blond and freckled

one 9 -- perhaps dark like his father

side by side

Will in '25 and Gerry three years later, in the winter of '28

Was it pneumonia? I wonder. Or just a bad flu ... one I'd stomp about cause the pharmacist dallied to fill the script

To realize your worst nightmare then wake to realize it again, little Mama

I hope the suffering made you cleave and thus saved you

I hope your tears were turned into dancing

I hope you know peace

All Mine

2009-05-18T18:34:00.000-07:00

On a steady diet

of mama's milk

and pizza crust -- yahoo!

Happy Birthday, Dear Friend

2009-05-11T10:44:00.000-07:00

"What I expect from my male friends is that they are polite and clean. What I expect from my female friends is unconditional love, the ability to finish my sentences for me when I am sobbing, a complete and total willingness to pour their hearts out to me, and the ability to tell me why the meat thermometer isn't supposed to touch the bone."

-- Anna Quindlen

And let me tell you, this birthday girl fits the bill.

So how did I show my appreciation, love and devotion?

A play date at the park with a soccer candle on a muffin, Aldi brand body wash (she's a fan) and, of course, a One Act Play. Enjoy!

I Went There First and All of You Followed

A Play About Aldi

In Just One Act

Starring Stephanie and Jean

Written by Sarah

Setting: Freezer Section; Jean swipes the last package of Turkey Mignons just as Steph pushes her explodingly over-packed, quarter-rented cart down the aisle trailed by her 4 soccer-dirt stained sons.

Jean's buggy contains the following: 1 bag of chocolate chips, a bouquet of flowers and Tina, her 3-year-old daughter who can easily be mistaken for a buttercup.

Jean is carefully reading the Turkey Mignon package's ingredients as Steph approaches.

Steph: [Turning red and whispering under her breath]: Hold it right there, Missy! Drop it. Drop the Mignon's and get your fanny back to your fancy, little market where you belong. I've been shopping Aldi long before this recession and I'll be here even when you're once again hankering for $5.00 salad dressing ... [Jean notices Steph] Oh, hi Jean! Hi Tina!

Jean: Hi Steph!

Steph: Hey there!! Jean -- YOU'RE shopping at ALDI?

Jean: [giggling and motioning to her cart]: Yeah, just a few odds and ends; hey, have you ever tried these? [holding up the mignions]

Steph: Oh yeah, oh those are ... um ... I mean ... they're really disgusting. I wouldn't even feed them to my dogs [reaching for the package but Jean pulls it back] they're just so gross; here give them to me [swipes the air as Jean tucks them to her chest] I made them once and could swear I was actually eating dirt ... here, let me put them back for you ... [another swipe].

Jean: [Shrinking back] Really, um well, they look interesting; maybe, I'll just give them a try on the grill [smiles and places the package in her cart]. Oh well, see ya later.

Jean heads to the check-out. Steph huddles with her sons in the produce section. A commotion ensues. Suddenly, Rowan, Steph's 4-year-old, is flying through the air -- apparently "basket-tossed" by his brothers. He lands upside down in Jean's cart and does a few hand-stand presses for good measure. Tina cheers. Before Jean even notices what's going on, Rowan drop-kicks the bag of frozen meat product back to Steph and his brothers who all jump and reach and dive for the bag. In the end, Ethan, Steph's 8 year-old, skids to his knees and goalie-clutches the mignons to his belly.

Steph's traveling circus cheers "Score!" and passes high fives all around.

Jean laughs and pays cash for her groceries. Tina tucks her nose in the bouquet as the double doors close behind them.

THE END

Happy Birthday, Steph. You're the best of the best.

A Verse for Mothers

2009-05-09T10:34:00.000-07:00

Here's my latest column at Blue Mountain Moments. Enjoy!

Seduction, Thou Hast a Name

2009-05-06T19:42:00.000-07:00

And it is "Home Improvement"

Oh, I'm sorry. Have I deafened your ears by my incessant SCREAMING for Utter and Complete and Total Ecstatic Joy???!!!

You see, my husband, on his own accord (without even being asked -- or rather -- asked and asked and asked and asked -- is what that means) came home last week with a few gallons of paint, hired a guy to redo my tub (oh, I asked for that & he balked a bit ... but the paint, he did that all on his own!) and put up a new chrome toilet paper dispenser (again, own accord!).

I'm reeling! Really reeling! I mean really really reeling!

But you'll get no photos until I can do a complete "after" for my not too long ago "before."

I still need to iron my NEW curtains and beg a trip to Lowes for a few odds and ends.

Until then, I bless the day that tall, ruggedly good-looking (and handy!) guy came my way.

Warm Winds Blew

2009-04-26T18:45:00.000-07:00

and boys ran

soft-soled, uncalloused,

under watchful eyes and an early sun,

to waters from a winter now passed

Diary of a Garden; Help from Charlotte

2009-04-26T18:30:00.000-07:00

"The first time I ate a potato right from the ground I cried," Charlotte said as she helped me plant some runners.

We talked about compost and putting up a fence while barefoot children ran beneath the orange, setting sun.

"My mother-in-law's carrots are as big as my fist," she said clenching her dirty fingers and shaking it through the cool night.

"My mother-in-law's tomatoes are known to make grown men weep," I countered.

I mentioned seeking out rotten horse manure and she did a little dance.

"Mix it in real good," she said, bending over to turn an imaginary shovel, "Real good."

Mother Teresa, Pray for Us

2009-04-19T17:34:00.000-07:00

We are at Jesus' disposal. If he wants you to be sick in bed, if he wants you to proclaim His work in the street, if he wants you to clean the toilets all day, that's all right, everything is all right. We must say, "I belong to you. You can do whatever you like." And this ..is our strength, and this is the joy of the Lord.

-- Bl. Mother Teresa of Calcutta

I love these words of Mother Teresa's so much that after a rough weekend (dreams of fun dashed by moods and vomit -- except for the part when Lady Charlotte brought me strawberry plants -- but that's another post) I'm adding a few of my own. Here goes:

I am at Jesus' disposal.

If he wants me me to put up with my husband's crabby mood & his short-comings, focusing on his better side just as I'd like him to focus on mine, that's all right.

If he wants me to take care of my children with a thankful spirit, even when I have days that are monotonous, boring and insanely isolating, that's all right.

If he wants me to be pleasant, or at least polite, even when the work of mothering seems overwhelming, exhausting and unfair, that's all right.

I will say, " I belong to you. You can do whatever you like." And this is my strength. And this is my joy in the Lord.

And while I'd like to think I'd work with all my heart for the Lord if he had called me to a life of service like the one Mother Teresa had -- literally, clothing the naked and feeding the hungry ...

Oh wait -- I do that!

Well, maybe I'm not in the slums of India -- but I certainly dress my share of nude little bodies.

It just seems like if I was wearing a habit and literally scraping maggots off lepers, rather than crusty, mystery food off highchairs, I'd recognize the nobility of my calling quicker. Quicker. So much quicker.

Mother Teresa, Pray for Us.

He Lives

2009-04-11T22:35:00.000-07:00

Psalm 95:6

Come, let us worship and bow down
Let us kneel before the Lord our God our maker.

For He is our God and we are the people of His pasture
And the Sheep of His hand.

The Disciples Peter and John Running to the Sepulchre on the Morning of the Resurrection, circa 1898

Artist: Eugene Burnand

We Know the End of the Story

2009-04-11T11:17:00.000-07:00

We know the end of the story, but the Saints who attended knew only this.

Regardless of their faith in what He said was to come, I bet they were sad.

I bet they were just so sad.

The King of Every Nation Was Hung Upon a Tree

2009-04-10T15:50:00.001-07:00

An old hymn for Good Friday:

O Sacred Head

O sacred head, sore wounded,
defiled and put to scorn;
O kingly head surrounded
with mocking crown of thorn:
What sorrow mars thy grandeur?
Can death thy bloom deflower?
O countenance whose splendor
the hosts of heaven adore!

Thy beauty, long-desirèd,
hath vanished from our sight;
thy power is all expirèd,
and quenched the light of light.
Ah me! for whom thou diest,
hide not so far thy grace:
show me, O Love most highest,
the brightness of thy face.

I pray thee, Jesus, own me,
me, Shepherd good, for thine;
who to thy fold hast won me,
and fed with truth divine.
Me guilty, me refuse not,
incline thy face to me,
this comfort that I lose not,
on earth to comfort thee.

In thy most bitter passion
my heart to share doth cry,
with thee for my salvation
upon the cross to die.
Ah, keep my heart thus moved
to stand thy cross beneath,
to mourn thee, well-beloved,
yet thank thee for thy death.

My days are few, O fail not,
with thine immortal power,
to hold me that I quail not
in death's most fearful hour;
that I may fight befriended,
and see in my last strife
to me thine arms extended
upon the cross of life.

Quick Question, Deep Thought, Brain Hiccup, You Decide ...

2009-04-09T17:30:00.000-07:00

Per my preschoolers new obsession with dinosaurs, I gander:

Why did Scientist Biologist So-and-So have to name the prehistoric creatures such complicated names ("anatosaurus, ankylosaurus, pteranodon," etc., etc.)?

I realize "c-a-t" and "d-o-g" were already taken but what's wrong with "y-a-r-f" or "l-o-p" or "m-i-g?"

Tell Me?!

Do you know how much easier my life would be if while stirring a steaming pot with a baby tucked under my arm I could answer my son's "What's that?" with a:

"Dup" and a pat on the head.

Diary of a Garden; Part 2: The Pleasure of Digging

2009-04-08T06:19:00.001-07:00

It rained for days and today it snowed.

And so I take back all I said about digging.

I'd gladly take it up even if tomorrow promised no squash [BTW: Does anybody really like squash? I mean really like squash?].

My Child Refuses to Pray at Supper Because

2009-04-08T06:13:00.001-07:00

He's a snake.

And

Snakes Don't Have Hands.

[Note: Both feet in a sock with the baby's rattle tucked in the bottom; genius!]
[Note Note: I'm forcing him to pray anyway.]

Handyman

2009-04-05T18:44:00.001-07:00

Here's my latest column at Blue Mountain Moments. I also pasted it below. Enjoy!

[note: Mary and Martha did their best posing for the above shot; as always, Martha's a bit ticked]

Handyman

How a Neighbor Helped Welcome my Special Needs Son

Around this time last year, when March was skipping out like a lamb, the stork dropped a bundle in my arms. I remember catching my third son and my breath at the same time – overwhelmed by his newborn perfection. So you can imagine my pause when doctors pointed out that Simeon had “indicators of a genetic syndrome” – low-set ears, down-slanting eyes and a short neck.

I brought my baby home and while I was joyous in those early days, I was still “pausing” -- as if I had suddenly found myself on a ship for mothers with special needs children but had yet to grow sea legs. It was in those early days a kind-hearted man stopped my way to help unload my groceries. This good soul, who I later came to know as Michael, also has low-set ears, down-slanting eyes, a short neck … and a smile like the summer’s sun.

I remember taking note of Michael’s features the day he offered to not only carry my groceries but to paint my fence and to take out my trash – he’s a handyman by trade, he said, but he wouldn’t charge me because I just had a baby. You see, Michael’s heart is pure goodness, but before I talk more about him, let me tell you about my son.

In addition to being perfect, I soon learned Simeon was born with Noonan Syndrome – a condition consisting of the physical symptoms I already mentioned as well as short stature, a heart defect and, oftentimes, slight mental retardation. While I had no prenatal warnings that Simeon would have such challenges, I spent the early days of his life in the state of “pause” I mentioned -- grappling with the idea of raising a child who would be “different.” The acquaintance of Michael helped shape my heart on the matter.

Shortly after I met Michael, I saw him and his mom at the market. He’s about forty and she must be in her sixties. They were laughing and discussing what to have for supper. I remember glancing down at Simeon in his car seat then back up at them. Simeon’s cheeks had the same flush as Michael’s mom’s – hot pink and full of life. The cashier let Michael fill the bags, and his mom walked behind as he steered the cart out the double glass doors.

Since then, I’ve seen Michael around town. He’s always on errands. He talks to me with boasting pride about his work as a handyman and asks if I’d like him to mow my lawn or help plant tomatoes. I keep meaning to take him up on the offers.

You see, when I consider Michael, when I think about his mother’s glow that day in the market, I am filled with hope. I look to a future where raising a child with special needs is not burdensome but a joy. I still hear the echo of his mother’s laughter in the freezer section, playfully arguing with the son who never flew from her nest. I still see the pride in her eyes as she watched Michael bag the groceries – not because he was accomplishing something extraordinary, but simply because he was her son.

And while I plan to raise my Simeon with every advantage possible and refuse to label him less than his abilities, I have peace about raising a child who’s “different.” So many factors contribute to this peace – my faith and my family’s support are, of course, pillars. But Michael, a kind-hearted soul with a knack for helping out, has quite unknowingly, given my peace wings.

To learn more about Noonan Syndrome, visit http:// www.noonansyndrome.org/

Diary of a Garden: Part 1, Breaking Ground

2009-04-01T18:58:00.000-07:00

There is work

There is play

And as shovel cuts sod, I see what's to come

Better days and tomatoes,
pumpkins and a glass half-full

Of at least 300 zucchini, acorn squash and melon
with black seeds and flesh pink
all the way to the rind

Half-full or better,
better or brimming

Brimming or buckets spilling down to the floor
and running down streets and sticking to ceilings
like the mud firmly crusted on my knees

I dream of bounty --
a bumper crop of butter

or I'd drop this shovel
and cease to dig

Because Crocodiles Don't Go To Mass

2009-04-01T18:43:00.000-07:00

But why can't I wear my tail to Mass?

Lies, Lies, Lies and a New Home for Shark

2009-03-24T17:26:00.000-07:00

Pet Store Guy: "I can't sell you a baby shark without a full tank and a filtration system."

Me: "#$*&%!!, Fiddlesticks! ... say .... could you sell me another kind of fish and just say it's a shark?"

Pet Store Guy: "Sure thing." [With a wide smile, goes to get the 'shark'] "Here boys; take good care of this baby, orange shark; when he grows up, he's going to be ferocious!"

Back home, we named our shark "Orange Shark" and decorated his tank with dinosaurs -- of course!

In Developing News

2009-03-24T16:59:00.000-07:00

That lady at church

who handed Pete her camera

to take pictures of a special service

is going to be really surprised!

When In Doubt

2009-03-24T16:47:00.000-07:00

Sew blue wings on your sleeves,

Hand a pair of yellow ones to a friend of your feather,

And fly the afternoon away.

God is Faithful

2009-03-22T05:19:00.001-07:00

Has it been a year already?

***

Simeon's Song

Simeon Shepherd, my son, you guide me to His Heart,

But to you it's just a song, a little ditty I hum when we're together.

Simeon Shepherd, my son, you bring me to my knees,

But to you it's just a tune, a tiny trotting melody I breathe when I wipe the counters.

Simeon Shepherd, my son, you set my feet dancing, stomping away shadows till there's only light,

But to you it's just a jig, a thumping two-step on creaking floors.

Simeon Shepherd, my son -- you are song and I'll gladly sing you forever.

Happy Birthday, my smiling baby. Happy Birthday.

Just Swiped This

2009-03-16T19:17:00.000-07:00

But thought you'd like it just as much as I do.

Happy Day!

Do Butterflies Make Butter?

2009-03-13T12:09:00.000-07:00

Haven found Pete's old science book.

It has inspired a lot of questions.*

A lot.

Pufferfish, eels, sharks, spiders, chipmunks and armadillos (who woulda' known they breed 4 to a same gender litter every time -- fascinating!).

And with that, we're well on our way to being that weird homeschooling family with kids who just can't act right! Hooray, socially maladjusted land, here we come!! I'll be the one with the outdated glasses and fanny pack full of really lame snacks -- organic granola anyone?

* oh, the shirt around Haven's waist is actually a set of terrifying bat wings ... of course!

The Vomit Dialogues

2009-03-06T05:44:00.000-08:00

[Posted for a Cyber Friend to fulfill the assignment of "7 Quick Takes on Friday" -- hopefully, I won't come up with all 7 .]

[The following play made its debut last weekend in a small, lesser known, off-off-off ... off ... Broadway Theater, also known as my living room]

Act I

Setting: My pancake syrup-drenched home. I return from Mass (my husband and I having gone separately in order to keep kids at home and their puking epidemic from spreading throughout the diocese).

Husband is relaxing & reading a book on the couch. Children are smiling but, like the walls, are evenly coated in a sticky, maple hue.

Husband: What's for lunch?

Wife: I don't know; Turkey sandwiches, I guess.

Husband makes and eats two sandwiches and returns to couch while wife cleans children and walls and tables and chairs and couches and carpets and stairs and rails and toilet seats and bird feeders of maple syrup.

Husband leisurely walks to bookshelf to make another selection while Wife feeds children, changes diapers and settles over- sugared tots down for afternoon naps. Wife then surveys the war torn state of the kitchen and approaches husband with an observation:

Wife: Oh, Dear One?

Husband: Yes?

Wife: Do you realize that I'm doing enough work here to deserve a medal of honor while you hover nearby taking up space? Not to mention, you've had breakfast and lunch while I haven't had a thing but residual maple syrup via osmosis! WOULDJA MIND CHIPPING IN ALREADY!!!!????

Husband: Oh yeah ... of course ... why didn't you mention you were stressed?? Here, let me help ... and oh, I forgot to tell you ... Haven threw up on your side of the bed ...

Wife: What do you mean he threw up on my side of the bed?! Did you clean it up?! [note to reader: my bed, with its white quilt is OFF LIMITS to tots; I know that's mean but it makes me happy to have one spot in my world sacred.]

Husband: [Triumphantly, with fist to the sky]: No! But I can SHOW you where it is! [He runs to the bedroom; I follow] It's RIGHT THERE!!

Not surprisingly, a fight with vicious name calling ensued. But all I know is that after I stripped that bed, laid down in it and slept deeply for 2.5 uninterrupted hours, I woke to find the whole exchange hilarious and obviously blog (and theater) worthy.

ACT II

Setting: Later that same Sunday. While preparing family for afternoon walk, Husband waves a sock cap at me accusingly.

Husband: Did SOMEBODY use MY HAT to clean up VOMIT??!!

Wife: Well seeing that the 2-year-old probably wouldn't clean up his own throw up, it appears you are accusing ME of such an act.

Husband: Well did you? You probably did. I mean look!!! Wait ... is that vomit? Or something else?

Wife: If I was on the fence on such an issue, I'd probably just find a different hat."

Act III

Fortunately, I don't have my own personal ACT III to share as there wasn't one. Fortunately. However, for the sake of The Rule of Three, let me conclude with a story about one of my dear friends and her new mini van and her son Noah. Here goes: he puked in it.

The End

***

Moral: Puke and kids are oftentimes, literally, bedfellows. Add laughter to keep it light.

Lady Charlotte

2009-03-01T18:34:00.000-08:00

Here's my latest column at Blue Mountain Moments. Enjoy!

Everyone is Interesting: A Series

This Month: Charlotte – Lady of the Library

I caught up with Charlotte on a wintry afternoon over a cup of coffee at Beanheads. Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman” blared in the background, annoying me a bit. I almost asked the owners to turn it down. But when a few questions cast Charlotte’s way led to a novel-worthy story of steel magnolia strength, I remember thinking [although Charlotte will shake her head, blush and laugh out loud at the following statement] the song was an anthem all too fitting for her life.

You see Charlotte was a single mom back before the phrase was coined. Deserted by her first husband, she was left to raise two small daughters alone in the northern region of Philadelphia. She worked nights and weekends and was always determined to pay her mortgage, keep her kids in Catholic School and not receive financial assistance. “By God’s grace,” Charlotte said, “we got by.”

A few years into the life of single mothering, Charlotte met David, that distinguished- looking chap you so often see on her arm, when she paid $12.00 to have her eyes examined at his optometry school. She later saw him at church. They stood outside to chat as the next service started up. By the time folks were leaving, Charlotte, David and her girls were still talking in their spot on the sidewalk. Shortly thereafter, the couple married and David adopted daughters Anastasia and Andrea as his own.

A job in Hazelton took the family on a road trip through Jim Thorpe. They found it so appealing they ended up settling. They’ve been here 30 years. During which time Charlotte raised her girls, dug in her garden, and even once hung from a tree to take just the right black and white photograph.

As our coffee cups drained, I hit Charlotte with a few of my more, let’s just say, open- ended questions.

“Talk about beauty,” I said, thinking she might stare at me blankly as she probably should.

But Charlotte didn’t miss a beat.

“I see beauty in children,” she said.

Charlotte then described how she cherishes her time with granddaughters Sara, Claudia and Sophie but didn’t stop there.

“I love it when the kids come for story time on Tuesdays,” she said, “all the toddlers with their mommies – they’re just perfect.”

Charlotte’s specialty, she said, is trying to match a young person up with a book.

“I look at what they’re wearing and ask them their interests,” she said, “Certain boys will strike me as “fantasy” or “science fiction” and I’ll walk them over to Tolkien. Sometimes a girl will remind me of my granddaughter Claudia – a deep thinker – and I’ll walk her over to the Newberry’s.”

So stop in the next time you’re passing by the Dimmick, especially if you’ve got your tots in tow. Charlotte will be waiting with a warm smile, a friendly ‘hello’ and if you need help, she’ll even match you up with a book.

-- Wanna know more about a particular local? Email Sarah at scranton55@yahoo.com to recommend someone for the next Everyone is Interesting column because … Everyone. Is. Interesting.

Bunked and Debunked: An Ode to Dreams, Realities and Jumping on the Bed

2009-02-24T18:19:00.000-08:00

I Dreamed of a Mountain

With Snowcapped Peaks

So I Climbed to Its Top

And Jumped Off

I Flew For a Second

Then Woke

Missing the Wind

But Happy Nonetheless

Kittens

2009-02-18T11:34:00.000-08:00

Kittens Inspired by Kittens.

Mirth and A Monologue

2009-02-16T17:22:00.000-08:00

My bird- of- my- feather- friend - in- law- and- love sister and her clan visited this weekend to surprise Pete for his 33rd birthday.

We had surprise parties with Abby, John and their 4 girls Millie, Annika, Susanna and Piper every night.

Night 1: The Chi Chi Cone /(that's ice cream cone in Gussie speak) Balloon party to celebrate their arrival.

Night 2: A Valentine's Day Pizza Party

Night 3: A Polska Keilbasa / Pickle / Play Doe Party to celebrate my dear one.

We had a BLAST! Cousins played, mothers dove deep into conversation, and dads cut out to catch up over beer and board games (just a bit; they pitched in too -- tossing and tumbling with grinning nieces and nephews).

Gifts were exchanged and here's Abby performing my gift to her, Smackdown Cat, a monologue I wrote based on another amazing handy-crafted tee shirt I bought at a thrift store.

She was magnificent and I'm hoping she'll be available for the film version when Spielberg picks it up. For now, you'll have to use your imagination:

Smackdown Cat, A Monologue

By Sarah

Starring: Abigail as Smackdown

Setting: Back Alley / Smackdown is wearing a bandanna around her forehead and smoking a cigarette

You shoulda' been there …

Racine, that hoochie-mama tabbie commandeered my scratching post so I got all up in her face -- waving my paws around – crazy like – till she slinked back to her own litter box – hoo-ah!! – SMACKDOWN!!

Then, at the market, a stock boy knocked me with his boot when I snuck in to sniff the Fancy Feast. I let out a howl that shocked him and dropped him to the floor – hooh-ah – SMACKDOWN!!! SMACKDOWN!! Don’t you mess around with SMACKDOWN!!

Finally, on the way home, I hit the trash to find Bowser rifling through my milk crates – they were bone dry – not a drop for yours truly – so I didn’t hesitate – as I never hesitate – to set ole’ Bowser straight – and BAMM SMACK! I whacked that Bowser back with a SMACKEDY WHACKEDY WHACK and a WHACKEDY SMACKEDY SMACK DOWN HIS BACKEDY BACK AND HE WON’T COME BACK CAUSE HE KNOWS I’LL ATTACK CAUSE MY NAME IS SMACK AND I’M A CAT THAT’S BLACK LIKE THAT TIRE ROLLING MY WAY – OH DISMAY – IT CAN’T END THIS WAY – OH NO IT CAN’T – OH SMACK – IT CAN – SMACKDOWN! MEOOWW!! (yells final “smack down and meow” while pretending to be crushed under a large tire wheel).

THE END

A Thaw

2009-02-10T18:19:00.001-08:00

Old Man Winter must have slept in

Or, maybe he sighed

Perhaps, he just rolled over ...

Whatever the reason, he granted pardon.

Dreams of Spring

Hatched into Summer

Sorting ensued

So did home repairs (well, kinda*)

Children and their mothers tilted faces upward

And smiled

A white plastic bag caught the ides of March early -- "A parachute," Haven shouted as he whipped it over head.

***

*About the pot: Our handy neighbor Jimmer mentioned sometime back that we should "cover that hole" -- the one that's really a pipe sticking up in the yard; he said something about a sewer; something about sticks and leaves getting in it and how that's really, really bad.

So I went out that day with the only thing I could find -- a pot -- and plopped it on top. The short of it is I've always had a hankering to adorn the thing and finally did so today. Personally, I'm pleased with the result as I look at it as art and a valuable social message in one tidy little package -- oh, that and a thing to "cover that hole" with as well -- voila! Once again, thanks be to Jim -- him and a snoozing Old Man Winter.

Skies Not Cloudy

2009-02-01T09:49:00.001-08:00

Here's my latest column at Blue Mountain Moments: An Acquired Skill.
Enjoy! [Note: Link expired when replaced by most recent column; article is pasted below.]

An Acquired Skill

Staying at home with young children during this time of year – when one’s skin hurts from a lack of Vitamin D – is a finely honed, acquired skill. A craft, really. An art, quite often, unrecognized.

Sure, you could do it in a “low-road” manner and suffer through these final snows with a scowl and a fiercely abused remote control. Sure, you could schlep the kiddies to the market again and again just to GET OUT – “Yahoo! We need mothballs! … ” Or you could do what Great Aunt Lucille and Grandma Mary Martha did back before minivans toured these roads – develop the art of just staying in.

First, turn off the TV. Next, for a change of scenery, run to the most rarely traveled spot of your home -- for us it’s the attic bedroom. Upon arrival, distribute old silk handkerchiefs that ripple (a cape) and rustle (a maiden’s headdress) as they flow through the air. After that, let your kids take the lead.

Be their fairy godmother or their wicked witch. Follow them wherever wintry winds leaking through windowpanes lead them. Because, while I would certainly choose a sunny day at the park over a snowy day in the attic any day, I’d wager cold is the weather of poets. I’d wager if ever a time could make a soul turn inward and thus discover something new – a play waiting to be written – a sonata waiting to be sung – it’s when the world is covered in white, white snow.

I’ll never forget the winter when one upstairs adventure culminated in hours of bellowing the song Home on the Range. I fondly remember carrying a baby room to room while my other tots jumped high on the beds. The world beyond our windows was iced like gingerbread as we sang: Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam, where the dear and the antelope play … Where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day …

The tune became such a hit in our repertoire that I even painted its words as a boarder in that attic bedroom. “Sing Skies Not Cloudy,” my four-year-old demands as he long ago, quite appropriately, renamed the song. I always comply. And as I stroll our creaky floors, the melody puts a spring in my step. So I sing louder. My son chimes in as he gallops on his broomstick stallion. The other day the chorus inspired a leap from the bed. His cape sliced the air like a whip. I caught a glimpse of the sky in his eyes and it was a brilliant summer’s blue – not a cloud in sight.

-- Sarah Johnson

Sarah can be emailed at scranton55@yahoo.com

Bless You, G.K.

2009-01-28T09:30:00.000-08:00

You gotta love those overweight, Catholic dudes who affirm motherhood even from the grave. I thank him and I quote:

"To be Queen Elizabeth within a definite area, deciding sales, banquets, labors and holidays; to be Whitely within a certain area, providing toys, boots, cakes, and books; to be Aristotle within a certain area, teaching morals, manners, theology and hygiene; I can understand how this might exhaust the mind, but I cannot imagine how it could narrow it.

How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone and narrow to be everything to someone? No, a woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute."

-- G.K. Chesterton

Someday My Prince Will Come

2009-01-20T17:25:00.000-08:00

Although I married well, I sometimes ponder the imperfection of the married state.

My heart yearns to be known.

My soul, sought out.

My hand, clasped gently and guided down from a rocky plain.

But so often, I get real life instead.

Like getting lost on the way to an old friend's house & fighting & screaming & visiting with a knot in my throat.

Someday my Prince will come.

Like staring at my house "to-do" list with a vengeance, forgetting I married my best friend because I loved him -- not because I needed someone to spackle my walls.

Someday my Prince will come

Real Life: Walking out the vows of Matrimony with the confidence God is dispensing graces to save souls, namely mine and my husband's , through its very state.

Someday my Prince will come

And while I deeply love my Pete and am certain of his love for me, Pete is not my Prince.

Someday my Prince will come

No, the longings of my heart will only be filled completely on that Distant Shore when I'll walk hand in hand with the Prince who chose thorns for a crown. The One who forsook Heaven to find me.

Someday my Prince will come

On That Day, I'll be wholly found. Till then, I'll love the companion God gave me -- thankful for his warmth, his often princely ways and, most of all, for the patience he offers this dreadfully imperfect princess.

Someday my Prince will come

Question:

2009-01-15T06:21:00.000-08:00

Who is the Spitting Image of the Distinguished Desmond Tutu (With the Exception of Being Really, Really, Really Small and Really, Really, Really White)?

Answer:

My Baby

Ordinary Graces

2009-01-10T17:21:00.000-08:00

So I was bummed cause I just found out I didn't win an essay contest which consisted of describing "the most important day of your life."

While I was sad that I didn't win, I was even more sad that I wouldn't have the chance to share the essay as I so enjoyed writing it; but then it hit me, that's what a blog is for. Here it is:

Ordinary Graces

By Sarah Johnson

The most important day of my life was last Tuesday. Or maybe it was Sunday. Okay, I don’t remember the exact day, but the moment is clear as glass.

I was smacking sunscreen on my four-year-old’s back. We were packing to go to the lake. My husband Pete, me and my three young boys. I was rushing. The kids were fussing. I was grabbing. Towels, hats, sunscreen, what else?... Moving quick before the baby cries. Throwing on my suit before the baby cries. Running from my house to the car with sippy cups and sand-encrusted toys. Moving moving moving before the baby cries. Water jugs. Animal crackers … what else, what else, what else? …

“Do you know where my sunglasses are?” Pete asked without looking up from the paper.

I bristled big, scaly spikes up and down my back and was about to torch him with a breath of fire but then juice boxes came to mind. Are we out? I’ll go check …

It was sometime around there. Sometime between the scaly spikes and sandal strapping that I heard a voice.

A whisper. A breeze. An Angel. A Suggestion of Grace.

And in a snap, I made a decision -- a decision I’ve continued to make over and over again since that moment. A decision that made that day and every day I make this certain decision, the most important day of my life. Let me explain.

I was strapping on sandals in assembly line fashion. I remember wrestling with two pairs of soft, uncalloused feet when I made a choice that turned that ordinary lake day into something extremely more powerful: I decided to do all the packing, schlepping and sun screen slapping while still remaining pleasant – nope not just pleasant, down right happy. And Kind. And Thankful. And Courteous … even to my obtuse spouse. Delighted to my core – just tickled pink. Honored to be the one finding the lawn chairs and throwing them in the trunk. Privileged to gather plastic finery: the shovels, buckets and sifters.

Before you sound your Dingbat/Doormat siren, it gets worse.

I remember actually praying: “Thanks for this insane amount of work. May I have more? More details? More sand-encrusted toys? More sippy cups? A husband who’s even more oblivious to the frenetic drama unfolding in his living room: ‘Have you seen my fishing rod?’ ”

I know, I think I’ll make lasagna …

Stop there. It didn’t go that far. And before you dismiss me, let me explain and assure you that I did not cook dinner that night. We had takeout. My favorite Chinese wontons. My husband picked them up to surprise me (my good mood was contagious as moods typically are).

Wontons and no mess -- not a bad trade. Although, not in any way equal to presenting sunglasses, a fishing rod and three lake-equipped children quite the way Martha Stewart dusts, mixes, kneads and bakes French brioche – seamlessly, sans tantrum.

Chinese takeout, however, is not why I served my family so well that day. And it’s not why I served them with a smile.

Here’s the reason: At that moment of sunscreen smacking, the gentle voice I mentioned explained to me what it means for a mother of 3 small children to “embrace her life.”

I know “life embracement” is a bit of a popular, modern-day concept that I keep reading about on blogs and in articles like this one. Whether it be some fancy pants TV psychologist or a self-help columnist, I feel like I’ve been hearing the advice of “embrace your life” a lot lately. But what exactly does that mean?

Before I answer, I must first share a bit more about that summer day. Seeing it was truly the most important day of my life. Not only because I didn’t ruin it by throwing a fit but because the water sparkled.

The air was warm and dry. No bugs. Gus was two and loved to stomp sand castles. The bigger the better. A twelve-year-old girl had made one of triumph with ravines and valleys leading all the way down to the lake. He had it in his sights and took off before I could stop him. He was heading for the tower. I screamed his name but he wouldn’t stop.

He kicked sand on every well-oiled body in his warpath and hit a few lesser castles along the way. A trail of destruction. He was laughing as he closed in with a flying leap.

“Gussie!” I screamed as I managed to grab a foot, which pulled me down on the masterpiece as well.

The adolescent artist sobbed. I apologized profusely and offered soft serve. She refused.

I scooped up my kicking child and exclaimed a loud reprimand to appease the girl’s glaring mother but as I started back to our blanket I squeezed that small, shirtless wonder. Sure, I don’t want him ruining other kid’s fun so I didn’t let him see me smile. But oh I smiled.

Certainly, when I’m lying in my grave and I’m offered to do just one of them over, it would be that sunny day last summer. Let’s say it was July 14, 2007: I’ll call it The Perfect Ordinary Day at the Lake. My wedding day? Nah – too many pictures. Too much smiling. The days I gave birth? Nope. Too much screaming. Too many drugs. Graduation? Blah. That promotion? Blah. Blah. It’s all dust and smoke compared to watching my two little boys stomp and splash at the water’s edge.

I scooped up my sandy two-year-old that day like I decided to scoop up my life earlier that same afternoon over an application of SPF 45. [Here’s the part where I tell you what it means to “embrace your life”]

Obviously, different things to different people but on that blessed day the Angel of Goodness whispered my own personal answer to me in the breeze. She explained that life happens in the split seconds. Whether it be a look. Or an answer. A pat on the back or the withholding of one. She explained that the tone I’d use when replying as to the whereabouts of my obtuse husband’s sunglasses would set the tone for the day. For everyone. She told me to Choose Grace. To not be angry. To offer thanks.

I obeyed her and it sounded like this, “In your car, honey.”

The husband was pleased with his hefty task. Obtuse, I tell you. Obtuse.

But speaking of his obtuseness, Pete has a far more weighty load of perfection. He’s actually high quality. He wakes up every morning with our rooster baby to play at the crack of dawn while letting me sleep in. He makes a great living and basically worships the ground I walk on.

No, Pete is certainly not a splinter I need to remove on this back deck survey of my life. Actually, the wood here is supple. Sure it could be painted. There’s always room for improvement. But it’s splendid enough that I most certainly should stand on it every day, stomp my foot and scream at the neighbors: “Your grass is not greener!”

Splendid enough that I should daily do what the Angel of Goodness suggested while my greasy toddler wiggled and the room smelled like summer – Choose Grace. Embrace the Ordinary. Turn on a dime and face the moment with kindness.

Now I ask you, doesn’t a husband who picks up take out, plays with the baby at 5 a.m. and worships the ground I walk on deserve to sit out on the lake packing every once in a while? And don’t I even serve myself better by setting the tone for the day with a kind, rather than a snippy, answer given while applying generous amounts of sunscreen?

I think so.

So that’s just it. That’s the most important day of my life. It happened last summer but could have just as easily been yesterday as the lesson is still fresh. The sand, the lake, the babies and the sunscreen. My boys splashing in the sun while the baby slept on his daddy’s chest. An Angel of Goodness whispering in the breeze and the fact that when I’m quiet, I still hear her.

My Poor Family:The Unicorn and The Happy Bunny

2009-01-06T18:09:00.001-08:00

On a self abasing or braggadocios note (you decide), I had my triumphant debut as a writer, producer, and director of One Act Plays. The Unicorn and the Happy Bunny (performed above by my sister Mary and old time pal Kendra) was a barn burner. It was inspired by the ugly sweatshirts I compulsively buy at Thrift stores (note: Mary played Unicorn, hence the unicorn sweatshirt and Kendra was Happy Bunny, hence bunny shirt).

It really was a dream come true in the sense that I simply walked up to them in the kitchen, held up a bag containing costumes and scripts and asked "One Act Play?"

They complied winningly and my bug has been bit to create One Act Plays for all sorts of times and seasons -- not just for Holy Days (this one was performed after Christmas dinner), but ordinary days too. For example, I can't wait to be sitting one day in a laundromat. I'll be listlessly watching the washers wash and haplessly listening to the dryers dry when I'll strike up a conversation with the lady to my left with three simple words:

"One Act Play?"

I'll hand her a bag with scripts and costumes and voila, the masses (or at least just the guy who mops the floors) will throw quarters.

The only bad part about The Unicorn and the Happy Bunny was at the end when my mom met up with me in the kitchen and said: "I really hated your play."

But it wasn't so horribly bad as I told her that the Happy Bunny was based on her and Happy Bunny's are too practical for theater. She agreed.

Here's the play; I'm hoping Mary and Kendra are available for the screen version. Oh yeah, Kendra's brothers, Jason and Liam, played, respectively, the Narrator and the Blimp. They were fabulous.

The Unicorn and The Happy Bunny

Cast: Unicorn, Happy Bunny and Narrator

Setting: Gumdrop Cloud ; Happy Bunny is busy harvesting carrots

Narrator: It was an ordinary day on gumdrop cloud. Happy Bunny was busily harvesting carrots before the midwinter frost. The sun was high and a morning dove cooed a happy melody that sounded like the theme song for the 80’s hit show The Facts of Life; (motion to audience to join in) You know the words; sing with me now, “You take the good you take the bad you take them both and there you have the facts of life the facts of life; there’s a time you’ve got to go and show you’re growing now you know about the facts of life, the facts of life; when the world never seems to be living up to your dreams then suddenly you’re finding out the facts of life are all about you you –oo—ooh …. (fade song and spin off set)

Happy Bunny (sings & hops): I am harvesting my carrots!!! (make up tune) La di da da di la di da da do!! I am harvesting my carrots!!! I am harvesting my carrots!!!! (hop about) la di di di da la di da da da doo!!!!

Unicorn: [runs in making unicorn noises] Neigh, neigh, I’m a unicorn. I’m a unicorn. I’m a fussy, naughty unicorn and I’ll never help pick carrots! Never!! Never!! Ha! Ha! Ha ha ha!! Ha ha ha!!!”

Happy Bunny: [waving a carrot] Fine, unicorn. But harvesting carrots is not all hard work and if you won’t pull your share, I’ll happily, hoppily pull enough for us both cause I love carrots and I love you!

Unicorn: Oh, Happy Bunny. I love you too but I am sad because I am not good like you – I’m so unhelpful with the carrots; so unhelpful. Let’s hold hands and dance around in a circle until the stars shine brightly and all the sadness fades away…

Happy Bunny: Oh, lets! (they take hands)

Unicorn to Narrator: Would you like to join us, oh, tall, white guy?

Narrator: Sure!

(Unicorn, Narrator and Happy bunny hold hands, dance in a circle and sing The Facts of Life Theme song until they see a blimp coming toward them)

song: You take the good you take the bad you take them both and there you have the facts of life the facts of life There’s a time you’ve got to go and show you’re growing now you know about the facts of life the facts of life; when the world never seems to be living up to your dreams, them suddenly you’re finding out the facts of --

Unicorn: Look a blimp!

Narrator: Look a blimp!

Happy Bunny: It’s coming right toward us! It’s going to crash into our cloud, shake out all its gumdrops and we will be lost forever in a great sea of sky! Ahhh!

Unicorn: Not if you hop on my back and I take you to safety on the jelly bean island!!

Happy Bunny: Oh would you!!

Unicorn: I would!

(Happy Bunny holds on tightly to unicorn’s back and they fly away; waving goodbye)

Happy Bunny and Unicorn together (fading out as they go out of the room): Goodbye, white guy!! Goodbye Gumdrop Cloud; we’ll miss you!! So long!! Au Riva derci!! Asta Pasta!! Later gater!! In a while crocodile!!

(Unicorn comes back and runs back and forth in the room between gum drop cloud and jelly bean island)

Narrator: And in the face of impending troubles, Unicorn, while naughty and lazy about carrot picking, was victorious to save the day by flying every last happy bunny from gum drop cloud to jelly bean island. By the time she arrived on jelly bean island with the last safely, fettered bunny, she collapsed on a hammock of handshakes.

Unicorn and Happy Bunny act out while Narrator says following Iines: (Unicorn lays down on the floor and happy bunny comes out to fan her with her with a carrot stem; Unicorn wakes up and Happy Bunny places a crown on her head, a carrot in her hand and lifts her hand to the sky)

Narrator: Unicorn awoke many days later to the sound of swishing carrot stems waving in her honor as the happy bunnies hailed their new chief and sang their country’s anthem, which also coincidentally is the theme song to the 80’s hit show “The Facts of Life.” Everybody now:

You take the good you take the bad you take them both and there you have the facts of life the facts of life; there’s a time you’ve got to go and show you’re growing now you know about the facts of life the facts of life; when the world never seems to be living up to your dreams then suddenly you’re finding out the facts of life are all about you; you-oo-oo ….

All Bow

January Predictions

2009-01-04T15:35:00.001-08:00

Here's my latest column at Blue Mountain Moments: January Predictions. Enjoy!

[yikes -- link expired; so I've copied and pasted below for personal posterity]

January Predictions

By the time you read this little ditty, Christmas will have passed, New Year’s Eve is a day or two away and a Walmart flyer is about to arrive in the mail. Actually, it quite likely arrived today with this very copy of Blue Mountain Moments and is sitting on the counter right now beside your keys and your kid’s backpack. See it? Good. Now, pick it up and check to see if I’m right in my prediction as to its January hot-ticket items.

Those being:

Treadmills
Diet Aids (pills, shakes, whathaveyou’s) and
Storage Bins

Am I right? Just suppose I am. But am I right because I’m a psychic or a secret heiress to the Walden empire? [Because, you see, as I write this essay it’s early in the month of December -- December 2^nd to be precise. Most of my neighbors haven’t even decorated for the season yet. I have yet to shop. I haven’t even really thought about it yet – But wait – Give me a second … and I’ll easily get … into the maddening … the fattening … the splendidlydizzyingholidayfurryofitall that will leave me thicker around the waist and … thinner in the wallet.]

Like I said, I’m no psychic or secret heiress, I just know what’s in January’s Walmart flyer because treadmills, diet aids and storage bins are the same things that are in January’s Walmart flyer every year. And before I draw my bossy-pants, know-it-all conclusions about what these January sale items say about us in our post- holiday, consumer-stricken mélange, I mustn’t forget to ask you for a favor:

Would you mind picking up a few bins for me (stackable, please) if you get to the superstore first? I’ll have to pay you back sometime in April, though, cause its January and I’m sure to have maybe 3 lonely cents in my wallet – 3 cents, a paper clip and some really cold air.

-- By Sarah Johnson

Winter

2009-01-01T10:20:00.000-08:00

I need to remember
I love you like this

While you're freshly fallen,
heavy and clean

Blocking my sidewalk to Mass,
so I push a stroller
down the street

Quiet on the hills
Quiet in the valley
Quiet in my hand

I need to remember
I love you like this

He's Here!

2008-12-25T04:53:00.000-08:00

At the start of Advent, I envisioned Perfection:

Evening Scripture readings, a Jesse Tree with homemade ornaments, eggnog and tinsel and wrapping gifts together while Silent Night played softly in the background.

But then life got in the way.

And ideas gave way to reality. To work. To cleaning the kitchen. To Daddy working late. To routines, bedtime and the shuffle of life.

But you know what? …

He came anyway.

He always does.

I wouldn’t expect anything less from a King who chose a barn for his birth.

He Came. He’s Here. And He’s Coming Again.

He Comes to us in our Imperfection. On that day, by the Virgin, in a feed trough of straw.

He Comes to us in our Imperfection. Everyday, by His Spirit, and in the Bread and the Wine.

He Comes to us in our Imperfection breathing life into our barns, our kitchens and our castles, raising the lowly into

Perfection.

* * *

I love this originally Spanish song.

Come Christians Join And Sing

Come, Christians, join to sing
Alleluia! Amen!
Loud praise to Christ our King;
Alleluia! Amen!
Let all, with heart and voice,
Before His throne rejoice;
Praise is His gracious choice.
Alleluia! Amen!

Come, lift your hearts on high,
Alleluia! Amen!
Let praises fill the sky;
Alleluia! Amen!
He is our Guide and Friend;
To us He’ll condescend;
His love shall never end.
Alleluia! Amen!

Praise yet our Christ again,
Alleluia! Amen!
Life shall not end the strain;
Alleluia! Amen!
On heaven’s blissful shore,
His goodness we’ll adore,
Singing forevermore,
“Alleluia! Amen!”

Merry Christmas!

Tomorrow is The Eve

2008-12-23T18:26:00.000-08:00

Logic is king.

If mother moves all the canes to the top of the tree so they are out of reach, climb it, pull it down and eat the candy cane while its still in its wrapper.

So simple!

Back to Advent: 5 Days Until The Child

2008-12-20T17:33:00.000-08:00

When the prospect of raising a child with problems arrived, I took the hand of Our Lord and knew I would never let go. Ever. I would walk with this Savior until my earthly life was through.

In this sense, my Simeon saves me. I can relate to Our Lady here in that when I gaze down at my baby kicking on the floor all fleshy and pink, I believe I'll see heaven because of him.

Sure, Christ saves me but without my Simeon I would have never kissed His Cross. I would have never pressed my face to its tinder, known its smell and made the wood my own.

Simeon had to go to yet another specialist today, and while this kind of thing typically doesn't get me down, it kind of did today. So I guess he's on my mind.

###

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Wisdom from on high,
Who orderest all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
And teach us in her ways to go.

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan’s tyranny;
From depths of hell Thy people save,
And give them victory over the grave.

O come, Thou Day-spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.

O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.

O come, O come, great Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes on Sinai’s height
In ancient times once gave the law
In cloud and majesty and awe.

O come, Thou Root of Jesse’s tree,
An ensign of Thy people be;
Before Thee rulers silent fall;
All peoples on Thy mercy call.

O come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease,
And be Thyself our King of Peace.

20 Duggars ... Dang!

2008-12-19T17:04:00.000-08:00

That's a good kind of "Dang!" as in "Dang, these fries are good!" or "Dang, how 'bout them Sixers?!" or "Dang, it's warm!" said with a smile on a 70 degree, February day.

Cause, as you know, I dig the Duggers and I heartily congratulate them on Baby Number 18. I do, however, have just one suggestion for Jim Bob and Michelle if Our Lord blesses them with a 19th:

How about Roxanna or Marcel or even Aphrodite? Why don't you throw us a Steve or even a nerdy little Francis?

I mean if you're gonna lead such a blessedly fertile life, wouldn't a little beginning consonant variation be a tad more interesting? Or even a bit helpful? Give Mama Duggar a break when she whales the counter with a wooden spoon, searching for one of the 18 "J" names to match the kid who's smacking his brother upside the head with a fishstick ...

But really, if you stumble on this site, oh Duggar Brood, I'd be honored and I heartily congratulate you on Jordyn. She's just beautiful. And with your "openness to life," you put us Roman Catholics to shame.

That being said, I'm not claiming that Roman Catholics, such as myself, are necessarily called to such a radically abundant family life. However, all of us who claim union with Rome, are in fact, obliged to seek out and obey Church teaching. And such teaching has always forbade contraception. Always. Of course there are certain allowances for marital continence (Natural Family Planning), however, "kids are simply a pain" has never been one of them.

Now the above paragraph prickles my skin as I am a convert to the Catholic Faith and the largest obstacle I had when considering the Church was its stance against contraception. I think this was for several reasons, but the biggest one was that I had never been challenged to consider contraception as a moral issue. I was raised mostly in Evangelical Protestant circles where people never even discussed the moral implications of contraception yet took major stances on the following:

1. What One Drank: Or didn't -- and that was beer, wine & of course the harder stuff -- whole long, red-faced sermons on this subject; I mean "church splits" galore.

2. How One Spent: A "tithe" was the rule; even though there is literally one Old Testament verse on the subject having to do with a "storehouse." By the way, what the heck is a "storehouse?"

3. Holidays: Of course Halloween was a hot topic but lots of folk even took issue with Christmas trees ... Christmas trees!

Now, I ask you, isn't it odd that alcohol, money -- even trick or treating and Christmas trees -- are moral issues but contraception -- which leads to the not making of life itself -- is a moot point? [insert here that photo of monkey see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil cause that's the best way to describe how my Baptist college dealt with the issue of birth control in our Faith and Family Seminar -- it was not on the agenda].

My point: For the sake of your own humanity and happiness, consider your sexuality; your ability to procreate; your choice to do so or not to do so in the light of moral reasoning. I have found that in doing so God has blessed me with great mercy, grace ... and more children. I have also found, however, that because of the Church's allowance for Natural Family Planning I do not face a future where my fertility frightens me. Rather, one where I can avoid pregnancies if necessary [This is obviously a complicated moral issue; to read more about it, visit One More Soul at the bottom of the page.]

Certainly, we're not all called to have families the size of Dang! Duggar dimensions. However, if you claim the identity of "Christian" and you realize this identity places certain demands on your wallet (aren't there like a million "Christian" financial seminars?), what you eat (Creation Diet or Weigh Down?), what you listen to (Christian Rock Festival, anyone?), wouldn't it be reasonable that God should care about the area in which you are most like Him -- your ability to make life itself?

At least Jim Bob and Michelle concur with this lonely Catholic. And to them I raise my glass and just one more suggestion for Baby 19. Like I said, the "J" thing must be tiresome ... Not to mention, you're due for a dude so howbout it? ... "Dude Duggar" ... Dang! ... Wait, I like the Dang! too; On second thought, make that Dang! Dude Duggar ... Dang!

# # #

Visit One More Soul to learn about the Catholic Church's stance on contraception, birth control and the blessing of children.

Hottest Husband 2009 -- A Moment About Marriage

2008-12-15T11:15:00.000-08:00

Now, I'm no one to give advice about marriage but I just have to share something ironic and eye opening that happened this weekend.

I sat up typing Friday night to enter my husband in Redbook's Hottest Husband of 2009 contest (essay and link below). I then went on to have a really rocky, trying weekend with the guy I wrote so glowingly about.

By Sunday night, I was really bummed. I picked up the essay I had written about Pete and realized that the things I had praised him about were all true even during such a difficult weekend. He had just done other things to offend.

Long point short: it was a great lesson in appreciating my husband for what he is. Rather than what he is not.

I also had fun writing the essay and think all of you should enter too as if you win you'll get a 2 week cruise. And even if you don't, your printed out essay taped to the fridge will make your other half stand just a tad taller. Which is always a good thing.

Here's my essay (posted here solely because I just think it's so cute!)

Hottest Husband 2009: Peter Johnson!

My husband, Peter Johnson, is the hottest husband hands down because he’s got the body of Lance Armstrong and the heart of Mother Teresa.

Last year, when Pete was suddenly laid off [I was 6 months pregnant at the time], he rose to the task of opening his own business. As he sat at our kitchen table pouring over bills, our boys, ages 2 and 4 climbed on him like a jungle gym – “Yay, Daddy’s home!” Pete never once raised his voice. Very much like the meaning of his name, he was our “rock” through a tremendously difficult time. His business, by the way, took off – so he’s one heck of a bread-winner as well.

Sounds good right, but a hot body, a tender heart and entrepreneurial success are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to gloating about my guy. And while I could never name every last thing Pete does to make my world a more beautiful place – like looking deeply into my eyes or telling me he thinks I’m brilliant or reaching out to grasp my hand as we drift off to sleep – I’ll sum up, and most certainly win this competition, by simply describing my morning routine – I promise you, it’s that good.

I sleep in everyday (okay okay – don’t hate me because that just means 7:15 a.m. at my house – however, it’s a luxurious hour compared to the 5 a.m. start my husband receives with our rooster … I mean our baby. Not only does Pete take the baby every morning to let me sleep … and not only does he have a set of blue eyes that could launch a thousand ships … and not only does he have the bod of an athlete and the heart of a Saint … but here’s the best part … the part that will certainly tip the scales in his favor: My husband is the hottest husband of 2009 Because [insert drum roll] He. Makes Me. Coffee. Every Day. [note to reader: gasp here for breath]. He then brings it to my nightstand, looking oh so fine in his pajamas and morning scruff, gives me a kiss and says, “Morning, Beautiful.”

# # #

Now, do the right thing and enter your Mister!

http://www.redbookmag.com/sweepstakes/4179

Gaudete Sunday

2008-12-14T17:19:00.000-08:00

Traditionally, Catholics save setting up the tree until Christmas day (I've had it explained that early set-up is like opening one's presents early).

Obviously, we cheated. But seeing that our poached sapling, with its hollowed out middle, looks like a Pennsyltucky bear used it all season as floss, perhaps no harm is done.

It's magic, really, that even the scraggliest of Charlie Brown scraggles, once lit up, strung up, plugged in and traipsed about by tots transforms into a

TREE!

* * *

We sang O Come Divine Messiah today in Mass and I just love its melody:

O come, Divine Messiah,

The world in silence waits the day

When hope shall sing its triumph,

And sadness flee away.

Dear Savior haste!

Come, come to earth.

Dispel the night and show Thy face,

And bid us hail the dawn of grace.

O come, Divine Messiah,

The world in silence waits the day

When hope shall sing its triumph,

And sadness flee away.

O Thou whom nations sighed for,

Whom priest and prophet long foretold,

Wilt break the captive fetters,

Redeem the long lost fold.

Dear Savior haste!

Come, come to earth.

Dispel the night and show Thy face,

And bid us hail the dawn of grace.

O come, Divine Messiah,

The world in silence waits the day

When hope shall sing its triumph,

And sadness flee away.

Oh My Word, My Word. But Upon Starvation, I Will Eat Them.; Advent, Day 8

2008-12-08T17:27:00.000-08:00

You should have been there.

All three kids sick at the doctor's office and not a grandma in sight. And, believe me, I coulda used one (ANY ONE -- any old lady with a pulse would have done; even a mean, ugly-looking babushka with a scary mole on her nose would have sufficed; even a screaming, stick-swinging, I'll stick your kid in the corner and make him mop my floors, wicked witch of the west or east would have done just fine. Just fine, I tell you!!

Haven and Gussie were both shrieking, I mean shrieking at the nebulizer mask Haven had to wear in order to curtail his first asthma attack. Gussie was freaked out that our doctor was of Indian descent and kept screaming "brown man; blue buzz cut" (which was funny much much after the fact).

And Simeon. Simeon was actually pretty good just sitting with a smile in his car seat. I was just scared at what he could do any given moment.

It was a blur. We left with 5 prescriptions, a nebulizer machine and a hankering for a big, fat nap (a tankard of ale would have fit the bill as well but I had to wait for that).

So here's the best part. As I was waiting to check out of the pharmacy that sits across the hall from the pediatricians office, a fresh chick of a mom observed me with awe. The sweetheart had a watched me nurse my babe while my older boys sat drinking their well deserved sodas. I was laughing and actually enjoying myself as Haven and Gussie raised their bottles toast after toast.

"What's her name," I nodded to the bundle whose car seat sunshade matched her bonnet that matched her blanket that matched her booties that matched her mom's diaper bag ... a world of pink.

We got talking then we were quiet. As I zipped up the last coat and placed the last toppled bottle of NyQuil back on the shelf, I turned to her and said with a wave over my brood:

"You know, as crazy as this looks, where you are is so much harder."

Her eyes filled with tears.

In a breath, I told her how hard it was for me to bring home my first baby. I told her it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I also told her that it gets so much easier and that I could tell she was doing a really good job.

And as my hand let go of her shoulder, we smiled at one another. And oh, that was the best part.

That and the very large glass of wine I had with dinner.

# # #

Postscript: You won't even believe what came in the mail on the very day of the above described events. A while back I took a blog post about how God uses my kids' ailments to grow me, turned it into a bit of an article and sent it to One More Soul. Well, they put it into their Christmas Newsletter and it arrived in my mailbox on that very day. I've pasted it below [but if you want to order your own copy to hang on your fridge, I've provided the link at the bottom of the page].

I very lovingly dedicate this essay to all of my dear friends and family who stood by us during the difficult times I describe. I also dedicate it to my precious friend Cherie who, with God's grace, has slayed similar dragons for her babies in the past year. Cherie, you are strong and you inspire me.

I'll admit I feel a little odd here about self-promoting as I really did a kick out of OMS including my piece. But the fact is I've never had a problem tooting my own horn ("HONK!!!!!"). Also, I know a few of you would be interested and I'll never get around to sending out copies. So enjoy!

Embrace the Baby:

A Boy or A Girl -- Sick or Well –
Not “Just as Long as it’s Healthy”

by Sarah Johnson

When I was expecting all three of my children, kind strangers would take notice of my round belly and ask: “Are you having a boy or a girl?”

To which I’d reply, “I don’t know. I like to be surprised.”

The kind stranger would inevitably reply, “Well, just as long as it’s healthy.”

I’d smile but inside I’d pause -- as if “health” were some prerequisite for this little life fluttering inside me to be a good or acceptable baby. Of course, I realize this statement is given in good will, almost as a modern day blessing. However, after giving birth to two significantly challenged -- unhealthy children, “Just as long as it’s healthy” is a statement to which I now reply, “Healthy or not – I’ll take this baby just the way he or she is … I just can’t wait to have my baby.”

And I did. In August 2004, I gave birth to my first son Haven without complication. He was robust and strong. He introduced me to the remarkable world of motherhood and as a new Catholic I was excited to see when God would bring along a brother or a sister.

We didn’t have to wait long. About two years from Haven’s arrival, in July of 2006, Augustine Ambrose joined our family. “Gussie” was born healthy but shortly after birth, for no known reason, he “crashed” into a state of “Persistent Pulmonary Hypertension” (essentially, high blood pressure that can be fatal in an infant).

Gussie was given a 50% chance of survival and received an emergency Baptism at bedside. He was then taken via helicopter to a top level NICU and spent his first 11 days on ECMO (The Heart Bypass Machine). Gussie battled a range of problems for the following month in the hospital -- from a brain bleed to a collapsed lung to a loss of his suck reflex. But through the prayers of many and the work of world-class physicians, Gussie made a miraculous recovery.

We brought Gussie home a month later -- ashy, gray and small. He had a feeding tube and was in no way a picture of health. But he was mine and I wanted him fiercely. After almost having his little life snatched away, I’d reflect on the comment so many made when I carried him: “As long as he’s healthy” – Or not, I’d think … I just want him the way he is. I just want this baby.

At that point, we were warned Gussie may have hearing loss and be delayed mentally and/or physically from all he’d been through as a newborn. Two years later, I’m thrilled to report he has had no such trouble. A fireball by nature, he catapults over developmental milestones as if they are skipping stones – why crawl when you can run? I wish I could say the same for his new little brother Simeon, born March 2008, but I cannot.

Simeon was born on Holy Saturday with a rare genetic disorder called Noonan’s Syndrome, a condition causing certain physical and mental challenges such as heart defects, short stature, hearing and vision loss and slight mental retardation. Like Gussie, we had no real warning that Simeon would have problems. My pregnancy had been smooth. The ultrasounds revealed a possible clubfoot but nothing else.

So we were surprised when Simeon was born with what doctors described as indicators of a genetic syndrome: low-set ears, a heart defect, webbed toes, and a short neck. Genetic testing later confirmed the diagnosis of Noonan’s Syndrome but no other treatments have been required for Simeon at this time as he is for all intents and purposes “healthy.”

“Healthy” -- what does “healthy” mean anyway?

According to Merriam Webster’s short definition, “healthy implies full strength and vigor as well as freedom from signs of disease.” Aren’t children by nature, lacking in “strength and vigor” simply by the fact they are dependent creatures, looking to others for succor? As far as “freedom from signs of disease,” show me a toddler who makes it a winter without a runny nose and then show me his mother because I’m going to spy on her until I learn her secrets … Because where I come from, sickness is just a normal part of childhood.

From colic to teething to ear infections to spontaneous puking (and toddlers have no concept of aiming into a bucket) – “health” is as elusive in childhood as it is in the rest of life. “Elusive” because, while we should rightly take measures to look and feel our best, health will eventually elude us all – we’re all going to die. And yet in this common statement: “Just as long as it’s healthy,” we place a lofty requirement (often unknowingly) – health -- on a tiny baby who has yet to be born.

Am I claiming that health is a requirement in our day and age for a baby to be wanted and acceptable? Unfortunately, according to our country’s abortion statistics: 6% of pregnancies are terminated due to pre-determined birth defects, it must have something to do with it. [FYI: The other 94% of abortions occur for the following reasons -- 1% for rape or incest and 93% for social reasons, i.e. the child is inconvenient or simply not wanted]. (Statistics: The Alan Guttmacher Institute Online Study, July 2008: http://www.alanguttmacher.org/pubs/fb_induced_abortion.html)

As Catholics we are called to cherish and fight for life – all lives from conception to natural death as the most sacred gift of all. King David describes God’s handiwork in Psalm 139 RSVCE: “For thou didst form my inward parts, thou didst knit me together in my mother’s womb.” And the late Pope John Paul II challenged Christians to promote “a culture of life.” In his Ad limina address to US Bishops in October 1998, he said: “Society must learn to embrace once more the great gift of life, to cherish it, to protect it, and to defend it against the culture of death.” Pope John Paul II went on to explain that the cultures of life and death begin in the heart of man but are lived out in our words and actions.

Nothing could sum up where we are as a society on the spectrum between the “culture of life” and “the culture of death” as our completely acceptable, common day anecdotes. Not only the “As long as it’s healthy” chime but how about the common lamentation: “Two kids and I’m DONE!!” [“DONE,” said with the same fervor one would use to say “I’m DONE scrubbing the toilet” or “I’m DONE with my alcohol addiction” or “I’m DONE receiving Chinese water torture.”]

And while I enjoy finding humor in society’s ironies, I don’t mean to make light of our dire state. Unless Catholics take their work seriously to build a culture of life, we will succumb to a culture of death that is pervasive yet discreet – found in sometimes the most simple of action, word, deed … and anecdote: “Just as long as it’s healthy … ”

So how do we build this “culture of life?”

We can mimic St. Therese of Liseux, “the little flower” and begin in small ways. Holding a door. Extending a greeting. Dropping off a meal. So often, being “salty” -- “You are the salt of the earth” (St. Matthew 5:13) -- is as simple as “Being ready to give a defense for the hope within you.” (1 Peter 3:15)

For me, a small way I have chosen to build this culture of life is to be armed with the proper response when my belly is blooming and the neighbor’s nod, “Just as long as it’s healthy …” I’ll always reply, “Healthy or not – I’ll take who I’m given. A boy or a girl, sick or well; I just can’t wait to have this new baby in my arms.”

Today, Haven, Gussie and Simeon thrive -- and tumble about like a litter of puppies. As I said earlier, Gussie made a complete recovery. Simeon, on the other hand, like most babies with a genetic syndrome, is a bit of a question mark. Only time will tell to what degree his condition will affect his life. One thing I do know, however, is that nothing has taught me to pray or open my heart to the richness of God’s grace like having sick children. Because of the trials they bring, I lean on the Lord and come through the ordeal stronger than when I began. For this reason, I have learned more and more to embrace the suffering, to embrace the trial, and best of all -- to embrace the baby: boy or girl – sick or well.

Haven James, age 4
Augustine Ambrose “Gussie”, age 2
Simeon Shepherd, age 4 months

Sarah lives in Pennsylvania with her family and can be emailed at scranton55@yahoo.com

###

To visit One More Soul or order their newsletter, click here.

Frosty Wind Made Moan; Day 6 of Advent

2008-12-06T10:40:00.001-08:00

I had the song In the Bleak Midwinter stuck in my head all day yesterday. I was still singing it this morning so I decided to look it up over a cup of coffee.

I was struck to note that the author, Christina Georgina Rossetti, wrote the lyrics in response to a magazine's call for Christmas poems. She was in her forties. I was also struck by the fact that December 5th, yesterday, was Rosetti's birthday.

Spooky, huh? Or maybe not. Perhaps Christina is just one of the many uncanonized Saints in heaven praying for me. Perhaps she was singing me her hymn yesterday as she saw me struggling to be patient with my tots, remembering the winter days she spent inside with hers. I'd like to think Christina was singing to me yesterday because she sure sounded sweet.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?

If I were a Shepherd, I would bring a lamb

If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part

Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

We Are an Advent People, Day 4

2008-12-04T19:33:00.001-08:00

My prayer book had the following words this morning:

We are an Advent people. We live not satisfied but plagued with thirst for the coming of the Lord. Our tragedy is that we often do not recognize the source of our restlessness but seek to satisfy it with all sorts of things that anaesthetise our longings but do not fulfill them. One of the gifts of Advent is to stir in us the recognition that what we truly yearn for is not some passing palliative but the One who has come and will come again, day by day and at the end of time, to those who seek him.

-- The Magnificat

Psalm 63

O God, you are my God, for you I long;
for you my soul is thirsting.
My body pines for you
like a dry, weary land without water.

For your love is better than life,
my lips will speak your praise.

Olde Time Christmas, Day 2 of Advent

2008-12-02T10:04:00.000-08:00

A few of you know that I have been writing for a local circular, Blue Mountain Moments. Here's my latest story: Olde Time Christmas (note: pdf takes a moment to load; if you have to scroll, I'm on page 8).

Enjoy!

The First Sunday of Advent

2008-11-30T19:10:00.000-08:00

The manger is empty,

But my heart is full

Of sin and sorrow and all my own ways

that gather like dust on freshly wiped tables.

And although my view is low of what I can accomplish,

I'd like to smack a few pillows this Season -- you know, open the windows for fresh air.

I think I'll take out the trash in the evening and linger while the sun sets.

Oh, and I can't forget to bring in fresh hay.

I can't forget the hay.

***

Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus

Come, Thou long expected Jesus

Born to set Thy people free;

From our fears and sins release us,

Let us find our rest in Thee.

Israel's Strength and Consolation,

Hope of all the earth Thou art;

Dear Desire of every nation,

Joy of every longing heart.

Born Thy people to deliver,

Born a child and yet a King,

Born to reign in us forever,

Now Thy gracious kingdom bring.

By Thine own eternal Spirit

Rule in all our hearts alone;

By Thine all sufficient merit,

Raise us to Thy glorious throne.

Words: Charles Wesley

A Fable Called Fish

2008-11-25T20:19:00.000-08:00

At the very bottom of the deep, dark Adriatic Sea lived a lonely fish who dreamt of warmer waters.

Fish was mad, sad and miserable and cold. Fish had no friends. Fish had no fun. Fish frowned and fretted and fiddled his fins all day long in the bleakly frozen, black and blue ocean.

So you could imagine Fish’s delight when during his afternoon swim, his fin caught the net of a steamer heading south. Fish held on tight and rode the long way to a Caribbean Bay where the sun shone above him. He found a ship at the bottom of the sea and made his home there.

Fish was warm. Fish was well. Fish finally had all he wanted.

This is why Fish gasped a big gulp of ocean when he caught his fretting frown in the reflection of a spoon.

Because Fish was warm. Fish was well. Fish finally had all he wanted.

Or did he?

Fish swam back to that spoon, stared long and hard and decided that warm was not what soothed him. Yes, tepid waters would be best. A bit cooler than these but not quite as icy -- like a birdbath or a puddle or a crick in the Carolinas.

So Fish caught a freighter north. But the northern sea was as the pea was to the princess in that tale named so accordingly. And rather than sit tight or, better put, swim tight, Fish moved on. And on and on from sea to sea till there were no more oceans left to try.

And Fish found himself back at the bottom of the deep, dark Adriatic Ocean, dreaming of warmer waters.

Moral:

Happiness begins within and must not hinge on externals. Find contentment even in cold waters (or small, cold towns in coal country, PA).

Note: The above is an entry to this contest. What fun!

The Conclusion of the Matter

2008-11-24T18:25:00.001-08:00

I am just so funny because every time I use my potty or take one of my children to use the potty (I am there quite often as you can imagine), I laugh and laugh and laugh.

But you would laugh too if your last name was permanently inscribed on your potty with a black Sharpie.

If you're just tuning in, I'm horribly sorry. The potty competition is definitely the low point of my blogging life. That or the advertisement for Mormon companionship; you decide.

So here's the background:

1. I put up a post offering a million bucks for the best toilet seat design suggestion.

2. My brilliant nieces WON and I decorated accordingly.

3. Their artwork was ruined by a good round of comet with bleach.

Or rather, most of their artwork was ruined; all except the parts done with my trusty Sharpie.

So here's the funnier part. The other night when Pete and I were brushing our teeth he just started dying laughing over our stupid looking toilet. He was laughing in a way that made me think of my father-in-law. I started thinking about the way my father-in-law would laugh if he saw my toilet. It would be quite the same way Pete was laughing at just that moment.

And here's the idea: I label people's toilets with THEIR LAST NAMES!!! Starting with my father- in-law's. With a SHARPIE!!! How awesome is that!!! To go to someone's house. Use their potty. Write THEIR last name ON THEIR POTTY SEAT IN PERMANENT BLACK MARKER!!!!

Imagine the reaction!

JOHNSON!
OWEN!
MELBER!
HYDRO!
TAIT!
and HIBBS!

You've been warned. The whole lot of you.

But I won't really do it, of course. But isn't the idea just great!? Maybe not me doing it at your house but how about at least at your mother-in-laws? Hilarious!

Oh well, Adios pottios!

P.S. Note that only the title for The Whole Duty of Children survived the scrubbing, which makes it look like going to the bathroom is what I consider The Whole Duty of Children.

Now, you know the background for my strange potty but if you didn't; if you were just some social worker stopping by to check on my socially maladjusted home schooled children, wouldn't you have me committed? I'm serious, you probably would. Oh well, like I said already, adios pottios!

When I am an Old Lady

2008-11-11T17:37:00.000-08:00

When I am an old lady

I will live by the sea

in a condo

with a perfectly clean, white couch.

I'll have a bell man named Lars, and my drawers will be organized. My basement too.

All day, I'll sit on my white couch and read.

My walls will be white.

My windows, clean.

Martha Stewart will visit to drink tea with me out of small, China teacups.

But I won't let her talk.

We'll just stare out at the sea.

At the sailboats going by with my sons on board.

Waving.

"Hi, Mom! We love you and we're perfect and handsome and saintly and successful."

I'll have Martha bring them sandwiches on a tray. But I won't let them in.

Cause this condo is mine.

The white couch is mine too.

So clean and quiet like fresh, starched sheets. So clean and quiet like the breeze kicking up my curtains. So clean and quiet like my bright, white couch where I'll sit and read.

When I am an old lady.

AND THE WINNER IS!!!!

2008-11-09T10:05:00.000-08:00

At long last, the votes have been tallied and the winner for the BEST TOILET SEAT DESIGN SUGGESTION competition has been confirmed unanimously as ... drum roll ... three sisters from upstate New York ... drum roll ... three sisters who also happen to be my most amazingly creative nieces ... drum roll ... three sisters who should start looking in their mailbox TODAY for the above brown paper bag, wrapped prize ... three sisters named:

MILLIE, ANNIKA and SUSANNA!!!! (Piper is also one of my most favorite nieces but she didn't have ideas to offer for the potty; perhaps you could share the prize with her anyway once it arrives)

Congratulations nieces and thank you so much for making my potty the very best seat in the house.

I couldn't decide upon just one of your suggestions so I used all three. Your mommy wrote:

Annika says, "I know! I know! She can write this poem on it [she recites poem-- see below] and draw a Pumpkin Elephant on it, too."The Whole Duty of Children by Robert Louis Stevenson

A child should always say what's true,

And speak when he is spoken to,

And behave mannerly at table,

At least as far as he is able.

Mildred says, "I think that she should paint a horse and a rider and paint grass that has a little frost on it and a blue sky. Tell her that she can make the rider a cowboy-- for Haven-- because of COURSE he wouldn't like a girl rider in the bathroom. She can also write "Johnson" on it so that people know its her toilet and they don't try to take it."

Me: Susannah, what should Aunt Sarah put on her potty?

Susannah: "Uh. Um. Uh. Um. Um. Um...Adios. Um.... Potty-os."

NO FOOLIN'! There's a Latin American woman at our church who loves little Susanita, so Susannah knows the word "adios." She came up with "potty-os" because she's a weirdo.

Thank you, Nieces! Look for your package. It just might arrive today.

PS: Abby, don't read the girls the following thought ... Do you know how weird it is going to be to puke into this toilet the next time I'm pregnant (Lord willing); not to be completely gross but I'm so already there. It's gonna be like this: I lean over to toss my cookies and either think: "What a stupid looking toilet; what was I thinking?" or "What a stupid looking toilet; har-dee-har-har" or "What a stupid looking toilet; what was I thinking and har-dee-har-har ..."

Let's hope it's at least the last option as the markers were permanent. Oh yeah, and thanks to everyone else who sent in suggestions; you're all welcome to use the prize-winning potty the next time you visit!

The Long Loneliness

2008-11-06T17:29:00.001-08:00

[note: below is a "I had a bad day" tirade that I only decided to publish so that if any other mother had the same kind of day I had today she wouldn't feel alone. They happen to the best of us. Also, the above quote from Dorothy Day is referring to the abuse of the worker in the factory -- not motherhood; I know it does not best illustrate my post but it is angst ridden and so am I tonight; I also just really like Dorothy Day and wanted an excuse to drop her name.]

So it's only the beginning of November and I already have the winter blues.

I typically try to be an optimistic person but even I get down on days like this. Rainy. Boring & Busy. Busy & Boring (only a mother will understand how it is possible to be both busy and bored at the same time). Out of ideas by 4 pm. Not a McDonald's Playland in sight.

So what is a lonely mother to do besides dream of warmer climates. Warmer climates where people live in huts on the beach and watch their kids play in the sand. Not like here where people stopped having kids in 1955.

I don't know. I love my kids but so much of modern motherhood really bites. I should just stop writing now before I send everyone outside for a cigarette but I guess I've just had one of those days.

I'd like to think motherhood wasn't always so lonely and isolating. I'd like to think that in the past streets like mine were bustling with toddlers rather than old men sitting on their couches collecting disability.

That's not the case today. So what do I do ...

Today it was hide and go seek and competitions for who's the highest jumper on my bed and singing Home on the Range in the cowboy room until the cows come home or at least until daddy comes home from his 12 hour work day.

I don't know. I've heard of buying karaoke machines and singing to pass the winter months. I just don't know.

I just don't know. Travelling has become so difficult with 3 small kids that I feel stuck. Last winter a jaunt to the Dollar Store was a good blah day outing but now such a feat can be disasterous -- or at least more trouble than it's worth.

So what do I do? I was thinking today about Dorothy Day's biography The Long Loneliness where she explained the title of her book. It was something about how her soul would be lonely until it was united with God in heaven. I asked her to pray for me.

I remember thinking that I should let the pain of these kind of days push me toward God rather than away from him. I think today it pushed me away. So I guess I'll try the better approach tomorrow. But hopefully it won't rain and we'll be able to go to the park.

It is Good and True

2008-10-31T17:10:00.000-07:00

"They have three babies, " she said, "give them the goldfish crackers."

The old lady smacked the teenager's hand away from the gloriously large bowl of peanut butter cups in favor of the stupid, small orange crackers we eat almost every day.

I gasped.

But of course the candy is not supposed to be for me. Of course. But why not? After countless hours of collective childbirth & rearing, shouldn't I be able to shamelessly revel in raiding my kids' Halloween candy? I think so. Actually, I think it's only right.

I have a girlfriend who actually gets angry at her husband for swiping at the mini Milky Ways. But she's a good person who teaches Sunday School so maybe she's right and I'm wrong. It is possible.

In the meantime, I'm going hog wild on Tootsie rolls and Butterfingers. Some lady even gave out the big ones this year. No apples. No pennies. No Chick tracts. It was a good year.

Except for the part when Daddy didn't like Haven's homemade monster mask and dressed him as a pirate. There was drama.

But then the sugar coma made up for the madness.

One more thing. When my kids arrived home and dumped their booty on the floor I heard a voice boom through the living room: "Just ONE piece EACH!"

How cold and harsh. How lame and adult. How mom of a thing to say. How shocking to realize I was the one saying it. And all I can say is when did that happen? When did I go from being the one running in the cool dark night, dragging a pillow sack of candy to every house in the county to being the one who sneaks home early to wipe the kitchen table?

I don't know but am still trying to figure it out. Good thing I've got like 500 more mini candy bars to eat while I'm doing so and 3 small children who actually think mommy and daddy are supposed to eat the trick or treat stash.

I Hate My Bathroom; COMPETITION ANNOUNCEMENT: Decorate My Toilet Seat and Win a Million Bucks!

2008-10-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

At the risk of sounding completely ungrateful, I hate my bathroom. It quite certainly is the least favorite room in my house. I'll explain why in just a moment but before I do, let me tell all of you Depression era grandpa's out there who are saying: "Just be grateful you got a pooper" and "When I was a boy, we had to hike 15 miles in the snow and ice just to take a wizz in a rusty ole' hole" that YES, I am thankful for what I have. Yes, I'm thankful I've got a pooper (btw: apologies for actually writing the word "pooper." Frankly, I don't know what has gotten into me.) I'm thankful, thankful, THANKFUL!!

However, that doesn't mean I still can't HATE:

The view from my toilet of my neighbors gazebo that blew over 3 MONTHS AGO (not a good photo, but believe me it's ugly),

My light fixture that is oh so nihilistic and simple in design,

My black mold growing under the clear silicon caulk that the home improver before us put in that no matter how much you scrub remains black as black can be (and yes, that is an empty bottle of mustard that my kids have been using as a bath toy).

And finally, my wood paneling, broken toilet and linoleum that stays grey no matter how many times its bleached. I'll spare you pics of the vanity and the medicine cabinet but believe me, I hate those as well.

Now, before you move onto the next blog, there is a reason for this tirade: Note, my new white toilet seat. Gussie broke the previous one and we had to find a quick fix at WalMart cause the closest Loews is a bit of a drive.

When we were strolling the bathroom aisle, in addition to lusting over the shiny chrome wall fixtures and faucets, I had my eye on a palm tree toilet seat. Unfortunately, it didn't fit my pot. But it got me thinking that if I could decorate this white canvas of a toilet seat with something so insanely snazzy that I may possibly be able to take my hated bathroom full circle in my mind from being my most hated room because it's so ugly and strange to being my most favorite room because it's so ugly and strange (got that?).

Here's where you come in. My only ideas so far for toilet seat adornment are:

1. a painting of a coyote (so I could invite guests to sleep in the cowboy room and make use of the coyote potty); it would also be a nod to Brett's sweatshirts on Flight of the Concords

2. a desert island scene (kinda like the palm tree potty seat that first gave me the idea) -- only this one would have a cactus and a cowboy / Indian battle scene, a hula dancer and fireworks in the background

3. fuchsia, just plain fuchsia (so far this is my personal favorite)

Pete suggests a poem about the potty itself but I don't know. Whatever I do it will have to be in permanent pen or marker as it will have to withstand frequent bleaching.

But as I said earlier, here's where you come in. If you email me or write in comments about how I should decorate my potty and I choose your idea, you'll win the following rad prizes:

1. I'll use your idea, take a photo of your suggested art and give you credit for it on this here blog.

2. I'll bake and send you cookies (I mean it and that's better than a million bucks. Well, not really, I know. But hey, if I make my kids play with empty mustard bottles in the bath I obviously can't afford such a pricey reward.)

3. Full usage of your prize-winning, decorated potty any and every time you visit my ugly, but no longer hated bathroom.

So get to work. Time's running out. Competition ends a week from today. So send in your ideas and help me make my hated pooper a potty so pretty that it is no longer hated but a mecca of bathroom bliss.

You also may just win blog fame and cookies while you're at it.

Thanks!

If I Had a Hammer

2008-10-24T05:48:00.000-07:00

So if you need a break from the presidential race (of course you do), rent season one of Flight of the Conchords but only if you like your humor dished out in an Ishtar (yes, I said Ishtar), Waiting for Guffman, Napoleon Dynamite kinda way.

The show is about two loser songsters from New Zealand and is completely impossible to describe other than to say it is far more interesting and hilarious than watching the polls.
Speaking of the polls. I just need to say one thing about this scary and surreal presidential election.

Has everyone forgotten that the first and foremost job of the President is to be the Commander in Chief of the US Military -- to be the buck stops here dude of the Federal Government? Somehow the job has morphed into being a conglomerate King / Messiah / bobbing head personification of everything Americans think they are, wish they were, want the world to think we are while at the same time saving us from all we're not, all we've squandered and all we'll always fail to be.

No wonder we're always disappointed in the dude. And no wonder he always does a crappy job -- because his job description has become too large. Wouldn't it make more sense if the guy could just make sure our boarders are safe and declare war if needed (OR NOT). That and veto a few bills here or there, maybe grant a pardon or two ... Why should the guy tell us how to marry, educate our kids or decide when life begins? Doesn't anyone remember that America is comprised of 50 united States, each with its own capable ruling authority able to mete out law for its people. [note: I realize I am no expert on Government but I hope you'll grasp the spirit of what I'm saying.]

If we had wanted a King, we shouldn't have all hopped on the Mayflower. If we want a Messiah, good news -- he arrived 2000 years ago and is still saving people soul by soul throughout time (but that's another story), if we want a bobbing head to personify all that America stands for then vote for an actor who at least can deliver a good speech -- oh yeah, that's been done ... But if we just want a president ... oh but that would be too simple ... so simple that perhaps our boarders would even end up secured ... vote for ...

Thank God we have a few more days to figure this one out (okay, okay, conservatives, of course I'm voting for McCain, but only reluctantly).

In the meantime, rent Flight of the Conchords, watch it, then call me to talk about how stinkin funny it is.

Welcome Caleb David

2008-10-19T12:32:00.001-07:00

Welcome!

Congratulations Jesse, Anna & Piper! We are so happy about your new arrival and can't wait to meet him in person.

Much love,

Sarah, Pete, Haven, Gussie & Simeon

P.S. Caleb looks like a very small version of Jesse wrapped in a blanket. Actually, he looks like Jesse and a little red alien space monkey ... a BEAUTIFUL little, red alien space monkey!

Manchop: A Trail of Destruction & Discipline Lesson #1: A Reflection on Disfunctional Correction

2008-10-15T17:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes cuteness cancels out naughtiness

Sometimes

Spankings can even be averted

When the cuteness is so cute that it supercedes the naughtiness (note: the reflection of the offenders face in the puddle of maple syrup on the table that was poured in the split second I took to clean up the depotted plant. Seeing that I took time to photograph the event rather than tan a hide, one would successfully conclude that this would be a prime example of cuteness superceding naughtiness -- it happens; shh, don't tell Dobson).

Pumpkins and Poodles

2008-10-12T17:16:00.000-07:00

Placing babies on pumpkins is a sure indicator that one has been raised by poodles ...

Gussie picked his pumpkin quickly with a furrowed brow and a decisive grunt ... Raised by poodles? I think not. Poor boy ...

And here's Manny again posing the baby on a pumpkin: more evidence of a happy poodle upbringing.

That is, if being raised by poodles turns a lady into the best grandmother that ever walked the face of the earth.

That's right, Manny came back for her fall visit. We picked pumpkins, walked through leaves and let the sunshine of her love warm us all weekend.

The poodles must know what they're doing. The pumpkin thing made the baby smile all afternoon. He looks a little less like a turnip now. More like Winston Churchill... no, more like the Christmas elf who stole all the candy and ate it himself ... not so much like the German tourist anymore ... but he's definitely happy. And he's definitely insanely good looking and ridiculously handsome just like his daddy ... but enough baby gushing ... and husband gushing (yikes!) ...

Haven clearly wasn't raised by poodles. Poor boy. He's displaying early signs of homeschooling. I should just stop that right now for his own good. Poodles, I tell you. Poodles ... I need to find a few ...

And here's the happy family on the glowing day in October that Manny visited.

Manny dear, thank you so much for seeing the beauty around you when so many couldn't recognize it if it smacked them upside the head.

You are sunshine. Your are magic. You sprinkle childhood with dizzying stardust, and I'm so very glad you come around to sit on my couch and read books to my children.

I'll see you at my mom's place in November and December so please come back up our way in the dead cold of February to pull us along to spring. We'll need you so badly then. We'll need you and ALL the poodles. Call them now so they pencil it in ...

October's Eventide

2008-10-05T18:13:00.000-07:00

Marshmallows and moonshine,

you're mine

all mine

Along with the revelers who shared you

On this October evening

Lighter fluid, lanky limbs

cool air, smoke and dust

You're still warm here in my hand

On this October evening

Autumn dear, stay longer this year

stomp off a wee bit slower

Of course you'll decline

but for now you're mine

On this October evening

The Tunnel

2008-10-04T17:24:00.000-07:00

I read this article recently that describes the parenting stage when you have a couple kids and the oldest is not yet 5 years old as "the tunnel" -- sweet, precious but also oftentimes dark and trying.

I could immediately relate.

But then I stumbled on this picture of Gussie lounging on a sleeping Pete. My Gus -- so sweet and dependent with his thumb in his mouth. I remember those jammies; he wore them this past spring when the mornings were still cold. He's already grown so much in the few months since this picture was taken.

I look at the picture and think about the babies I have now -- Haven, Gussie and Simeon. And while the Lord may send new ones, I'll never have these ones just the way they are ever again. They're growing and changing so much everyday.

It's in these rare moments of clarity that I realize what a treasure I have here in this "tunnel." And in these moments I try to slow down ... leave the kitchen messy ... the whole house for that matter ... cause I sure am in "the tunnel," but at least when I look at this picture, I don't ever want to leave.

Walk for Life

2008-10-01T19:21:00.001-07:00

Walk for Life
This Saturday, Oct. 4th
Lehigh Canal Park
Weisport, PA
10 a.m.

We'll be there & I hope you'll join us.

Prayer to End Abortion

Lord God, I thank you today for the gift of my life, And for the lives of all my brothers and sisters. I know there is nothing that destroys more life than abortion, Yet I rejoice that you have conquered death by the Resurrection of Your Son. I am ready to do my part in ending abortion. Today I commit myself Never to be silent, Never to be passive, Never to be forgetful of the unborn. I commit myself to be active in the pro-life movement, And never to stop defending life Until all my brothers and sisters are protected, And our nation once again becomes A nation with liberty and justice Not just for some, but for all, Through Christ our Lord.

Amen

-- Priests for Life

My Precious Baby

2008-09-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

Question: Who looks like a cross between a turnip ...

and Winston Churchill ...

while still managing to be astoundingly debonair ...

and remarkably dapper?

Answer: My Precious Baby.

Many of you heard it through the grapevine that we had a terrible accident on Friday.

All is well but here's what happened: I laid Simeon on my bed for ONE SECOND & turned to grab something off my dresser. In that brief moment, Gussie said "Hi baby," and pulled Simeon off the bed by his feet. Simeon landed right on his head on the hardwood floor.

I was beyond panicked & we rode to the hospital in the ambulance. A few minutes into the ride, I began to calm down as Simeon was acting like himself. However, when we arrived a CT scan showed a hairline fracture in his skull. We stayed overnight and most the next day for observation but Simeon never displayed signs of further injury. They released us the next day with instruction to visit the pediatrician for a check up in a few days.

We've been home now since Saturday night and I'm happy to report that Simeon is perfectly well. I'm still kicking myself and covering the house and children with bubble tape and throw rugs but that's sure to pass soon as well.

We've received lots of calls from friends and family in the past week & I just want to thank you all for your prayers and for your concern & assure you that the baby is just perfect. Keep praying though; we certainly need it!

Direct Sales R.S.V.P. II

2008-09-18T18:36:00.000-07:00

A reprise to the original since one post is obviously not enough.

Why would anyone be CRAZY enough to go to Wal Mart to buy things like candles and kitchen supplies for super cheap prices when one could go buy the same products for 5 times the amount at a "friend's" weird living room "party?"

* * *

She said: "Just come. Don't feel like you have to buy anything."

I said: "But that would be a waste of my time as well as yours."

She said: "We'll have a demonstration. It will be fun."

I said: "But it's not fun for me to sit on your sofa feeling like our possible friendship hinges on whether I'll buy expensive crap I don't need out of that catalog your holding."

She said: Nothing really. She tried to laugh but it sounded more like choking.

***

Ok, I know I was mean but could somebody please tell all the poor moms who decide to do annoying direct sales to alleviate their poorness that their target audience should not be other poor moms.

Got it Amway? Target the West Chester women, Longerberger. Cause the girls in these here parts don't have dollars for your Mary Kay and your Avon. No matter how weird and guilty you make us feel. We don't have the cotton pickin' coppers.

So here's my plan. You invite me to your stupid party and I'll invite you to mine. I've decided to sell something completely ordinary and commonly found at the Dollar Store like lotion or candles or spatulas. Only I'll find mine at Aldi.

Turkey bacon! That's the ticket. At only $1.99 a pack, I'll buy a box and sell it directly to you in my living room for $12.99 a pack and then try to get you to work for me so you can sell your bacon for $14.99 a pack while giving me a generous cut of the revenue. You can then recruit new recruiters and then maybe we could expand our product line to include something really rad like ... paper! ... or meat thermometers! ... or baby bunting or ...

Or maybe we could just have the old fashioned kind of party where you just get together to be friends. Maybe drink a beer or have some coffee together. We could watch our kids laugh and play. No one will gain or lose anything in regard to their pocketbook or candle supply.

Yes, that sounds much better. The turkey's at the Aldi farm like that idea better too. They were starting to pace and sputter the way I really do when I get a "party" invite with: "I, uh don't know ... I'm uh ... trying to uh ... hmm ... ", saving all spicy gusto for the blog.

What Looks Like a Cross Between a Potato and a Little Old German Tourist While Still Managing to Be Ridiculously Good Looking and Insanely Handsome?

2008-09-15T18:22:00.000-07:00

My Baby.

Selah Designs

2008-09-14T11:18:00.001-07:00

My dear friend Talitha is a painter who has a way of capturing ordinary moments of life in their simplistic beauty.

She's now selling her work at Selah Designs.

Go there. Buy art. Hang it on your walls and your world will become a more beautiful place.

Connie

2008-09-10T17:57:00.000-07:00

I told Connie she looked beautiful this morning and asked if I could put her photo on my Website.

She struck a pose.

Connie is telling her life story through patchwork. A square for each thought. Each, a special word. A day. A memory. She said it will be her gift to the world.

I wish I could remember her words exactly:

"Some squares will be dark as night; cruel and lonely; a child stumbling upon infinite sadness that nobody should ever know. Nobody. But the patch in the center is perfect. It is light blue and soft with an ocean of pearls. The one in the center is where I hide and is my greatest gift to you. It is an oasis."

I told her I'd like her to be the patch on my quilt for today. She liked that.

"Art is everywhere; don't you think?" I asked her.

"Absolutely, " she agreed as she sliced the air with her bouquet, "Art is everywhere."

The Art of Travel

2008-09-06T04:57:00.000-07:00

You should have been there.

My first walk with all three kids.

It was hot. The street had new black top.

8 a.m. but I was sweating, pushing my glasses up and up my nose.

I had the older two in the double, pushing with one hand while supporting the baby in a stupid sling.

We made it to the post office and picked all the flowers out of it's display pot (well, Haven and Gussie did while I weighed and stamped and sent ONE letter).

Shuffling home, my load was so heavy. I was reminded of my amazing fertility. When did I, one person, become 4? The math is remarkable, like the loaves and the fish.

I waved away a look with a pasted serene smile, relaxing my shoulders. Acting like I was enjoying the breeze that wasn't blowing.

Almost home. Almost home. My flip flops got stuck in the blacktop so I left them.

When did two blocks become cross country? When did sending a letter become the morning adventure?

Here's when: The day my paycheck entailed a hearty nap with the lingering smell of baby powder. The day I earned the admiration of 3 small men who oddly think I hang the moon. The day I scooped up this art of complicated travel and decided it's the way I will go.

Speaking of travel, let me explain the photos:

Top: The Market: "You've got your hands full," they say.

Middle: We ditched the wooden tracks in favor of painter's tape. I recommend it highly.

Bottom: MY NEW (to me) MINI VAN.

Just purchased this week after my friend's husband heard my explanation that "it sounds like squirrels are fighting with silverware under my hood." He checked it out and told me to "drive home and stay there."

Thanks be to Jim. Because of him and because it was time, I now own a mini van.

I'm lots of things (including thrilled) but I'm no longer cool. But that's another story for another day and time. For now, let's drag race and spin donuts in the parking lot.

The bumper sticker search is on ...

McCain Don't Die

2008-08-31T18:20:00.000-07:00

America's going to hell in a handbag.

I guess I sound negative but I'm so completely dumbfounded and disgusted by the latest turn of events in the presidential race that my fingers lack the happiness to type.

Plainly speaking: Palin.

Wouldn't it be nice if we lived in a day in age when credentials qualified one for the job of next-in-line to the Oval Office rather than the vomit of one too many a political think-tank?

Oh no, that would not be sexy. Nope. Because we all know that the political science/ history professor at the local state commuter college is not as hot as the breast pumping Governor of Alaska.

Yikes. I'm sorry, I heard she actually breast fed in the office -- how crazy! How wholesome! How motherly (for 5 minutes).

Do I sound intolerant? Archaic? Crazy and wickedly medieval to not be happy with the so-called "conservative" woman picked to be McCain's running mate? Guilty. So tolerate me in my dissent and I'll tolerate you in your idiocy. Sounds fair.

If I sound ruffled it's only because I've been on a handful of "Catholic" sites where woman are rallying behind Palin. I can only gander they're cheerful for a handful of reasons:

1. Radical feminism is the norm in our culture and anyone who says 'boo' to it gets roasted at the stake. So even the girls who give up their BA's and MBA's for their babies feel obliged to do a constant "this works for me and not for you / and not for you but for me / and not for you but for me" song and dance until every last child is registered for Head Start.

2. They're plain stupid and buy the lie that someone can be a good mother even if they are not ever physically present; I'm sorry but I want my Governor or VP to be putting in at least a good 60 -- 80 hours a week -- heck if my podiatrist husband has to, shouldn't my flippin' politicians?!!

3. They like to see the glossy photo's of Mrs. Fancy Pants having her cake and eating it too when really she has no cake at all because it's sitting on the counter in her Alaskan chateau being iced by her housekeeper.

Got it, McCain?! So don't try to buy my vote with the "Mother" card. Mothers wipe noses and butts and pour juice and are there to hear how your day was the second you walk in and drop your book bag on the table. Sure there are some women who manage to do so while holding certain types of jobs -- like running part time hot dog stands or selling awful, evil direct sales products but the second a mom begins to rack up the hours away from her youngin's, she becomes less and less "mom" and more and more "(Fill in the blank)" and unless you're radically blessed with days comprised with more than the typically allotted 24 hours, I've got 4 words for you:

I Don't Buy It.

So that's the main reason I'm disgusted with Palin: A mother of 5 young children has no place taking such an active role in politics. period (like I said, tolerate me in my dissent, all you promoters of "tolerance.") The other two reasons are a bit more obvious: Inexperience and Alaska.

Inexperience: At 44, Palin's only been on the political scene for 8 years. She has more experience as a beauty queen than as a Governor and, heaven forbid, a Vice President and, heaven forbid, a President.

And Alaska: She's from Alaska. I know, technically, that's in America but come on? Don't they have caribou up there? Couldn't McCain have picked someone who's rubbed elbows a bit more with main stream America?

Politics Schmolitics Bo Bolitics. I'll still take McCain over Nobama but only because I have to.

Excuse me now while I sit on my porch and pen anthems to Ron Paul, dreaming of what could have been.

Photo courtesy of Cranky Dude

La Vie En Rose

2008-08-25T18:31:00.000-07:00

My mother has always liked things quiet. She'd nix the jazz when my dad would leave the room and her nerves would visibly settle.

She could go days in silence. I've become alot like her.

So you can imagine my surprise when I arrived at her house on Thursday to have her hold out La Vie En Rose and tell me, "This is my favorite CD."

She turned on the movie's sound track and spun around the room.

"I studied French in high school so I even understand the words," she smiled as she sang along.

We loaded up the van to head for the Jersey Shore. Haven said, "Let's listen to the 'French.'"

Everyone laughed.

My dad had brought it along. My mom sang soft and slurred with her hands flitting an imagined cigarette. My dad commented on the arrangement.

"The orchestra worked well with Edith," he said.

"And she with them," she replied.

We had 4 splendid days at the beach. I forgot my camera cause I'm a jerk so I'll just have to remember my boys charging the waves and the perfect swim I had all alone while my folks watched the kids. I'll just have to remember the feeling of freedom -- running along the beach with my boys, leaping and laughing.

When we loaded back up to return home Haven again asked for the 'French.'

Of course they complied.

As mom and dad sang along, I imagined serving them cocktails in my guest cottage when they are old and gray. Offering cigarettes. A newspaper.

"Wouldn't it be great, mom, if you lost your mind and you really, truly believed you were the great Edith Piaf? Wouldn't it be great?" I asked her.

She nodded, smiled bright and kept singing with the music.

A Second in Art and Angst

2008-08-18T17:48:00.000-07:00

What the flip (as Chip would say)?!!

So I was on Netflix recently and discovered there's been a documentary made about the band Danielson Famile.

Odd, annoying thing is that the Danielson Famile is really the Smith family. Mine and theirs were childhood mates. Our parents played Kumbya around the campfire back in the day. (I'll admit I'm name dropping but not in a "Carson Daly called me on the phone" kinda way.)

As I was watching the movie, it dawned on me: Megan Smith travelled the world singing and dancing and I moved to Pennsyltucky and made babies with a foot doctor. And that's life. I'll admit, I'm jealous. I am. But just a little. Cause I love the life I lead. Wouldn't trade it for the world. But if I could have a little stardom in Barcelona in addition to my precious domesticity, I wouldn't mind. Come on, Megan. Not fair.

I think their music is totally weird and at times horribly grating and at times very beautiful. I like it though and I believe they made art in every sense of the word. I don't know if they're still together. I guess I could search for a website.

Just did (I pasted it below). So check them out. Or at least watch the movie instantly on Netflix (also below). Especially, if you're one of my siblings and want to be jealous along with me (think about it: our moms made the same hippie homemade bread and wove baskets and crap and the Smiths went and made a cool band and what did we ever do, Jesse, Jenny, Andy, Mary and Tonya???!!! -- huh?! -- order takeout? Have a party when mom and dad were in Hawaii? Go camping??!! LAME!! I tell you!! LAME!! We did our hippie heritage wrong.

I guess I shouldn't moan too much as we still have time. Got that? My house. This Saturday. 2 pm. Bring your tin cans and spoons. Your penny whistles and banjos. We'll set the porch on fire.

On another note in regard to art (I'm done with the angst), I've been reading the second book in Anne Rice's trilogy on Christ. It's excellent. I loved the first one too. She depicts Jesus in his tender humanity while preserving his innocence. I might write more about it when I'm done. In the meantime, read up and give me a call as I'm dying to have someone to talk it over with.

Here's the linkage:

Danielson Movie

Danielson

Christ the Lord: Out of Nazareth and The Road to Cana by Anne Rice

4!: 1! 2! 3! 4!: 4! 4! 4!

2008-08-16T04:50:00.000-07:00

They say kids grow up quick but this is ridiculous.

A few weeks ago, Pete buzzed off Haven's curls (revealing the most delightful ears on the block) and broke out the size 5 clothes.

My baby is a boy.

Today, I lift a sippy cup in a toast to all your drama (like your mama), your ludicrous bedtime story requests (tell me about "a pizza cutter, a man who is strong but kind, a thing that spins called a 'spinnerit,' a purple suction cup ...."), your kindness, your sensitivity, your warm, pudgy cherub-like shape that has yet to grow long and lanky and too horribly grown up looking.

Today, I toast to you.

A pre-haircut photo with brothers ... still a baby.

And just a few days later ... my big big boy! My big boy who doesn't want his photo taken. I remember this drama. He was mad that he couldn't work the yo-yo and is trying to kick me away from him. Like I said, drama-like-his-mama (and would you check out those ears!)

Happy Birthday, Haven! I love you!

Embarrass Me Apple

2008-08-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

Fair one,

Your parents only took you out to dinner twice when you were growing up.

I asked you about it recently:"Old Country Buffet and Sizzler, right?"

You answered, "OCB and Ponderosa ... And Oh," you paused, "it was great ..."

I could see the aisles of side dishes in your eyes. Creamed corn. Mac and cheese. The big slab of beef under the hot lights ... The soft serve machine! Nirvana for a young boy sustained souly on hearty but homemade casseroles.

I wonder if you ordered a Coke. No. I'm sure it was water. "Nine waters please," your dad must have said a little nervously.

It's the same kind of nervousness you have when we go for walks like we did tonight and I spot an apple tree I had never noticed before and I get so ridiculously excited that I uncontrollably jump for apple after apple while 4 small dogs yip and nip and yap into the calm evening air. Shattering it.

You whisper, "They're sour. Leave them alone. STOP IT. Stop picking apples!"

"No, they're great. They're Granny Smith's," I yell. "I'm going to make a tart,"

jump, ker jump, ker plunk, ker plunk.

Apples falling on my head. Dogs gone wild. I suggest we bark back and you run away. Alright, walk away real fast.

As I caught up I studied your bearded profile and thought that I like how you get embarrassed when I don't. I like that you're sensitive and strong but still seven years old in some ways. Still surveying the big wide world with kind appreciation. Still polite as you were at Ponderosa that special night.

"Your children are so well behaved," the waitress must have told your mother.

"Thank you," I'm sure she whispered back.

Walnut Grove

2008-08-01T17:21:00.001-07:00

There's something about huckleberry picking that brings out the Laura Ingalls Wilder in me.

We went early this morning to one of our secret spots. We sat in the shade. The baby slept in his stroller. Haven plucked and popped berry after berry into his finally silent mouth.

Gussie sat on my lap as my arms reached and stretched to pick the tiniest berries of the most perfect shade of blue -- blue like a robin's egg or like the sky before a storm.

We sang hymns.

"Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling ..."

And we picked and picked and picked. Hands swept over the sweetest blueberries ever made. We were all alone, just the four of us. My cut off jeans transformed into a long, flowing poplin skirt and my buzz cut became a bun, set up high.

I took a break to nurse the baby.

"Calling for you and for me. See on the portals he's waiting and watching ..."

Our favorite spot is behind a Slovakian graveyard. We pass the stones as we arrive and when we leave. We linger. Gussie loves the flags for the soldiers and I love the old names. The Myrtles and the Sophias. The Margarets and the Floralines. The girls who knew hard times in these coal mining hills. The girls who never encountered the concept of folks having disposable income (it really is an oxymoron, anyway, don't you think? ...). The girls who lost husbands and sons in the mines in these here parts (I wonder if their husbands found fulfillment in their jobs ...).

I stare at the dates that have become the summary of their days and feel connected to the Gertrudes and the Marys who also trampled this ground, toddlers in tow, to fill their baskets. The women who never had to learn the hard way the best things in life are free -- sky rocketing gas prices didn't keep Flo and Mable from the mall as they didn't have a mall. But they did have these berries and they did have babies. I'd like to think they simply knew they already had the Best Things. I'd like to think it was more simple back then. Just like I imagine a flowing skirt is rustling the grass at my feet.

I read their names and imagine what life was like when they were young mothers. Perhaps it's some sort of a communion of saints. That or a play date separated a bit by time and space. I read their names and am thankful for the simple life I lead -- thankful for the timeless happiness found in a morning full of berries, babies and singing in the shade.

"Calling, oh sinner, come home."

A Father's Love

2008-07-28T16:11:00.000-07:00

http://www.godtube.com/view_video.php?viewkey=8cf08faca5dd9ea45513

A Visit from Grandma Manny

2008-07-26T17:08:00.000-07:00

My grandmother Manny just knows how to live.

She turned to me the other night with a magazine on her lap and a bowl of ice cream in her hand. She gestured to the open window.

"The breeze is so nice," she said. "I have something to read. Life just doesn't get much better than this."

When Manny left after a two day visit, Haven cried.

"I am poor," he said. "I am poor because Manny went home."

And of course, like all mothers, I find my children's wisdom profound. In this instance, it is also fitting. Manny has always found her wealth in people, especially her family. She has always lived simply but has put out tons of energy to spend time and make memories with her kids, grand kids and now great grand kids.

This week it was wild blueberry picking, book discussions on the couch with Haven, a trip to the lake and a bit of babysitting so Pete and I could go out -- what fun!

We have definitely established a new ritual called "Visits from Grandma Manny" and I hope they'll be often -- perhaps the next one should be at harvest time. We could carve pumpkins.

Other highlights from Manny's visit:

-- "Do you think Denzel got a permanent?" she asked as we watched The Great Debaters.

-- Yummy noises after each bite, intermingled with "This is WONDERFUL!" at every meal (I promise, I love this; I don't get many "thank you's" around here unless they're demanded).

-- Mesmerizing little boys with 30+ years of kindergarten teacher reading experience -- using character voices, engaging them in thoughtful discussions -- "Now, why did the little engine chug over the hill?"

If you're reading this, Manny, come back when the leaves start to change.

We can't wait!