Little Parrots: Legacy Part II

Children learn what they are taught. This point is driven home to me every single day of my life lately. Sometimes, its good. Michael and I have a very loving discourse, and the kids have picked this up for us as well. There's an awful lot of hugging, loving, and pet names in our home.

They learn the other side as well. Just the other day, I was struggling to start my brother-in-law's notoriously difficult weed trimmer. After nearly yanking my arm off, the miserable thing started, sputtered, and died just before I could turn the choke off. I stormed into the house, arm and shoulder wrenched in pain, grumbling loudly;

"Aargh!" were my exact words, "Stupid, blithering piece of crap machine!!"

Kid #3, always sympathetic, came up to soothe me,

"Whatsa matter with the crap machine, mommy?"

If I hadn't corrected her (between laughs) she may have grown up thinking of a weed whacker as a crap machine. I suppose it wouldn't be too far from the truth, but it is an incorrect label, and disrespectful to boot.
They are tiny parrots- always beside us, mimicking our words, our ideals, our style of dress, and our very lives.
If we teach criticism, they will be critical.
If we teach racism, they will learn to hate.
If we teach fear, they will be paranoid.
If we teach consumerism, they will never value anything...

They unconsciously pattern their life after our own, whether we acknowledge that fact or not.

Can you believe that some person has that much trust in you? That much blind faith, to just repeat every action and sound and inflection of voice? Humbling.

For some reason, the bad things are ever so much easier for them to pick up than the good things. I hang up my towel every time I use it, but I think it will be another ten years before my own kids do that- threats notwithstanding!
But I have taught- by accident- some of the worst things my children do and say. I regret these acutely every time they are bounced back at me, and all that I can do now is provide a better example. We are all attempting to love more and be angry less.

Some things your kids will pick up on their own. I don't know where my third child got her precocious ability to entertain, or where my second child got her passionate heart for the missions field. I don't know where my first child's unreasonable fear of aloneness came from, but we're dealing with it with all of the patience we can muster.

It's important to remember that your children will only be this impressionable for a few short years. If you must scream epithets at the nightly news, wait until your kid is out of the house. If your appetite is out of control, learn to curb it for the, not just you. Be loving to your spouse and those around you, and teach respect for others, for nature, and for self. Don't focus on the empty ritual of religion- for the kids- but rather find the root of your belief and teach your child about what your faith means. They perceive far more than you know, and they will reject empty tradition far faster than they will reject true meaning.

Love them, nurture them, and let them grow up. And remember, always, that its up to you whether or not a weed whacker is a crap machine.
Photographs © 2007, courtesy of Arielle Smous

Magic at Midnight, or an Adventure in the Big Apple

I love, love this pic of NYC. Found it on flickr, courtesy of Rick Elkins, he has some other great photos of the crown jewel of American cities.
In early 2006, my husband's job moved us to NYC. Being a family of five, with not-perfect (or even remotely good) credit, we wound up in smelly, trash-ridden Jersey City, NJ, with Michael commuting to work via the PATH most days. One night, he was working late on a project (lime.com), all of his coworkers lived in the immediate area, most with no cars, and he realized that the last PATH train had come and gone twenty minutes prior. Flustered, he called me, neither of us knowing what to do.

Eventually we decided the best thing was to wake the children up, toss them in the car, and for me to drive into Manhattan at midnight to pick him up. He worked in the 37th st area, right in the heart of the garment district. I rarely navigated NYC traffic- preferring the subways and sidewalks myself- so driving in, alone, with 3 partially sleeping children, was something of an adventure. The traffic was no less at midnight than it was at noon, or so it seemed, and we rounded the corner of Times Square exactly at 12am. I woke the children up to see the lights, we found Michael in a matter of minutes, and we all stopped for an early morning hot dog in the blustery March cold.

Life has taken us in other directions since, and we now reside in rural Northern Michigan, far away from the screaming traffic and overwhelming light pollution of big cities. But my two older daughters have never forgotten the magic of waking up to dazzling lights and steaming sewers and a warm hot dog when they should have been asleep. We all miss New York immensely, and hope to return someday for another adventure, preferably at midnight.

Frank the Trailer Park Guy

When I was ten years old our family purchased a 28 foot RV with scratchy red curtains and we headed west. Winding up in Tucson, AZ, we settled on a pleasant little place called Town & Country Mobile Estates, out on Benson Highway on the south end of town. We were the only RV in the trailer park, to the best of my memory, but that's the way the Roncari family rolled.

I remember stopping by a few RV parks on our way out there, and most of them were too expensive for long-term stay. I guess my dad was either too poor or too dumb to just rent an apartment or a house for the duration of our stay there. So we somehow hit on the idea of a trailer park- it had all the hookups, a nice little driveway, and even some sort of scraggly tree in the tiny yard.

Best of all, it had plenty of other kids to play with, something we'd never had out on the forty acres in rural Tustin. I remember that the park was split in two sections- the 'family' side, and the old people side. Dad found a lot that he liked better on the old people side, but Frank, the property manager, was adamant that we stay on the family side because we were, after all, a family. With three kids. I still don't know how my dad thinks he can get away with crap like this. Megalomania, I suppose.

I remember being very grateful to Frank at that point in my life. You see, I had never had many friends, and on the family side of the trailer park I saw many friendly faces peering out from various windows. Frank stayed and chatted with us for a while, and I developed an uncanny liking for the guy. He was big- tall and heavy, with massive arms and long, flowing blond hair. In fact, he had the prettiest hair that I had ever seen on a man. Although we had spent half a year in Quartzite, northern Arizona, southern Tucson was new to us then. The sunlight, which never really goes away until August, glinted off Frank's hair and made it look like gold.

After Frank and my dad got all of the hookups done (requiring a couple of trips to the hardware store for various water and septic adapters) Frank bustled off in his little golf cart and my dad and mom were giggling about something. I didn't have much time to stick around being curious, because there were already several children hanging around outside my door. I suppose I must have been the freak- the kid whose family moved into the park in a giant recreational vehicle instead of a regular single wide like everyone else- but I never lacked for friends in those few months.

Frank came by a few days later to see how we were settling in. His hair was different that day- more curly, more blond- and something else was different about him this time. His nails were long and- well, pretty. They were a soft, shimmering shell pink. I was in awe. I had never seen a man with pink nails. He didn't have rough, cracked cuticles like my dad had, no chips on the ends like mine, not short and utilitarian like my moms... just soft, shiny, pretty.

My ten-year old mind didn't really take in what was the situation at the time. I had been raised pretty sheltered. Sure, by that fall we had participated in three seasons of the Michigan Renaissance Faire, so I'd seen a good portion of blue spiked hair and excessive cleavage; but I had never, ever seen a man with pink nails.

Frank chatted a bit with my parents and walkeda round the side of the camper to check a connection of something. My mom and dad exchanged looks, and my dad giggled again. I had no idea, honestly, what they found so funny about Frank.

Life went on- my dad opened his first mall kiosk- a little pewter and silver sales booth in the food court of the El Con mall. That is where I fell in love with horchata- the creamy white rice drink from Mexico, and tacquitos. I attended most of my fifth grade year at Gallegos Elementary school and learned a few Spanish words. Frank stopped by every now and then- to collect rent, let us know of some announcement about the park, or gently chide us kids for riding our bikes through the 'old people' side of the park (there's a strict no-kids policy on that side, except for Christmas caroling). Every time he stopped by his hair was magnificent and his nails were gorgeous.

There was a pool in the center of the trailer park, but I do not ever remember being allowed to go there. My parents were very anti-fun in those days, but I had a feeling also that we were not encouraged to hang out around Frank all that much. It took me another five years before I figured out just what kind of a person that he was, and we were long gone by then. He was always, always a very kind man, almost too chatty. I think now, looking back, that he was lonely. Whatever he was- transgender, transvestite, or just gay- it was still the 80s and things like that were not mainstream yet.

I do think it was kind of appropriate, in some strange way, that the crazy family from the backwoods of Michigan, living in the RV, wound up in a park run by the man that was also somewhat of a societal freak. But at the time I didn't know that we were freaks, and I didn't know that Frank was weird in any way.

I just thought he had pretty nails.
And I've never gotten mine to grow out that nice.

What are You Smothered In?

My youngest is enamored of liquid soap lately. When she is sent to wash her hands, we often have to go rescue the sink ten minutes later. I know its a phase, and they've all gone through it, leaving me slightly poorer in the household goods department. I'd rather have them with clean hands than filthy.

But I got an insight last week into what spurred this interest for her. I had, once again, sent her to wash sticky hands, and subsequently forgotten about it. When, several minutes later, my brain became aware of the fact that the bathroom water was still running, I dashed into said room prepared to give her the stock 'water wasting' lecture (that's lecture #103 in my Mommy repertoire)

She was standing on the stool, smothered in liquid soap, the water running uselessly. Her chubby little hands were working, rubbing the soap vigorously all over her skin, with the stuff glistening from fingertip to elbow. I somehow overcame my initial reaction (screaming) and sardonically asked her if she was done.

"Yup!" She nodded, sticking two fingertips under the water to rinse, "Now my hands will be clean for allllllll day!"

She hopped down from the stool, having only removed 0.03% of the soap, and headed for the towel.

"Oh, no you don't!" I caught her and set her wriggling three-year old frame back onto the stool.

"Mommy!!" She protested, "The soap makes me clean!"

"Only if you rinse it off," I countered, turning on the water and grabbing a washcloth, "if you leave the soap on, it's sticky and makes more dirt cling to your hands..."

She was already on to her next activity in her mind, and after three children, I should know better than to try to reason with a toddler, but that little conversation stuck in my mind. My kid thought that soap makes her clean.
Well, it does, but it makes you clean by loosening dirt and grease particles from the surface of your skin, and binding with them, and then the bound dirt washes away under the water. If you soaped up and never rinsed, well, you'd have as many sticky doorknobs and fridge handles in your house as I do!

How many of us smother ourselves in something cleaning or bettering, but never utilize the true benefits of it?

I have seen people immerse themselves in Biblical (or other) teaching, but never put any of the learning to use. This is just as useless as un-rinsed soap!

I myself am guilty of this- as an incredibly insecure person, I have turned to sharp criticism to cloak my perceived shortcomings. This affects every relationship that I am in.

I have watched my own father listen to and read the Bible day after day, year after year, only to go and gruesomely fail his own marriage, lie to people, cheat in business, and generally be a semi-criminal. The Bible teachings, meant to grow us personally, have only coated him, not penetrated into his soul and washed away the lust, avarice, and dishonesty.

I have watched people that are somewhat prone to hedonism turn to severe teetotaling, rather than learn to moderate their lifestyle. In the presence of freedom, their minds cannot handle their own bend to possible badness, and they feel the need to smother themselves in rules and legalism. The exact thing that Christ came to free us from, and they've ducked right back into it!

I have watched people smother themselves in substance to dull the pain of existence, smother themselves in self-indulgence to reward some inner childish inclination, or smother others in criticism, mockery, flattery, whatever fulfills some perceived need.

What we need to do with the good things in our lives- the teachings and lessons and Bible readings and self-discipline- we need to allow the root of it penetrate our thick skins and get down to do what it really needs to do: change us from within. A coating of something good will eventually wear off, but in the meantime bad things can stick to it:

If you smother yourself in Bible teaching without learning, you will find yourself confused.
If you smother yourself in rules without true basis or reward, you will find yourself self-righteous.
If you smother yourself in substance to dull the pain without getting to the root of the pain, you will find yourself ill.
If you smother yourself and others around in criticism and reprimand without love and peace and kindness, you will find yourself alienated and alone.

When Kid #3 smothers her hands in soap and doesn't rinse them off, they get dirty faster, regardless of what she thinks. She will learn, in time, to rinse thoroughly.

Hopefully, she will learn faster than her mommy and her grandpa did how to really separate the dirt from the good.

Fun Kid's Citrus Shake-up Drink!

When the weather warms up and the kids clamor for lemonade, we have come up with a way of fixing lemonade that is fun for them!

Requirements:

• Mason jar with tight-fitting lid, quart size is good. If we run out of these, we use old pasta sauce jars, just so long as that lid fits well!!
  

• Citrus fruit, any kinds, cut into quarters. Our favorite mix is: one half of a lemon, one half of a lime, and one quarter of a tangerine. You can use whatever you have lying around, however.
• Sugar, appx 1/2 cup. Demerara or turbinado is excellent because of the larger crystals, they cut the fruit better and taste amazing!
• Ice
• Water!

Start by putting the citrus and the sugar, dry, into the Mason jar. Works best if you kinda squeeze the citrus just a little first, but you don't really have to. Screw the lid down tight and let your kids take turns shaking the heck outta that jar. The harder they shake, the better tasting the drink will be!



When the sugar looks saturated, run some warm water, about a cup's worth, into the jar and let the kids shake again. My three year-old can handle it even at this weight, I just have her stand on the kitchen sink rug in case it slips out of her grip.

When the sugar is dissolved, run some cold water in that jar, and shake it just a bit more. You now have somewhat concentrated citrus-ade! Pour it over ice and enjoy!!

Try adding interesting things, like mint, fresh lavendar, a sprig of thyme, or whatever you can think up.

This method makes the tastiest drink not only because it is fun (and fun always tastes better) but because the sharp edges of the sugar crystals gently pierce the actual rind of the citrus skin, adding a finite amount of citrus oil to your drink. We all know how lovely lemon zest tastes- adding that in tiny increments to your standard lemonade is utterly divine!

Payback

I have a theory.
I know that not every woman is going to be rational when picking a tiny LEGO brick out of her foot, but bear with me here...

LEGO: Causing foot pain to millions of parents worldwide.

Our kids are just payback. Remember the times you dragged out all of your mom's steel pots and banged away for hours? Now your own kids have a heavy wooden spoon and have figured out that the stair railing has unique harmonics. It's payback time.

When I was a kid, we didn't have a lot of toys, but we made good use of what we had. There was this toy in our house- I've never seen anything quite like it- that made a glorious noise. It was about ten inches long, had three wheels set into the peach plastic body, and an ugly animal sticker below the handle. The wheels- hideous primary colored melamine- would make a tinkly sound when spun gently. Spin faster, and the pitch rose. Spin all three at once, and you have your own little orchestra going on!
We would spin that thing for hours, and I distinctly remember my mom's voice, cracking from the pressure, yelling upstairs: "Enough!!"
Sorry, mom.

But now, you see, I have this wonderful mother-in-law. And she loves to gives my kids presents. For Christmas a few years back, she found these little kid keyboards. You know the kind- electric, with various beats and loops and 'demos'. When you turn this particular kind of keyboard on, it defaults to LOUD, running the scales a few times, before making a weird 'duhn.' sound.

She bought three.Children's Electric Keyboards: "No, sorry honey, we're out of batteries..."

Yup, one for each kid.

Payback.

Tinkertoys: Besides the undeniable quality of getting lost in the house,
they can also make good weapons.
I have fond memories of being smacked
in the head with a setup much like this.

For every Tinkertoy my mom stepped on, I have a LEGO wedged between my toes.

For every piece of crud I dropped downstairs through the post-and-beam assembly of our house, I find a piece of string tied to a doorknob.

For every marble out of our Chinese Checkers game that went rolling down the hall, I have... a marble out of our own Chinese Checkers game that winds up in my garbage disposal.

Marbles: Not sounding so good in the garbage disposal.

Looking through my children's toys yesterday, I realized just how many noise toys that we've received from parents. People who have lived this life of shattered concentration, staccato noise, and random toybox outbursts in the middle of the night!

I used to think it was treachery, now I see it for what it is.
They, too have put up with us, they are no stranger to finding the screwdriver and removing all of the batteries from a hiccuping speaker system. They, too, have limped and hobbled on bruised feet after stepping on tiny sharp-edged blocks and game components.

It's just payback time.

Wait until my kids grow up, I bet they have some nice noisemakers by then...

Turnips & Cinnamon

Kid #1 is, like many other young girls, enamored of the American Girls books. In one book, some WWII kid doesn't want to eat her mashed turnips (who would?). Someone- obviously desperate or evil- dresses them up with cinnamon and sugar, and the kid is transported to happy eating once again.

This uncanny combination struck my oldest child as so completely novel that she had to try it. She would no relent until we had some cinnamoned-and-sugared mashed turnips ourselves. Having only eaten turnips in things such as stews and pasties, Kid #1 really had no idea how they tasted on their own.

Being the control freak that I am, I tried explaining to her that turnips are bitter, cabbagey, and not conducive to sweet. She was undeterred. So we traipsed out to Meijer tonight and purchased some turnips. Kid #1 was enthralled at the lovely purple gradient on the side, the interesting scales where the leaves had been trimmed, and the perfect firmness of the tuber.

"Do you have cinnamon and sugar at home, mom, or do we need to buy it?" Kid asked.

"Oh, I always have cinnamon and sugar in my house." I replied flippantly, "It makes everything better."

"Which is why it will be perfect on mashed turnips!!" Kid crowed, actually clasping her hands in glee. That's what I get for my flippancy.

We straggled home after leaving a pretty sum of money at the grocery store, and Kid #1 immediately began searching for a peeler. We boiled water, chopped the blarmy rigid things without incident, and tossed them in, excitement building among the little ones. Michael and I looked over their heads at one another, shrugged, and hoped for the best.

Twenty minutes later, we were far from the best. Mashed turnips look bad and taste awful, even with butter and milk. Add something that normally belongs on yummy toast, and you have a complete assualt on your senses. I made faces, but Kid #1 was crowing,

"Isn't it wonderful, mom? It's such a different taste!"

For all of my doubts, all of my silly groundless worries, it didn't even matter. She loved them, although I noticed a mostly-uneaten bowl sitting on the counter just now. Turnips are ridiculously cheap, I had maybe two dollars invested into the entire project- less than I would have spent on a movie. We got to learn about various root plants, and she got to actually try something that she had read about.

At the age of nine, she is going to be wanting to do a lot more of these things. I have always thought that I would have an easy time letting go of them, but I find it to not be so now. The maturity is fine- but worrying about burns and cuts and kitchen messes and wasted food gets to me. Most of all, I worry that they will be disappointed with the things they want to try.

These are needless worries! Of course all three kids will recieve burns and cuts and stitches! And I think that they will survive these things.
There will be messes and disasters and the occasional wasted food or destroyed pan- but they will leave my house knowing how to fend for themselves!

And disappointment- the only disappointment they will know is not having been allowed in the kitchen, if I keep up my current pace. But I will not. I know that it is time to start slowly letting go, gradually releasing my iron grip on these children and their minds and wills and imaginations.

There came a time when my own mom had to let me in the kitchen- and she grimly withstood burned hamburgers, clumpy rice, spicy potatoes, and watery eggs. I am ready to soldier up now and withstand my share of these, all the while teaching my children the science of cooking, the value of a dollar, and the importance of a happy kitchen. I hope I'm up for the task.

And I hope I don't run out of cinnamon.


We might try it on rutabegas next.

To Everything There is a Season... Under Heaven

It's nighttime and I'm walking around the house, making sure all of the windows are open enough to let the cool air in. Today the interior of our house hit nearly 80˚, and we were reduced to the least amount of clothing we could get away with.

Not three weeks ago, our furnace was running full blast and Michael was scraping snow off the car. Now, with our winter gas bill not even in the mailbox yet, we're pulling out the fans and shorts and ice water.

Welcome to Michigan, land of extremes.

I smile and shake my head, but it reminds me of life in general. We often live a life of extremes, don't we? I am reminded of December 2006, when we were so bloody poor that we built a Christmas tree out of trash. We had nothing but time, anyhow.

Fast forward two months, Michael working so many hours that his skin grew sallow from lack of rest and sunshine. But we had money, oh boy, did we have money! We bought new laptops and clothes and perfume and stocked our pantry and gave huge checks to charity. Life was good, we were on top, and it was all going to be this way for a while!

Or, not...

Fast forward another several months and the contracts have dried up, the perfume is gone, the laptops are still useful, if scratched a bit, and the pantry stock has been eaten. We find ourselves digging in the coin jar for a pizza and calling our bank to delay a car payment one more week.

Life brings you extremes- success, love, finances, family, health. Our family is kind of middling it out right now, neither too poor nor too rich, nothing in abundance, but nothing truly lacking, either. It is a slight relief from the roller coaster of the past few years, but I almost miss the heady excitement of the dips and turns. Now I have time, finally, to focus on my children and my home and career... not too much time, mind you, but I am trying to portion it properly.

How do we handle the extremes that life sends our way? Do we scream and moan at the frigid winter, complaining as we pay our gas bill, oblivious to people in other lands shivering without the benefit of a gas heater and insulation?
When the harsh summer sun bakes the interior of our car, do we curse it or thank our Benefactor for the gift of having a vehicle? How about the gift of sunshine! After months of wretched cloudy skies, the fit of sun is welcome, but so quickly forgotten as we rush to acquire air conditioners and window fans.

When we have lived our life to the fullest, enjoying health and vitality, do we stop to think of what it might be like to be ill? Seldom. But when illness strikes, it can be crippling just from the sheer depression of it all.

Boredom used to be Enemy #1 when I was a child, even in recent years. Now, with the website & store, this blog, three growing kids, our expanding commitment to live more 'green', church, my writing, and every other tiny thing that has to be done every day under the sun... I begin to miss boredom, miss a day with absolutely nothing to do but poke sticks at things in the yard.

I have had days where my floor is covered in toys, crayons, tiny clothes, spit-up, dirty socks, and wet towels. I begin to wonder why I ever brought any child into this world, let alone three! But then I see friends who are not even able to conceive a child and I am filled with remorse for my thoughts, and my frustration with the mess is replaced by a warmth of love for the grubby pestilences. One extreme to another...

I have days when the march of money leaving my wallet- just for the kids- is endless. Birthday parties, decent schooling, books, clothes, shoes, more shoes, coats, boots, medical care, dental care, savings (who am I kidding?), a vehicle big enough to haul it all... I begin to wonder how sweet it might be when they are grown and on their own- no more noise in the house, no more early mornings, no more scrambled egg in my carpet and juice on my books... then I tuck in three fighting noisemakers and find this in my sink, perfect in its innocent simplicity, and all is well again. This is just my season of busy-ness, and surprise roses planted in my bathroom sink.

Just because.

Motherhood is one of the longer extremes that I need to weather, and one I certainly was not cut out for, but I think I can handle it for a few more years.

Let me know about your extremes, and how you've dealt with them...

Ecclesiastes 3:1: There is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven.
Ecc 3:2	A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest.
Ecc 3:3	A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to rebuild.
Ecc 3:4	A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance.
Ecc 3:5	A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
Ecc 3:6	A time to search and a time to lose. A time to keep and a time to throw away.
Ecc 3:7	A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak up.
Ecc 3:8	A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.
Ecc 3:9	What do people really get for all their hard work?
Ecc 3:10	I have thought about this in connection with the various kinds of work God has given people to do.
Ecc 3:11	God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end.
Ecc 3:12	So I concluded that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to enjoy themselves as long as they can.

This IS the Best Life Now

I've heard some obnoxious radio ad for a book or program or something called "Your best Life NOW!"
I've never kept the radio on long enough to know what this travesty really is, because the person speaking sounds like a mental case. It's possible they took the gig just to make enough cash to get their next fix.

I don't need someone telling me how to have my best life now.

Sitting in my just-right-for-a-short-person chair, which also happens to be my favorite color, I can hear Michael's voice from the next room as he reads The Chronicles of Narnia to the kids for bedtime. His voice is reassuring, gentle, pleasant. I always wanted to marry a man with a pleasant voice, it was on my 'list'. His is the voice of one who will always be there for me.

In my stomach is an excellent meal, in my lap sits a finely-tuned piece of equipment on which to type drivel, and by my side is a candle flickering softly. Kids come to exchange goodnight kisses, giggles are shared beneath mismatched sheets and blankets. The furnace kicks on, warming us against the lingering Michigan winter. When the house is asleep, I'll wander downstairs and nibble on my kids' Easter bunnies.

Life is good.

Not perfect, but very, very good. Sure, my house is a mess and I'm late on my car payment and I could stand to lose some weight and I struggle with acne at the ridiculous age of thirty, but those all pale in comparison to the facts: I have a good life.
I am safe, for now.
I am provided for.
I have a good job and a pleasant work environment.
I have a car- missing a side mirror and a bit too small for my family of five- but it runs consistently and has AC and a radio. And a sunroof.
I have a home. The rent is a bit high, the toilet still doesn't want to flush, I have to endure a ceiling fan in the kitchen if I want light, and its a long haul to the backyard during barbeque season, but there's a roof over my head. With a skylight!
I live in a country that may have its issues, but allows me to freely worship where and when I please, go into business for myself, and cross state lines and buy oranges whenever I want and even read whatever book I choose. For now.
I have a family that tolerates my mistakes and weaknesses, loves me despite them all, and encourages me always to be a better person.
I have a mother-in-law that is just as close as another sister. And she hems my pants.
I have an Italian immigrant grandmother (nonna) with stories of the war and clear plastic on her couch and garlic in her fridge. She is failing rapidly, but still made sure I got a flower for Easter this year. When I look in the mirror I see her face and sturdy frame and I am not sure if I am honored or terrified to be so much like her.
I have three (count 'em, three!) daughters who love to be princesses just as much as they love to be Obi-Wan Kenobe. They are intelligent and articulate and beautiful, and even if they weren't I would love them with all of my heart.
I have a spouse, a partner, a lover in my husband of ten years. He spars with me, for which I respect him, and he protects me, for which I revere him. He never lets me accept second best from myself, and he takes the trash out faithfully. Sometimes... on a full moon, he even washes the dishes. I'm not sharing him, get your own.

So for all of the self-fulfillment books and tapes and pills and herbal concoctions out there: stop trying to sell me blather that I don't need!
And for all of you grasping for happiness- through money, love, or power- you won't find it if you don't have it! Take an evening to look around you, drink in the wonderful things you have been surrounded with, and learn to be fulfilled with your life. Build a piece of your own contentment. Be brave enough to experience and even drown in love. Eat a good steak. Read a good book (ahem, I can recommend one, if you need).

This is the best life you could have, today. Let tomorrow worry about itself. Let yesterday be yesterday.

Mom Days

There’s a cloth doll lying facedown on the laundry room floor, looking vaguely like a crime scene. I wonder briefly if I should draw a chalk line around the poor thing, but then think better of it. The kids wouldn’t get the joke, and Mike only notices things in his immediate range of vision.
The canning funnel isn’t in the laundry room, either. I’ve been searching for it for nearly two weeks now. You see, I haven’t been able to afford a decent canister or Tupperware set, so I save every spaghetti sauce jar, washing them out for reuse. They make excellent storage, but present a slight challenge to fill. The blue wide-mouth funnel would be perfect, but I haven’t seen it since canning season. I’ve been using a rolled up paper plate for dry goods, but that won’t work quite as well for wet, gloopy chili.

“Mommy!” my 3 year-old calls from the dining room, “I have a cut on my fingew fwom the bad, bad icicle thing outside and then I fell and it huwted weally, weally bad and can you kiss it please?” Her words come out in a tumble, her face full of the innocent consternation the young possess.

Tripping over the menagerie of toys, books and clothes, I locate a bandage and duly wrap and kiss the tiny affliction.

Now, what was I doing? Oh, yes, the chili. Its only ten minutes until I have to get to work, there’s no time to keep looking. The chili will have to find its way into the recycled jar and I’ll just rinse off the edge. Running towards the crockpot, I spy a dirty dish I somehow missed last night, holding scant remnants of yesterday’s curry. I run water in it and fling open the dishwasher, hoping there is room for just one more bowl.

Oh yes, the chili. I grab a Barilla jar from my top shelf, cursing once again the kitchen designers who must have been eight feet tall. One of these days, I remind myself, I’ll have a kitchen made for the five foot four that I really am.

The chili has been made with free-range beef, and resents the confines of the glass jar. What smelled so good cooking all night now churns my stomach as it spills over the edge of the jar and onto my hand.

“Mommy!” a tiny bandaged finger is waving at about the three-foot mark “It still huwts!”
“Oh, honey, I must not have kissed it enough. Come here.” Kid #3 advances for the proffered lips, then recoils from the chili on my fingers,
“But, you’we diwty, mommy!”

So I am. Conveniently enough, the kitchen faucet is still running, filling and overflowing yesterday’s overlooked bowl. The moving water has filled and rinsed the curry away, except in the one corner angled away from the water, where lentils still cling stubbornly to the earthenware. Sighing in frustration, I flip the bowl around, rinse my fingers, and remember to turn the water off. Kid #3 gets her finger kissed again, (“It’s all bettew now!”) and then requests something completely unintelligible.

Mike returns from dropping the kids off at school, but there’s a bit of a problem- he still has the kids. Our school called a snow day, again, and forgot to call us. This is why normal people use TVs and radios, I suppose. Now we have two choices: drag all three kids to work with us, or let Mike work at home, again, with the tinkle of children’s voices all around him. I can’t stay home today because I have customers coming in to see me, and my wonderful husband knows that without asking. He looks at the kids, who are gleefully stripping off all vestiges of the indignities of a school day.
“Guess I’m staying here.” He sighs, unwrapping his scarf.

I guess so. I finish stuffing chili through the mouth of the jar and dig through the drawer for a matching Barilla lid. There is not one. I have four empty Barilla jars and not one single lid, whereas I own three Classico lids and not one jar. I slam the drawer shut, setting off a chain of protest from Kid #3, and wrap the jar opening in Press’n’Seal.
The dishwasher is ready to run, the dishwasher gel makes fart noises as it escapes the plastic container. My kids are just old enough to be completely devastated by this and fall over themselves in laughter,
“It farted!”
I grimace, but keep my mouth shut, remembering the days when I would torment my own mother with similar crudity. The dishwasher must be propped open with the spare table leg; otherwise it fills up and stops.
“Stupid rental house,” I mutter to myself, “one of these days, I’m going to own my own house, and then-“

And then what? Would I have had the extra money to replace or repair the dishwasher? Probably not. I un-curse the wretched machine and house, and realize that I have one minute now to get to work, and I’m not even all the way dressed- work slacks but a dirty tee-shirt. I trip over someone’s backpack on my mad dash to the stairs, then keep vigilantly to the right on my way up, because we have that silly habit of putting ‘things to go upstairs’ on the left, and they never quite make it up.
Upstairs, there is a mountain of clean laundry. I have been meaning to get it ALL put away for about five months now, but there is always something better to do- work, cook, play with the kids, run errands, write stories. Every time I get almost to the bottom, another 3 loads seem to get washed simultaneously, and the pile never ends! Somewhere on the bottom is probably that one black knee sock I’ve been missing since autumn.

Frustration with the perpetual mess boils over inside of me, and I storm downstairs, haranguing the kids with promises of money if laundry is folded, threats of death if it isn’t. With choices like these, I’m sure their childhood will turn out just fine, no?

Dressed, packed, car started finally, I kiss everyone goodbye and dash out the door, almost ready to wait on a never ending succession of people who need their watch batteries changed, their rings sized, or their junk jewelry ‘appraised’. Maybe, if we have a lucky day, we’ll sell something!
I glance back at my children, waving at me through the living room window. They are standing in the scattered detritus of a life lived fully. I didn’t want to raise my children in a messy house or a mad-dash life like this. I didn’t want to have this daily struggle over money, the never-ending march of errands and chores and juggling.

But they’re happy kids, and we all chose this lifestyle. In the end, I can either say I’ve had a clean house for fifty years, or I can have a body of literary work, a gallery of jewelry designs, and three children and a husband who are happy and well-fed.

I think I’ll pick the latter. It’s a good life.