It’s the little things…

It’s the little things….

All Hands on Deck…conquering the back porch

 

“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”  ~Leonardo DaVinci 

This Summer, I fell in love.

 

With my back porch.

 

For nearly 6 years, we all hated it. Wasps had decided it was their territory, loose and lifted nails removed the soles of your bare feet and chiggers had found the crevices and splintery exterior a wonderful place to raise their kids. Occasionally on a Sunday morning in the summer, my husband and I would hop across the hot boards to safety on our nice chaise lounges that were nearly new after 3 years of non-use and attempt to read the Sunday paper, but before long our scuttering about would awake the angry wasps and wood bees and they would run us off. Both of us stubbing toes, spilling coffee and muttering not-so-sweet nothings under our breath as we raced to the screen door.

 

Then my husband Dave got fed up.

 

Armed with only a Cover Girl compact mirror, a fly swat, a flashlight and the reflexes of a skilled Ninja, this Spring he decided to rid our deck of the stinger army invasion. The kids and I watched in tingly anticipation and fear from behind the safety of the screen door. While shouting out advice from within the realms of the kitchen. “Watch out there’s one behind you!, OOOOH! He’s mad! Watch out! WATCH OUT!! WATCH OUT!!!!”

 

All I can say is, thank goodness Dave’s on blood pressure medication and he’s a saint.

 

Bees, wasps, screaming kids and one ranting wife, giving directions and bossing him from the kitchen- it’s a wonder he didn’t turn the swat on the four of us. But he peered in every hole, void and shadow corner of the deck with that mirror and flashlight and then proceeded to single handedly remove 8 nests without a single wasp sting. One was as big as a baseball and judging from the nurseries inside, they were planning on killing us with their venomous army they were creating.

 

Dave is our hero.

 

We figured the next step would be power washing and then paint and staining. So I powerwashed one Sunday and then four days later, in the heat of the sun I began the tedious job of painting the deck (and my hair) with a solid color stain. It took all day and into the next, but we did it. Liquid cedar filled the splintery surfaces, Dave replaced a warped board or two and hammered nails back into their rightful places. Beautiful creamy sealant filled in crevace’s that held tiny populations of microscopic pests and wiped out the chigger population altogether.

 

The deck took on a whole new face. What was once a weathered deck from the Edmund Fitzgerald was now beautiful, clean and ready for human use.

 

Funny, how something like that can change your attitude about your home, give it a facelift and for only elbow grease and under a few hundred bucks we took back 200 square feet of living space we had ignored for years. A quick trip to Walmart for a set of string lights, a citronella candle and an umbrella and chair set and Voila! I’m on a permanent vacation.

 

I now own a “moo-moo”, rubber sandals and a portable fan. (I promised Dave I would not turn into Mrs. Roper) Whenever there is no rain in the forecast and I’ve made sure there is something in the galley to sustain the kiddos, you will find me on the deck of the S. S. Rigney. Sometimes ice may rest in my cleavage to keep me from passing out, but I will maintain my place at the helm well into the sunset hours playing Solitaire, updating my status on facebook or just resting with the sun on my face. It is my happy place.

 

Who knew it resided just outside our bedroom window for years and needed only a brave man, a fly swat and a mad woman with paint in her hair to conquer it? I love my time on the deck of the S.S. Rigney. Our American flag flying in the breeze, a green umbrella casting it’s shadow across my moo-moo-ed lap, playing rummy with my husband and occasionally a kid or two…watching the same Great Blue Heron make his daily flights back and forth from the Elkhorn to the pond; well, I call it paradise…and anyone that doesn’t feel the same,

 

…Can walk the plank.

“I eat. Therefore, I am…..Fat”

“Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow ye diet.”  ~Lewis C. Henry

 I despise diet commercials. Those darn Potato Chip Prohibitionists make me feel so guilty. But these little buggers are a necessary evil as they remind me that I am behind on my “Eighteenth Annual Diet Declaration and New Jean Size Quest”.

Every year like clock work I draw a line in the sand and dare myself to cross over. This imaginary line is a starting point towards a goal of nothing other than losing weight and trying to regain my health. I start every year around this time full of enthusiasm and then waver and wane around the end of October just as the Halloween candy wiggles its way into the house.

Then a fight ensues to keep the Sugar Monkey off my back until Thanksgiving when I finally and traditionally succumb to the richness of homemade potatoes, stuffing and pumpkin pies.

By Christmas all hope is lost, I am dipping my homemade bourbon balls in rich chocolate and stocking my cupboard with homemade confections. Searching cookbooks and recipe files for what turns out to be the heartiest soups, casseroles and dishes this side of the Yukon. You would think the way I am cooking I am preparing foods for our hard Winter against the elements, putting on an extra layer of blubber to guard us against the chilling winds of the Arctic, while in reality we live in a very insulated, warm home suited for all climate changes in the heart of Kentucky.

When I complain of my weight and Sta-puff Marshmallow man figure, my husband says he loves me- like I am. I know he is telling the truth. He never has made me feel otherwise. But there is something inside me that would love to experience the touch of his hand across my belly and not feel the need to suck it in and roll slightly so that it moves to the thinner part of my waist…it is a distraction…at times.

The mirror tells no lies. Anyone that has had a baby, times three, has to feel a bit embarrassed fully naked with the lights on or at least this Mom o’ three does. All the mystery regarding my acreage is lost in the light of day. I think mostly I am trying to hide it from myself. Taking in all I am, sometimes is overwhelming at the very least; when inside I feel like a cougar and outside I see myself with the sex appeal of the Queen Mother.

So once again, I am extending the hand of friendship to myself. Once again I will enter February with a commitment to move more, eat less, blah, blah, blah. I have to believe I can do it again and most likely I will. Just about every year I shed thirty pounds by July, but it finds me again by Christmas.

Still, I keep the faith. Keep the faith that this year, this one year I will succeed. I will adopt a new body and keep it for life. Treat it better than the one I had prior and miraculously shave off the years of butter, gravy and fried chicken from my waistline. Maybe even find that underneath it all, I’ve been a svelt goddess all along, just hiding inside the “fat suit” that I have been parading around in off and on for the past 20 years.

I know to the world, I look like just an overweight housewife. Someone that must be lazy or depressed or both…but I am neither. Inside I feel as vibrant and alive as always, as young as I always have, I’m just covered up with layers of cheesy casseroles.

I may have high hopes, I may even fail, but at least I’ll try. Who knows, this could be my year. If not, there’s always giblet gravy to cry into in November and another fresh start waiting around the corner.

Finding Starbucks… a coffee addicts pursuit of the Holy Grail

First let me start off with a few facts. I love coffee. I was raised sipping the last black drops from my  mothers morning cup. My blood type is Columbian Roast +. My love for this heavenly bean is definitely an obsession. In fact, I have my coffee maker prepped every night before I go to bed, for the convenience of flipping a switch at 6 am and “Voila!” Five minutes and a packet of Stevia later…hot, steaming, “coffee crack”.

Few things intimidate me.

Since I entered my 40′s , I’ve faced cancer, surgeries, gray hair and the dreaded teen years with two of my three children, along with being the proud host of a hormone patch, so I find that very little shakes me.

Previously only frivolous feminine venues have made me cower. Victoria’s Secret stores and Merle Norman make-up counters were on my short list of things that make me want to stop and run in the opposite direction. But now I can add Starbucks to my little list of intimidators.

My husband recently gave me a gift certificate to Starbucks and even though it has been around for years and years, I have never been to one. So, being the researcher that I am, I felt compelled to type the words, “How to order a cup of Coffee at Starbucks” as my Google query and knew I was in trouble when I found there were 618,000 results to choose from. Evidently I was not the only Coffee Kiosk virgin in the world.

I heard friends tell me how much they loved the coffee there, but never could find a reason to buy a 5 dollar cup of  java when I could buy nearly a can of my favorite roast and have an entire hot pot at my disposal for an entire morning of writing, cooking, cleaning and “Googling”.  

When I clicked on my first “how to” I found it listed not one, but SEVEN steps to ordering coffee at Starbucks.

Step 1. Determine the size. Well this seemed simple, I would assume small, medium or large would be my choices, but upon reading further I found that Starbucks has actually invented it’s own Coffee Language.  “Tall, Grande and Venti” were the substitutes and they seemed to have the same meaning. Except for that last one, that’s just obnoxious. I was confused, all I wanted was a hot cup of coffee with hazelnut and Stevia.

Step 2. Decaf or Regular. Finally, I knew this lingo. I knew I would be taking mine in it’s original high octane form. This was a no- brainer. I actually felt a bit more empowered.

Step 3. Be prepared for milk free coffee. Okay. Mine comes that way. Where have these people been getting their coffee?

Steps 4-6. Specify the ‘type” of milk, “how “you like it, and “where” it originates…a city cow, free-range bovine or a soybean. Okay, now its just downright ridiculous. Low-fat, Whole or Non-fat. Low foam, extra foam, half, chocolate, extra dry, the list went on and on…I had to keep reading just to see how it would end.

Finally Step 7. Choose your flavoring. Caramel, chocolate,  hazelnut or vanilla.

No wonder this calorie free beverage has now become more fattening than a Big Mac and twice as expensive.

Just when I thought I was done with my foot long tutorial I read the disclaimer at the bottom…”Not all coffee houses have the same language, a coffee you order at your Starbucks may not be the same coffee at another location” Are they kidding me? All this to find out it really is a toss up anywhere I go? What a waste of my time.

I was determined to use my $10.00 gift certificate and go see exactly what I’ve been missing. So I put on my brown corduroy jacket and headed out into the cold, determined to come home with a cup of caffeine that would make Mr. Coffee cry and hide his shameful face in the corner.

I pulled into the parking lot and took the last available space and sat there for a moment and put on my game face. After all the hype, I was prepared for the Coffee Nazi to take my java rights away if I dared to stutter or repeat myself so I tried to remember what I had learned earlier.

I walked in and found myself not in a rushed high society- “when in doubt, pinkies out” coffeetorium, but instead a room awash in Mom Jeans, lap tops and one male presence texting in the corner.

I admitted to the barista that I didn’t know what I was doing. He was non-plussed. I am assuming he gets newbies daily and is just tired of suggesting “exotic” coffees for us stay at home Moms to wash the taste of Chock Full o’ Nuts (my favorite coffee) off our tongues.

So he suggested a “Latte, espresso, blah, blah, blah, with hazelnut, blah, blah, something about foam” in a Venti, which is Starbucks lingo for large.

What I got for my $4.68 was a nice cup of coffee. Not too hot, not too cold, with a foamy top that resembled hot meringue and a solid coffee flavor with a punch of espresso that would later give me turbo power. It was delicious. But it seemed almost as if I was sitting at the grown up table at Thanksgiving for the first time. I felt a bit out of place and unworthy of such an inspired and crafted, adult beverage. I missed the comfort of my insulated mug from the dollar store and the knowledge that my daily calorie intake wasn’t going to be spent in liquid form.

So I traveled home with my cup made from recycled paper in it’s “go green” cardboard sleeve and sat on the couch and supped upon it with reflection. Turning over the flavor and appreciating the attention to detail that went into my cup.

Then, later that night, I prepped my coffee maker for the next morning, cleaned out the pot and took a bit more time to make sure I had my measurements right, my Stevia supply and plenty of store bought creamer, placed my insulated mug on stand-by and then quietly and with affection… smiled. For I possessed the knowledge that few do, I had already found my holy grail.

Me and the “Big ol’ Boy”: an Iron Skillet love affair…

If you don’t own one, you have no idea what I’m talkin’ about.

But I love my big ol’ iron skillet.

I have several small ones my mama gave me, some corn stick pans, as well as a 45 pound dutch oven, but my favorite has to be the “big ol’ boy“. The one that nearly breaks my wrists as I heave it onto my ceramic range top or retrieve it hot as a fire poker from the oven. It takes a lot of work to turn a chunk of shiny cast iron that initially destroys all food into something that may look like it was hammered and tempered in the fires of Hell but will treat a sunny side up egg like the fragile beauty that it is. He is now and forever more, my gentle giant.

It took me a while to appreciate the joys of skillet cooking. My husband Dave was actually the one that purchased Big Boy at a discount store. I told him he was crazy. “That thing is too heavy, it’s gonna break my arms off” I told him when he put it in our shopping cart and it broke a front axle. What was he thinking? I went on to tell him that they now made non-stick gems that were nearly weightless and made eggs come off with just a “ta-dA!” as I gave the air a flourish with my invisible spatula.

He assured me that over time, I would like it. It would take lots of “seasoning” but eventually it would be great. That was about 15 years ago…for what seemed like years, everytime the oven was on, Dave would slip that big skillet in there with a little oil or shortening in it…or cook it up if the oven was still warm. We’d try the occasional egg in it, only to find that it would take take 10 eggs to make one we could scrape off the top of the 9 egg layer of Crust and Magma adhering to the pan.

Then one day, it happened. I put in a dozen eggs to scramble and nearly a dozen came out. They were delicious. There is something about an iron skillet that actually “adds” flavor to food. It sounds silly, but I read somewhere that iron skillets actually add “iron” to your cooking. They are healthier for you than pans with spray on finishes, aluminum and when some of those non stick pans get too hot, they leech out a toxic fume. No thanks I’ll stick with my Little House on the Prairie inspired cookware.

I can cook anything in them. Cornbread, rice, sausage skillet suppers and even solitary eggs or omelettes.

But never, and I repeat NEVER put them in the dishwasher or all your hard work is gone.

I learned this the hard way. I did it not only once, but twice to a small set we were adding to our 700 pound cookware set. Dave was not happy. But he forgave me and before I knew it, to make amends I was tossing those little pans in with Big Boy when he was in the oven and before long we had a happy iron family nesting in the oven drawer.

I think I’m a lot like my iron skillet. Way too heavy, I look worn, weathered and if you catch me in the morning, before my coffee- like I was tempered in the flames of Hell. It doesn’t take a lot of grease to release things from my surface but I’m definitely better seasoned than any new-fangled non-sticky models.

Although if I do get too hot, I’ve been known to give off some toxins.

Changing Christmas

Most people wouldn’t call diagnosis of the Flu or strep throat a blessing at Christmas but for my family it was.

When I first found out on the Wednesday Prior to Christmas that my husband David had the flu I panicked. Knowing how the flu spreads like wildfire and how precious Christmas time is, my heart began to flutter and I imagined the horrors that would await me, a mother of three, for the next two weeks of the holiday break. In my mind, I could see me running from room to room, feverish and taking care of four helpless souls. Picturing myself as the Martyr in the making and thinking actually only of myself without realizing my selfishness.

So, waking the next morning to a feverish 9 year old didn’t surprise me, but when her symptoms were unlike her fathers, I knew we were dealing with another bird, so off to the doc we went and came home with the diagnosis of Strep throat and the miraculous pink medicinal liquid that would provide her with the cure along with a fresh prescription of Phenergan for her nausea…I had hoped for a Valium sidecar for myself, but was afraid to ask.

These two diagnoses would keep me on the couch for the next 7 nights, but I gained a new appreciation for my bed and for the sanctity of the bedroom. All night I heard the pitter pat of feet that plodded to the bathroom, the doors opening and shutting and the occasional cry from my wee one to give her comfort the first few nights of her sickness.

All these sleepless nights, while planning the  biggest day of the year – Christmas- that would be here in less than two days.

The sterilizing and cleaning that took place just to decontaminate items retrieved from my husband that lay in a fever induced coma on the first floor was staggering. I missed him, I missed his laughter, hugs and his help. And then, in the stillness of my third night on a twin mattress, I looked up at the unlit Christmas tree from the floor and realized that Christmas would come. It would come without the tree, without gifts and without any adornment. Regardless of decorations, best laid plans and Christmas lists, it would inevitably come and I would have to understand that it is more than parties, food and healthy families. It comes to everyone, regardless of circumstance.

I laid there in the dark and let it go. I let go of the worry, the stress and the silly struggles I had placed on myself regarding this most sacred of days and prayed in the night that I would learn to appreciate this Christmas no matter what lay in wait. And my prayer was answered.

I awoke the next morning with a plan only to do what I could. Only to get done what I could and to realize that people are more important than plans or parties, meals or gifts. Of course I already knew this, but I think I had to be reminded that sometimes when life hands you lemons, you can’t even make lemonade…instead you have to toss them out and move on.

So this Christmas, we stayed home. No quick opening of gifts, then rushes to shower before the hot water runs out, no last minute preps for food to carry to my Mothers house to meet family for lunch-we opted out of chaos. Instead we stayed. We lingered in the magic of Christmas morning. We approached it with care and tenderness and it was a blessing.

All of my children managed to avoid the flu, I did too. My husband was nearly recovered by Christmas morning and my daughter was once again her perky self.  Santa had indeed come to the Rigney house and presents were opened patiently and one at a time. My daughters quest was to remain in her pajamas the entire day. She succeeded. Mine was to make a lovely Christmas dinner. I succeeeded. The rest of the family just played, stayed and enjoyed the day.

The magic of Christmas lingered all day in our home. The tree remained bright, presents stayed on the floor and the hearth and children roamed in pajamas and houseshoes throughout the house most of the day. A Christmas meal was made and eaten piping hot, in our own home at our own table.  We gathered, held hands and prayed…together and it was good.

Christmas came to our house. We didn’t have to pack up our things and find Christmas at my mothers house, it was here all along. We had just been too rushed in the past to notice.

So next year, I think we will remain at home again. It took sickness to keep us home, I am so sorry my husband and daughter were ill. If I could have taken it from them I would have gladly shouldered that burden. However, it forced all of us to rethink our Christmas tradition and that was truly the best gift of all.

The empty chair…

He was just a man.

         To the world, he was just a man.

                                        To my world, he was my Papaw.

A beautiful life cut short by a drunk driver.

Christmas Eve is a time of anticipation and unequivocal excitement; but for my family it is also the anniversary of a tragic accident that took the life of my Papaw, Raleigh Miller. His life erased by a repeat offender that could not say no to the deadly combination of alcohol and car keys.

A chair now sits empty that once held a husband, father and grandfather. A man who loved life, his family and a good cigar. A man that worked hard at the railroad his entire life, to retire and find that he still needed a job to satisfy himself so he took a job across town just to stimulate his mind. He left that job on Christmas Eve, on his way to our  family Christmas dinner only to have his life end on the cold, wet pavement to the sound of squealing tires and snow meeting blacktop.  

 To this day, when I see him in photographs, its almost as if he is a movie star. I think there is a certain mystique about my grandfather because he was pulled so quickly from my life. He exists in photos and old super 8 movies, but he seems so out of reach for me to grasp in my memory, although I can still smell the scent of his Swisher Sweets cigars that he kept in his front pocket.  I was only nine when he died.  He never saw me graduate, get married or have my first child. But he was always in my thoughts.

We were all waiting at his house with my Granny for him to arrive for our annual Christmas Eve dinner. A retired Railroad man, he was always on time. He called to tell us he was on his way home and as the food grew cold and we waited, we all knew something was wrong. Papaw was never late.

It would be hours later before my smaller cousins and I would find out what the flurry of coats and car  keys actually meant as all the grown ups left into the icy rain leaving us with my older sister in the now vacant livingroom at my Grannys. I can still feel the draft across my face as the last person left through the front door and pulled it fast behind them. Shutting us inside and locking out the cold – taking with them what seemed like the last of the oxygen in the room. The house still full of the smells of Christmas. The heavy aroma of yeast rolls, ham, pies and cakes hanging in the air like aluminum icicles on the Christmas tree.

I never saw my father so empty and yet so full of untapped rage. I dont know if you can even put in words the level of heartache that comes with a senseless death, a death of a loved one caught in the mayhem of someone elses chaos.

I know that time heals. Over the course of the past 38 years Christmas has attained a near normalcy, although the Christmas Eve meal was never revisited. Which is a shame. So much love was exchanged there. I look back on photos and see that it is a true memory, we were happy in that time.

When Dave and I first got married, I decided to reclaim Christmas Eve. For us. So now, we sit as a table of five. My three wonderful children and Dave and I gather around a meal. It doesn’t have to be a big meal, in fact, often times it’s just take out burritos, because I’m busy preparing for the next mornings festivities, but we gather, we eat and we fill each chair and I pray… that they will never be empty.

I hope that anyone reading this that considers driving after too much alcohol, will reconsider. Drink and drive responsibly. The life you save, the world you alter, may or may not be your own.

From “Ha-ha’s to Ta-Ta’s”…

“Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.”  ~Virginia Woolf

I love women. I love the company of good women. The deep camaraderie built up between people of the female persuasion over a cup of coffee or an ice cold Diet Coke is phenomenal. We need only a bridge to cross.

Sometimes we are united in stories of motherhood, triumphs, humor and even shared tragedies. Together, as women, we have the remarkable ability to laugh and embrace not only our own faults but one another’s.  God certainly got it right when he made woman.  I’m not saying we are better than men by any means, but we need one another to fill a void that spouses and significant others can’t. Not because of any other reason, than we are women.

I love that we come in all sizes, shapes and tints. I love that we can be from anywhere and everywhere but still arrive at the same place, find common ground that cements us to our dining room chair and make us connect. Seeing eye to eye isn’t mandatory, in fact different perspectives are encouraged. I probably learn more by someone believing I am wrong than I have by being right.

Today I had the pleasure of spending yet another breakfast in tears. Not tears of sadness but those of joy. United around a dining room table in a friends beautiful home; we talked of everything we could reach in and pick out of our bushel basket of all things “female”. We discussed childhood vacations, pleather car interior, Stuckey’s pecan logs, Spam (the real one in a can), lady beards, waxing, recipes, marriage, divorce, liquid Opiates (this was from my own basket), Thanksgiving invites and “un”vites, mail order brides, falling down stairs, real vs. artificial Christmas trees and big boobs.

Nothing is off limits around a table of women like this. We create an absolute “open bar” of snippets to choose from, each of us putting our own favorite breakfast dish on the buffet…these dishes not only come in the form of oatmeal, hash browns, bacon and sliced fruit, but also in the form of conversation starters that can only bloom and flower in a roomfull of hormones. Even if some of them are produced in the form of an Estrogen patch. Myself being the bearer of this wonderful, adhesive, midlife sidekick.

From ha-ha’s to Ta-ta’s we discuss, we laugh, we query and we encourage. We refill our plates and we refill our cups and when it’s all over with I have a happiness hangover. My husband has always appreciated how good morning confabs with my Ladies o’ the Round Table Breakfast Club gives me a sense of self.  

Sometimes, I must say, for the faint of heart, I may be a bit over the top. I like to step over the fence just a bit, and peek around corners that many women wouldn’t. I am an open book with some of the pages torn. There are many women that may not like such a riotous first meal of the day and not everyone thinks I am their cup of tea.

 Thank goodness for good coffee, Diet Coke and women that do.

The loud Lullaby…testimony of a snorer’s wife

“What a happy and holy fashion it is that those who love one another should rest on the same pillow”.  ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

I never would have thought that something as annoying as snoring could find such a sweet spot in my heart. That is, until my husband Dave began leaving for weeklong trips to Indiana  and Japan for work and I was left in a bed that was transformed into a sleep deprivation chamber. 

I flipped and flopped so much this past week, I felt like a human pancake. I finally gave in and just slept with the television on in an attempt to soothe myself into my Melatonin induced shut-eye.

Twenty years. Twenty years of snoring. Snoring that started out as a real nuisance. In fact when we first got married, I may have broken a few laws and at the very least a few vows when Daves “nasal opera” would reach such a fevered pitch that thoughts of a smothering via pillow crossed my mind. However, I learned to adapt without killing him and devised a pretty sneaky technique in my sleep bankrupt state that would cause him to wake up and turn over…

Let’s just put it this way, it involved two fingers and cutting off air supply to his nose. After the application of “said technique”, he would levitate from his pillow and let out a small gasp for air. I would pretend  to wake up from his flailing about and whisper nicely while reaching out a hand for comfort…”Honey are you okay?” To which he would utter a small grunt or groan and change position.

Due to his new adjustment and turn to the other side of the mattress, it gave  me a few moments of quiet time for me to slip into my much needed coma.

It may sound avaricious, but in reality I was quite gentle and it’s much nicer than a jab to the ribs and let’s face it, lack of rest could have lead me to do much worse over the span of twenty years without a few decent winks while raising three children through their first fretful months of life.

But now, I no longer find his snoring to be an issue. In fact, it has become a lullaby of  love. His interminable snoring is a reminder that he is there next to me in the dark. It has become the soundtrack for my slumber and it puts a smile on my face when I turn over and hear logs being sawed in repetition through the night. 

It’s odd how the things in life that you think are aggravating, turn out to be endearing as you age. Now, we both laugh about my midnight snuffing of the “zzzz’s”. It took a few years for me to confess how I handled his snoring, but when I did tell him, he just looked at me and laughed. I think he knew about it anyway and now its a running joke among our family and friends.

I have to admit Dave’s patience with me is amazing. I definitely married “up”, because as far as I know he has yet to jeopardize my respiration, but a lot could happen in the next twenty years.

Three Sisters

                                

    Three Sisters…             

                 Three little girls sitting in a row.

                  Cheek to cheek and toe to toe.

             Smiles on faces, and giggling inside.

                   Hearts full of love a mile wide.

          Born as sisters, God gave them that gift.

          To help one another and give each a lift.

    Time passed so quickly, leaving this day behind.

            But lives on forever in hearts that bind.

                                                                          ~Margie Rigney

Son shine on my shoulders…

It’s hard for me to believe that William, my oldest will be 18 years old this month. I can’t believe that this 6’2″ man/child was ever small enough to fit in my arms. Just yesterday his little head would rest on my shoulder after a burping and fall asleep, leaving a small crusty remnant of his last meal there. I remember the first six months of his life I smelled baby formula whenever I turned my head. I wore those little stains with pride. I considered it an honor to have this child. This tiny token of love that God had given us to raise.

When William was born, he was considered a miracle to me as he was preceeded by a brother that only made it through the second trimester of my first pregnancy. Each day I was pregnant with William was filled with caution and I was aware of every kick, turn and hiccup. I cherished every moment and every day that he greeted me with a kick to the ribs or a jab to the kidneys. Dave would rub my belly and call to him “Willie, this is your Daddy, I know you’re in there”…and we never knew for sure what the sex of any of our children would be, but we just felt he was a Willam, and indeed he was.

He arrived after what seemed days of labor, red faced and hungry. He taught me how to be a mother. I owe all I am as a mother to my children. There are no instructions booklets that prepare you for parenting. They may write books, but nothing prepares you for that first look into your baby’s eyes when you know that you are in charge and have been given this awesome responsibility of caring for Gods greatest creation. I actually felt a bit unworthy of such precious life. Was God sure I could handle this?

The first weeks, I wondered. William had a bit of colic and fought breast feeding because he wanted the feeling of a full belly. So we switched to bottle feeding and he was immediately at ease. His belly could be full, he was satiated and happy. All was well.

Time that Dave and I used to spend watching TV was now spent watching William for hours each evening. We waited for every milestone to hit, the rolling over, the belly crawls and then finally standing up on his own. With each phase,  William went for it with fervor. He went from toddling to running immediately. He was a powerhouse. Up and down the hall he would run, back and forth over and over without tiring and just watching him was exhausting. Moving those tiny legs on his wagons, ride alongs and before we knew it he was riding a bike without training wheels around the court.

We used to laugh at him on his tiny bike that he adored. He was just 4 and already his legs were too long for his beginner bike. He looked like a bear riding a trike in the circus…legs all bent up to his chin, but he loved that bike and would not trade up until the treads finally wore through the tires.

Now he has traded his bicycles for car keys. I get behind the wheel of our Earth Destroyer 9000 and have to move the seat up 5 inches to reach the brakes after he has been in the drivers seat. I have to adjust the mirrors and it’s a reminder of how much he has grown in just 18 years, from that tiny baby to this beanpole of a man. Sometimes I sit there from his perspective for just a moment and let the reality of time sink in. How fast it has all come to this point; where boyhood meets manhood and the inevitable adult milestone is reached.

All those times when I would be anxious for him to sleep through the night, walk on his own, have more independence from me, I now wish I hadn’t rushed. To do it all again I would do gladly. The good, the bad and the sleepless nights but maybe I would cherish them a bit more, breathe them in a bit deeper and appreciate more of the small things. How his hand would fit in mine, how his toes resembled peas all nesting up against one another, how sweet the back of his neck smelled and how he looked at me like I was his world, when in reality he was mine.

So for this Mama seeing my son turn 18 is bittersweet. But I am so proud of the man he has become. He is sweet and kind, funny and intelligent. He still shows me how to be a better parent every day by being such a wonderful son. He will walk out of November as a man to the rest of the world, but to me he will always be….. my baby.

A fumbling, tumbling, food addicts confession….

I eat my feelings. I know I do. Sometimes after a hard day I will catch myself physically “stuffing” my face with food. More than once, I’ve answered the phone and tried to say “Hello” and not even realized I had my mouth to maximum capacity +4. I exercise, I go to the gym and I try so very hard to shave these hips and he-man thighs down to a respectable size, but they just love me. They won’t leave.

I never imagined I would be this large woman that I am. But even though I was average size in high school, because I was tall I just always thought of myself as the “big girl”. I think I just became my own self fulfilled prophecy. I even do low carb most of the time, I don’t consume sugars or high calorie foods, but I will even take eating lettuce to a new level…and eat nearly an entire head in one or two days, all by myself.

I grew up thin. Long and thin. “Gangly” is what my mother called me. She said I grew too fast, that’s why my legs ached so much in the middle of the night. I stumbled, fell down steps, ran into walls and spent half of my fifth grade Summer sleeping in a Lazy-boy because I fell down the second floor steps and broke my ribs. My tween years were like living in a remote controlled body, one that was operated from the next room by a blind man with missing thumbs.

Awkward– didn’t even begin to describe my constant collisions with stationary objects. I spilled my milk almost every meal, to the point that my sisters avoided sitting where the crack in the center of the table was, because it would consistently head in that direction and leak cold white moo-juice onto their knees.

Still my mother gave me a glass of milk every night.  Each dinner she would say, “Now watch this glass, be careful” and most of the time I managed it, but inevitably I would reach and tumble the amber glass onto the table and scatter sisters. But over time, I mastered the glass and they returned to the great divide with dry knees. I think back on this and imagine that my mother either had the patience of a Saint or a prescription for some.

I’m not sure why I find so much comfort with food. Perhaps it’s the memories of the times shared at the table with my family. Maybe its reminiscent of the aromas my mother flavored our nostrils with thanks to her fine country cooking. But I have had an affair with food for what seems most of my adult life.

My husband loves me like I am. My kids always referred to my lap as “comfy…like a pillow” and they seem to think there is no greater place on earth than feeling a wrap in my flabby arms when they’ve had a bad day, but I really need to get myself in order and figure out exactly what makes me feel so good about feeling so full.

But everyone has a cross to bear I suppose. I just wish mine was edible, then my problem would be solved.

Daddys Corduroy Jacket

“I love my father as the stars – he’s a bright shining example and a happy twinkling in my heart“.  ~Terri Guillemets

I suppose there is nothing so precious as the relationship between a parent and child. I’m learning as I get older, that regardless of age, you are always considered a child in the eyes of your parents. At least that’s how it is with mine. Which can be a blessing and a curse. While the rest of the world is aging and becoming wiser, my sisters and I are caught in a web of being “forever young” according to my parents. I think this mostly has to do with their desire to remain young themselves and their evasion and denial when it comes to old age. 

The other day while I was rummaging through the attic for Halloween decorations I passed by a big brown folded corduroy jacket that had been my fathers when I was young.  Before my parents moved here a few years ago, they had been sorting through old clothes and asked me if I wanted the weathered, old coat .  I had packed it up to the attic and forgotten about it.

When I saw it, I picked it up and examined the dark, leather buttons and ran my fingertips along the wide wale of the cinnamon brown corduroy. Instinctively I buried my face into the folds of the aged, heavy, brown, knee- length coat.  The scents filled my nostrils and I was transported in time. Immediately recalling the trapped fumes from the factory my father worked and the sweet aroma of peppermints,chewing gum and ink pens that had previously found transport in each pocket. There is a certain smell that fathers have, I notice my  husband has it as well. Not quite an “odor” but a definite pheramone induced scent that leaves it’s mark on anything worn more than once. In fact, when my husband leaves town for work, I find myself snuggling up to his pillow and instantly feeling more at ease.  

This momentary trip via nostril, brought back vivid memories of wandering into my parents bedroom and taking the coat  from their bedside chair and wrapping myself up in it tightly after a hard day at school. When the security and smell of that jacket was all I needed to make me feel better.

My father is a big man. When I was young, I imagined that he was nine feet tall and bullet proof. I would try on his shoes and coats and I remember I was so little that my arms stayed hidden inside the sleeves and my feet never left the arches of his brown leather Florsheims.

It was chilly in the attic as I looked through the boxes and I slipped the coat over my shoulders. I laughed when I found that I still couldn’t reach my arms out of the sleeves forty years later. I snuggled the dusty old coat and let its heaviness fall onto my back and warm me while I searched the shelves.  When I was done I placed it gently back on top of the old dresser where it was when I found it and gave it one more big sniff goodbye.

I suppose I could have it cleaned and packed into plastic and stored away. Preserved for posterity in cellophane and plastic wrap,  but I won’t. Things like daddys jackets are meant to be used, snuggled and brought out on occasions to remember their purpose and their magic.  In fact, this Christmas when I visit the attic with my youngest, in search of ornaments and Snowmen, I just might wrap her up in Papaws corduroy just to see how it fits.