IS that Dr. Scholl's I taste?

The dishes were almost done. i just had the leftover crockpot to do. Granted, i hated dishes enough that it had sat by the sink for...well over the allotted dish-avoidance time, but i was getting to it today. I turned it over to scrub the outside of it, loving that it was just the ceramic tub that came out and i didn't have to wash the entire crock pot, when a mystery was solved. A big one.

Looking sticky, translucently cooked, and glued to the side in a death grip, was the partial word Dr. Sch-. That was all. Just Dr. Sch-. But for me, it was enough. I started laughing, and thought, THIS IS WHY I'M SUCH A DORK!!!!!!! Who else could start off cooking something simple, and end up cooking inserts????

UH. Lets back up here.

I think we all know this about me by now. I cook rarely. When I cook, it is mostly finger food with carrot curly cue's and other assorted flora and fauna, artfully placed around...something that came in a can. My theory is, why make something fancy from scratch when you can dress up the bland? It's why i can get away with a t-shirt at work when it isn't casual Friday. Really.

So when i do cook, it's a big deal around here. At least to me. And to my sou-chef, Addie. It becomes an event and she puts on her lavender Betty Crocker hat. I put on my apron (thanks for that habit, mom. you know i'm messy) and we both crank the tunes.

This particular morning, i put into play the fruition of the last nights brainstorming. That conversation went something like this:
Addie: "mom, we really should cook. It's been a long time."
Mom: "um. how bout sandwiches?"
Addie: "Are u listening? seriously, we need something warm in our bellies. Not chili again, please. I can't open the can at ALL."
Mom: "How bout a crock pott-ee thing-ee? Debbie on Facebook said she uses it all the time."
Addie: "isn't that complicated?"
Mom: "i'm not sure. We should look."

Now those of you that use crock pots as a crutch when you don't have time to do any real cooking, and just "throw any old thing in it", please just look away. Go back to your world conquering, knit your favorite charity a truckload of sweaters over the weekend... life. Any of you that are left, (menfolk, teens, women that watch the cooking channel but don't use it...) this is what happened next.

Addie and i saw in a cookbook (crockpots made easy) that chicken and rice was right up our alley. And still too complicated. But what we concocted instead was 15 bean soup w/some ham in it. Simple. Right up our alley. We even planned ahead enough to put dry beans in water to soften up over night. GENIUS!!!!

The next morning i got up, got ready for work, and came down to put together the "cook all by itself while you are away" magic.

This would be a shorter story if the next fact didn't come into play...
Now as we all know, life is sometimes about upkeep. So the gel inserts i keep in my ALL DAY/ALL NIGHT heels were just not sticking to the inside of the shoe like they should. And it was Salsa Lesson night in Boulder, after work. I needed to re-stickiuppee my gels. Um.. side note: Salsa dancing, not Salsa making. I don't cook often, remember?

So i'm rinsing off the inserts in the sink. The kitchen sink. They are all clean and sticky again, because they are that clear silicone stuff that Dr. Scholls made a million on. I don't have to know the why of it, i just like that i can Salsa (badly, but still) after work on Thursdays, because of these bad boys. I put the inserts on the counter (on a towel to dry, and so it isn't on my counter. Feet on counters, ew. This was my compromise.) and washed my hands.

I went to the other side of the kitchen to do the ingredient dump into the crock pot. Beans.... check. Water.... check. Spices.... check. And that was it for now. when husband got home from work, he would dump in the meat and finish it up. whammo! A meal that i wasn't there to watch over.

I took the ceramic part of the crock pot back over to the sink to fill it up with a bit of water, setting it on the towel so i had both hands. (wow. that was nice that there was a towel there so i didn't have to set it on the counter. wonder when i thought ahead that much?... what am i doing for lunch.... how many times will i need to hear annoying co-worker talk about her hair plugs...and so on and so on with the thoughts of the day). Then i put it in the outside part of the crockpot, put the lid on, and forgot about it. I felt so domestic at that point.

I then noticed i was running late, and Addie and i got the menfolk up, and i headed out the door, kicking myself when i walked and noticed that i forgot my gel inserts. "Dang it! i really needed them tonight, but i'll deal" and my day commenced from there.

Fast forward through the day to 4:30 when husband calls to say the house smells good and did i put something interesting in the crock pot? He puts in the meat, we chit chat, and i feel good that there is a meal for the family. I head to salsa lessons, and am home by 9:30. All i could think of was how great it would be to have a bit of this food.

I walk in the door and am assaulted by a great smell of homemade food......and something else. (what is that? WHAT. IS. THAT. SMELL?) I look in the garbage, i look in the fridge. nothing. I even look on the bottom of my shoes to see if I had brought home dog doo. Nothing.  I'm beat, so i eat the soup. love that it turned out well, and go to bed. (husband had just put the entire crockpot in the fridge. his way of putting dinner away. )

Next day, i take the ceramic part out of the crock pot, and prepare to just rinse it down a little bit when i'm assaulted by that odd smell again. I pick up the ceramic pot part and .... gunky, stringy, smelly, incredibly sticky stuff is on the bottom of the ceramic pot, up the sides, and stuck to the metal shell. I don't have a clue what it is because, lets face it, i'm an in the moment kind of gal. I rinse off the best of it, happy that at least it's coming off, so it must be some odd food that husband made the last time we used this thing, about 4 months ago... ew. i'd have to speak with him about cleaning up better...... and moved the ceramic to the counter by the sink, vowing i'd get to it later.... you know. LATER.

It was a few days later that the mystery clicked into place. I had cooked my inserts. Cooked them, and then fed the blended scents to my family. I'm that good. Welcome to my life. the worst part???? i mean, really the worst part? Now i'm going to have to go back out and find some more gel inserts. My family will live with the knowledge they inhaled my cooked foot goo. I, however, have Salsa night coming up, and can't live another day without the cushionee goodness.

The crock pot went back into the garage. We are having cheese, meat, and crackers for dinner tonight.

If we are going to Mourn, it really should look my way.

This is what I said to myself as a total stranger popped into the official mourning room for the family. Just as the door was being shut for the official Family Prayer. For FAMILY only. "What gall, to just mosey on in, like he belongs in the FAMILY ONLY area!". I didn't want onlookers out of the onlooker area. We had set it up to be in the foyer and/or the chapel. Clearly marked. Plus, I was busy with a fresh wave of sadness and hurt and... hunger? My belly growled loudly and I played it off as Uncle Gassy-Britches-On-The-Right's business. I was also busy with being tired. And numb. And...noticing that nephew #7 was picking his nose and wiping it under great-aunt Stone-Deaf-So-I-Will-Yell-Instead-Of-Whisper (to be spoken in a hurried and hushed voice)'s...wheel chair seat. eck. I just didn't have it in me to walk over and usher this person out so we could relax and stop being so dignified.

I looked around the room and smiled, both in affection and slight distaste. Uncle Creepy-Vibe was a little too close for my comfort. But that aside, affection. So what if the family was enormous, yet hadn't gathered for a family reunion in years? If ever? So what if they were a mixed lot, with their mourning attire ranging from a peach tuxedo and frilled button-down shirt, to a velvet pair of pants with a torn AC/DC T-shirt that was justified as "Well, it's black, isn't it?". So what if the grand kids had already tried to climb into the casket to play hide-n-seek with Grandma 3 times so far? So what if irreverence was the dominant trait? Pshhh. It was amusing and colorful and ridiculous. And mine.

And, glancing back at the guy that sauntered in, it doesn't mean that just any stranger can just be part of such an intimate thing as the family prayer. No siree, Bob. Not on my watch.

The problem was, I noted, no one else was booting him out. Preteens were walking around him, and toddlers shot through his legs, just as if he had always been in this room. In-laws and out-laws alike (Uncle Had-A-Slight-Run-In-With-The-Cops-In-A-High-Speed-Chase-But-Those-Days-Are-Behind-Me-Now, to be exact), talked with this guy in a slightly deferential manner, and I started to get suspicious. Even stoic old Great Aunt Bat-Any-Child-That-Comes-Near-Her-With-A-Cane stopped fanning herself long enough to take his hand and make clicking noises with her mouth as she shook her head and sighed.

I think I am missing something...


That was right before I was introduced to him as The Mortuary Guy. And, yeah, he was asked to give the family prayer. (Slight gasp at the thought.) He had declined, however, and was just there as a guide to facilitate the process of grief. A supportive onlooker.

Luckily, I had not let my facial expressions match the righteous indignation that was written all over the insides of my eyebrows. I kept quiet the frowny muscles on my left lip, and the puff of air that threatened to snake out my nose. Also, the shoo-ing tendons in both of my hands. (Hmmm. Those tendons also doubled as angry hands when put juuust-so on my hips, I notice.) No, these inside urges simmered slowly down into a bit of embarrassment at my secret snap judgements.

I instead did a properly saddish, yet formally welcoming smile. This, i assumed, was the right degree of "ok, you are in. You may stay and experience the intimacy of the mourn with the rest of us." Which was kind of a silly proclamation, even to myself, considering I was about the newest family member in the room. 19 years new, roughly. And one of the in-laws, at that. You just don't break into this crowd easily. But I am pretty protective of this group. And they overlook my flaws, I hope, as simply as I overlook their warts. So to speak. (There IS a cousin on the wobbly chair in the corner that really pushes the wart limit. By 17.)

The door to the room closed, and I knew that this was the time to focus my thoughts and to say my last goodbye's to a woman that was, herself, the epitome of overlooking flaws. Craaap. The tears, which I thought had just left my eyes for at least another hour on lunch break, crept back in through my stuffy, red nose, and leaked out stubbornly. As Mortuary Guy gave us directions on what would happen next, and who would say the family prayer (Uncle Stuffy-From-Out-East would actually take this role, as Slightly-Tipsy-Cousin-On-The-Other-Side-Of-The-Family didn't have the authority to extend this invitation in the first place.), I saw that there wasn't a script, or an invitation list, or a role to play at all.

This was death.

This was the part where the good, the bad, the messy, and the heroic all meshed up into an event. THE EVENT. The Funeral. And not even Family, Friends, Onlookers, or Event Planners were cut and dry. There is no script, so quit trying to memorize lines. This was what I said to myself as Grandson Angst-Yet-Tender set his ball cap on top of the casket. This was what I meant to myself when Uncle Stuffy relayed words of comfort, of depth, of tenderness as he went through the Prayer, and I was grateful to him for all of his words. This was what I choked to myself as Perfect-Stranger-In-Row-Number-Three took the small toddlers so Daughter-Number-One could speak simply and lovingly of her mother. There is no script... It is what I whispered to Husband as he dry sobbed through the grandkid's musical number of "I am a Child Of God". And, it is what I forgot to chant as I led the closing song of "God Be With You Till We Meet Again", snot and tears running down my face because my hands were full of hymn book and hand motions.

I forgot the proper way to gather the liquid-filled tissues on the chapel pew. So I left them. I also went back through the line that was shuffling out, because I had forgotten my phone and keys. I even wobbled on my stiletto pump as I was politely pushing back into my place in line. Can't we do another practice run? Nope. We just kept doing The Event. Nobody pointed at me. Not one person snickered, or even noticed. Just me.

At the luncheon, laughter reared its welcome head. Food brings about smiles to empty bellies. Also, Seeing Uncle Bring-A-Flyswatter-Everywhere-Just-In-Case save his place at the table with his prize possession... Well, that's just funny. It worked, though. (He got his space.) And as family mowed down mountains of Funeral Potatoes, heaps of ham, and pans of jello with raisins and/or carrots floating around, the laughter became...Allowed. Embraced. Nurtured, even.

Brazenly, the sorrow and heartache was put on hiatus so the hugs and smiles could be passed around. Clasps of hands. Claps on shoulders. Fingers lightly placed on forearms to emphasize a point in conversation. All walls came down as the desserts were devoured, and it became a safe place to heal. To let bygones be bygones. To exchange emails and phone numbers for future connection.

By the time the dishes were cleared, family pictures became a needed activity. Putting the cemetary on hold for just a few more moments, Grand-Dad looked on as Miss Bossy-Yet-effective niece held the camera and moved the grandkids, kids, and spouses, first just a liiittle to the left...then sliiiightly to the right....and Nose-Picking-Four-Year-Old! Hold still, or SO HELP ME I'll spank you all the way to Grandma in Heaven!!!.... until the camera click-click-clicked to capture a generation or two of his offspring. The grin he showed was only slightly wet from tears.

As immediate family packed into cars to making the final trip to bury the shell of One Who Is No Longer There, a different energy went with us. Even somber as I was, I joked with Son number 2, and chided daughter and son number 3 for fighting over the sweet seat in Hoss. Husband backed up our enormous suburban while I thought, "If I had energy for that, I'll have energy to get through the rest of THE EVENT."

...and then, WHAP!!!...

Husband looked in the rear-view mirror, then and looked at me in a way that said, "There really is no script...", and we got out to see Hoss's bumper pushed right through the radiator of Reclusive-Great-Uncle-From-Up-North. Grandma's brother, to be exact. Stroking his scruffy beard and quietly exiting his vehicle, he joined us in watching his rare Jeep truck's radiator spurt fluid 2 feet out. The food I had just ingested felt cold and heavy in my stomach.

I don't think I was the only one to contemplate the hit and run strategy. No one really knew him anyway, right? We curbed our urges, and I did the apologies while Husband and Uncle-Reclusive spoke the outlandish things men say to staunch the flow of car fluids when in a suit and tie. "Pepper in the radiator, that will do it." "Where are my tools? Ugg. I can't find the screwdriver!" "Here is my insurance information. I don't know how it happened." "No, No. I will just pick up a new ...INSERT NAME OF JEEP PART HERE... at the junk yard tomorrow. I was going there anyway." And, Great Uncle-Reclusive rode with us. (Hoss simply had a scratch on the bumper.)

As the teen boys yammered about the street cars they would SO have if they only had thousands of dollars, I thought about what small talk was appropriate with this family member that belonged in this EVENT, yet was just a vague name to me and my immediate family. I simply looked out my window and let curiosity do it's job. Just as I started to inquire, Great Uncle-Reclusive spoke. And spoke. And spoke. About cars and trucks, and everything motorized. Engines and carburetors... and The boys slowly tapered off and listened. He spun short stories that understated just how talented and varied his life was, in the motor arena. He had raced, fixed, and smuggled (eluded to, but still...) cars that my boys had only dreamed of, and that brought him right into their inner sanctum of adoration. Thank goodness for accidental bonding. We was upgraded from Uncle-Reclusive to Great-Uncle-Mysterious.

The last leg of The Event was here. As we pulled up to the rolling hills of the Cemetery, wind blowing and clouds racing by, I saw something that made me giggle and breathe hard, all at once. At the end of the dignified trail-way that led to the grave site, 6 children congregated over the open grave. Kneeling, squatting, chasing around, sitting in the chairs designated for the 8 most prominent members of the family.... irreverence just oozed off of these kids. Without thought, I tramped through the manicured lawn in my stilettos, aerating the whole way, and somewhat pompously shooed those kids away from there. I also looked around to see which parents were not keeping the kids in tow. Eyebrow raised. Lip muscle tugged down. Angry hands kept firmly in place with those tendons. I even think I harrumphed a bit.

All the kids obediently followed me, explaining that they had permission from the parents, and that if they promised not to climb down into the hole, didn't go past the step, and didn't push each other AT ALL.... They could play one last time around the place where Grandma would stay for a while. Yeah. I felt ridiculous. Especially because when I looked back, the parents were staring intently at us all. Where they had always been looking, now that I recalled seeing them right by the trees nearby. Pomp and circumstance were just not invited to this day.

There is no script to Death. It happens whether I ask it to or not. It brings people together in ways that don't make sense, and heals on it's own time. As quickly or slowly as it takes. And that is none of my nevermind. It never was.

I joined the grownups just as they start back toward the grave site, this time without my pumps. Sons, Brothers-in-law, and Nephew bring the casket with the formal fashion that is half tradition and half necessity so they don't trip or drop the precious cargo. It is lovingly laid in it's position and a simple dedication is made. Carnations are added to the flower spray, and it is over. Nothing else need to be added to The Event. But, thank goodness, we don't follow scripts, so grandkids touch the casket. Grandma's kids sit by and talk for the last time to the great lady that left such a legacy. And finally, Grandpa hugs family members, comforting them, smiling and laughing as he lets go of what is to be lowered down, and lets in the reminders of the life he shared and memories he made before the need for The Event even happened.

More pictures. More hugs. More chasing around the lawn. And just like that, The Event was downgraded to When We All Got Back Together. or possibly, What Started The Hugs and I Love You's. Uncle Stuffy-From-Back-East had somewhere along the line become Uncle Reserved-Yet-Approachable-Kindness-And-Humor-Guy. Uncle Had-A-Run-In-With-The-Law... became Uncle Grown-Into-A-Grounded-And-Humble-Man-That-Posseses-Tenderness-And-Love. I let go of what came next in the day.

Strangely, we did not seem to want The Event to end. 2 hours passed before we went back to our cars, and back to our rooms to change out of wrinkled or spotted dress clothes. And, there was still the next day, a spontaneous trip up the mountains for a picnic. And rock climbing. Yeah. Rock climbing. A fitting end before traveling the 8 hours home.

I am thankful for the mysterious man that slipped quietly into the Family Mourning Room. He was the only bit of guidance that moved our family through the day. The rest came on it's own. And took care of itself. Thank goodness I remembered to get out of the way.

Oh, she's hanging around, all right...

It just seemed logical. For her to watch over me a bit on her journey up, up, up. And I felt her in the birds silence. In crickets, singing their song in the background. In the Cicadas stuttering harmony, stuttering, then still. Stuttering, then still. And especially in the pool, warm and comforting. It cradled me as I floated around by myself in the night, watching the clouds open and close across the star speckled night. Even the backyard foliage seemed to work to give me this space to mourn.

I kept my eyes up to the sky and wondered why I didn’t cry now. Now, when there were no kids to comfort, no phone calls to take, no head to stroke and hug to give in sadness. There was just me. Me and my gulping ache just at the bottom of my throat. So welcome was the water, with the sky as my focus. Crying was the whole reason I ducked into my friend’s pool. So I could just let my own sadness have it’s time. I needed to sob, and to ache, and to contort my face into pain where no one could see. But the tears didn’t come, and I found myself concentrating instead on the stars. I knew they were just points of light. And constellations. And things to count when I was snuggling down to sleep on my lawn during summer, long ago. However to me, this night, they were beloved members of life's families and friends, watching over us beings still alive.

Maybe she was looking back over her shoulder, I think, as she went further and further on her journey to new things. Maybe she was already there and was looking to see if I could handle her grand-kids with the same patient love as she did. Maybe, and a bit of an angry sob stuck in my throat, she was just floating around somewhere and didn’t care anymore at all. Just part of the universe in a ka-jillion motes of nothing.

That was a secret fear. What if, after all I have been taught and comforted with, she was just really gone? Nothing to look forward to, no reason to look forward to meeting her in another place and time. Just gone? That would mean that I really didn’t have a reason anymore to forgive her for my petty thoughts. My busy life. My assumption that she would just be there in the background. Like these crickets, you know? Chirping beautifully, and adding to my life, but not acknowledging them as a beautiful accompaniment in my life. Enriching whatever setting there is. It would mean that I chose to go into HER background, when I could so easily have stayed engaged in her life. Crap. It’s true, either way.

I felt her here, though, as I wandered through the water. I felt comforted for a few minutes and remembered the same blatant comfort that I felt the first time I met her in her kitchen. In that messy, cluttered, busy kitchen. It was cramped, and well lit. Cows themed that place, and salt n pepper shakers, and miniature spoons from all over the world (a gift from her husband as he wandered from one military assignment to another). Nicknacks abounded and needed a good dusting. It had that country feel of not needing to impress anyone, not even the owners. It was full of bodies and jokes and laughter. And come-on-in-and-leave-your-troubles-at-the-door-ness. It was obviously the heart of the house, and she was the heart of that kitchen.

I remember walking in to it as a new girlfriend to her middle son, in that awkward, stiff way that meant to me, “I am new, and have manners and will not hurt your son while i know him.”, but to her meant, “I got a lotta hurt, and judgements. Just love on me a bit, for as long as I am here.”. And she loved me. Right from the start, and right there in that kitchen. She did about the only thing that would have kept me there. In that kitchen full of teens, and huge dogs running through everything with hair and slobber spraying into the kitchen air, she put me to work. Making food. The kind of food that should never exist in a healthy lifestyle. If she was in the South, she would have put Paula Deene to shame with her fatty, creamy food. From the first mouthful, it was happy goodness. And total indulgence kept me there. So different from the disciplined life that I grew up with. The life of constant repentance for deeds and thoughts not quite pure enough. The life of order and making sense and purpose with a schedule and a routine. And chores and strict manners. (That above all, in my angry, dramatic, teenage view, was what mattered). ...That life had no place in this kitchen. Here, I was enough. Just as I was that day, that moment, that instant. And that was a craving I never knew I even had. So I stayed. I stirred and opened cans, and eavesdropped as the chaos of off-color jokes and suggestive retorts blended with some strange feeling of acceptance. I put the slobber and hair and clutter out of my head that day and just reveled in it. In her.

That is what I was experiencing as I drifted along, toes and belly and fingertips sticking out just a bit, and chilly in the night air. The rest of me feeling decidedly luke warm, which was enough. A gentle breeze blew and I went back to my childish view of a dead person sitting on a cloud in their robe of white, strumming a harp and singing a bit in adoring bliss. Then I chuckled. NOPE. That view stopped right there. For one thing, she would never have worn a robe without adornment. Maybe a gold mu-mu with a white cord.... now THAT would have made a statement. Or been fine sitting in one place. Jumping from cloud to cloud, with strays following her as they look back to see if they will get in trouble... that seemed more her style. In addition, that harp would be replaced with an 80’s boom box, stuck on the sappiest song station. She did love music, i thought with a smile, and sang absolutely off-tone. So seemingly tone deaf was she, that she only sang when she thought others were not listening. But then, by darn, it was with gusto. Without reservation, and decidedly feminine. Her 5'11'’ solid frame would delicately reach for the high notes as she swayed along to the music as she washed dishes. Maybe that would be her heaven, I think. Belting it out and loving her voice.

Eventually, I sit at the edge of the pool in the shallow part. I squat with my legs in a sitting position, just my head above the water. I look down through the clear water to my knees, the lining of the pool, and my red toenails. And think of nothing. That’s when the tears come. And the regret for Not Being There Enough. All those things that people must say when a loved one passes away, I said em to myself. Why did I just move on and let the phone calls get shorter and shorter? And less personal and intimate? Why did I feel like I had outgrown her advice, her jokes, her empathy? Because I was an adult now, I thought. I can make my own decisions, and did not need to consult her or any parent. And, I say quietly to myself, because as she got older, and sicker, and less of her boisterous self… I started resenting her. I resented that she chose to keep eating those wonderful meals and snacks even when the doctors said it was making her sick. I got haughty and angry that she didn’t listen, so she must be stupid, or crazy, or just too old to care about me anymore. Otherwise why would she choose to be sick??? I made it about me. Always about me. My tears and sobs let loose as I found how petty and selfish my thoughts were of her. Not that she was a saint or anything. Lots bugged me about her, but these particular thoughts were so one sided!. She loved and loved and loved and loved. Her kids, her in-law additions, her adopted ones, her grand-kids. She loved us the best she could and knew how. Her 100%. Could I say the same? I loved when it was convenient and when I visited. I loved with considerations. And I loved while I gossiped. (that last one hurt the most.) As she got weaker and weaker, my view of her changed. CRAZY!!!!! Even when her mind started doing quirky things, she was still the quick-witted woman that loved me through the crap part of marriage, kids, and life. And the dark and light parts of me. It just hurt too much to see her look and act different. And I resented her for it.

My tears and sobs went on and on and on. Clear fluids leaked from my face to the pool water and I was glad no one was there to see. I was glad the chemicals took it away.

Eventually I focused on the good times I remember we had. Camping. The jokes and hours of playing cards, and sitting on her bed watching TV in her crazy cold room. The looks of anticipation and joy on my kids faces as we drove into her driveway, knowing they would soon be riding the converted riding lawn mower around in her field. And the advice we both shared openly from the ends of our phones, miles away from each other. She was the Wicked Witch of the West. That made me the Wicked Witch of the East (until my new sister-in-law moved to Jersey). She gave me permission to be human. And still loved for it. That was when I knew she was there. Just reminding me that in this instant, this minute, this night, and any night I needed, she could be there. Her memories are there for the taking. Her love is there for the keeping and sharing. That made it a bit easier to get out of that pool, dry off, stick my shoes into my flip flops, and head home. It’s a gift that I can give back to her family now. Some thing I can use to stay close to her with. And when I see my strays, my adopted kids walk through my door and ransack my kitchen….. well, then, I know she is there, too.

A possible concussion, you say? A faint smile, says I...

.... And I will just go get your dad.

Remarkably, it isn't a concussion that is wrong with son #3. It is a quick case of the dramatic, which the poor boy is genetically prone to. Aaannd... a case of a 6'4" MAN-CHILD bashing into my son's chin and esophogus. It is 3rd son's football practice, and the first one of the season that includes hitting. I am particularly excited that they have included pads in this practice. Whew. I won't need that AFLAC documentation after all...

In point of fact, my son has shared and been very convincing about the fact that he also has a dislocated hip and a broken kneecap. His little sister is completely convinced that the ambulance should take him away, but his dad walks into the room and down-grades it to "hmmm, drilled you somethin' fierce, did he?". My son answers, "Totally! i took the helmut off another guy, though. should have seen his eye!" Grins all around, and cut! End of scene.

Thus, the parental roles are cemented. I am the one to play up to, and his dad is the one to shrug it off. Gotcha. Now I am secure in my duty with him.

MOM: brings him hot chocolate and cucumber salad when he is sad and hurt. ANNDD when dad isn't around. She is allowed to rub his shoulders, and he is allowed to ask for her to push on that sore muscle on his calf. They have bonded and it is enough. This changes when dad is around, of course. At this time, mom becomes a BIT of an inconvenience... (In a Sean Connery voice, for some reason, the man-child might blurt,"what're you doin around here, woman? Stop skulking about and get me some wine!"...SCRATCH THE MAN PARTS AND GRUNT.... type of thing, i think...) Situation solved.

DAD: mostly grunts and says one word sentances to the man-child until he is hurt. then, he spouts a gem of a sentance that both sums up and dumbs down the situation, all in one shot. combined with a hard smack on the back, and a few pokes at a joint or muscle, usually in the most painful spot, the situation has been scoped out and identified to both male's satisfaction. they both go off to watch a show that includes more grunting, scratching, and violence. Situation solved.

As i am smiling and shaking my head, i realize that i can now pass some of the the owwee and boo boos off to others and still get the same result. Bonding. She punts...and....GOAL!!!!!!

Happy, Fat, and Full. Seen it? It's just around the next bend...

HAPPY: Joyful. Not Sad.
FAT: Having enough that you are no longer lacking, to the point of excess.
FULL: Not Needing Anything More in this area.

The elusive state of mind where there are no problems, which means, by default, happiness. Hearts and unicorns, peace and prosperity, a room full of marshmallows to sleep on... whatever the elusive spot of happy goodness is to you, it all looks like something that motivates us to spend more, save more, or wait for our ship to come in.

The problem comes when it all comes in at once. Windfalls. DARN YOUR HIDE!!!!!

My daughter thinks i'm talking about food when i use the term "Happy, Fat, and Full", but it is usually used in a conversation about money. I have had "Thin times", where we are scraping by to make it to the end of the month, or the week. And then there are "Fat times", where we have excess.

And then there are windfalls, which I believe every person has a few times in their lives. Through good or bad circumstances, a heap of Fatness comes our way.

For me, our windfalls have happened 3 times now. The first was when my husband received a large package for getting let go as a result of a merger. And because our mindset was that "we have arrived", ..... we spent it all. No forthought at all. Even when we were telling each other that we need to slow down, stop, and look to the future, we saw the coolest toy or trip and said, "we will worry about it later". and boom! we spent our way into an enormous thin time. 2 years, to be exact, of thinness.

I felt like the sad looking guy that had won the lottery 2 years ago and was now homeless and owing 5000 to a card shark named Borris.

Next was a sad windfall when, as a result of an accident that left my husband with 4 surgeries and a brain injury, we received a settlement. it was after 4 years of recovery and heart ache, so there wasn't a lot of joy in it, but after the bills were paid, a vacation for the family to reconnect, and some put in savings, it was also gone.

This time I just felt empty.

Luckily, we were in a better place physically, and financially now. Husband has had a great many years in his career choice, so when he was let go through yet another merger he has a large network to pull from. This has resulted in the third windfall. He has gone into consulting and it is currently a very FAT AND HAPPY time. Also, we are not in crisis, so we are able to think clearheadedly. My goal is to put money away and save save save save....... still thinking that we will need to even things out when we are in a thin time.

Then, we will be able to ride the storms out without being unhappy. Right?

Ever thought that the ship that's coming in is simply a daily sail around the shore of life? Not a place, a destination or a goal, but the daily appreciation and love for life as it is?

I guess what i'm noticing here is a pattern. i have been shoring up, and being disappointed when i didn't have enough finances to recoup the losses, and disappointed when i had too much finances and felt like i was wasting it.

The interesting part to me is this: when i have been Thin in finances, I have been humbled, and noticed the beauty in small things. I have given of my time instead of money and learned to appreciate being on the receiving end. I have acknowledged that i am not in charge of my life and that i can function without funds. A lot of blessings showed up. And thanks to all those who assisted us in time, tenderness, understanding and, of course, funds.

when i am Fat in funds, it is so much easier to take for granted ... everything. i can fix ... everything.... with flinging money at it, and sometimes that is the last thing someone or something needs for a situation to be truely fixed. I am a bit embarrassed to know that about myself.

So where does this leave me in my goal? my what should i wish for-ness?

How bout just to enjoy the day by day lessons and joy? My windfall is now acknowledged as the day by day happy goodness. A rain storm. A day with friends and family where it doesn't end with the bedroom doors slammed. A mint chocolate shake from ... anywhere. It is no longer a destination, a house, a goal, an amount that gives me the permission to live free. it's my choice every day. I will be working on appreciating the little things and loving them through the thick and thin. The Fat, and The Thin. I just may enjoy them with crab legs every now and then...

Now I know how a horse may feel...

As it is in the chute of a racing stall. The anxiety: will this ever start? How long do I need to be in here...alone... Knowing others are on either side of me, just as nervous and raring to go??? I know this because I was just at Rock Bottom Brewery with some friends and, inevitably, used the loo. First, the checking of the stall for cleanliness and loose debris. Then committing to what I see as the best option only to realize that they are all really the same. Next, walking into this stall only to find I have to straddle (STRADDLE!) the loo just to fit my body in and shut the door. Backing slightly up, shimmying around so I am facing the right way, and this is the point that I am unsure if I am the horse or the jockey. I find that the loo is strangely low and I am crouching, with calves practically dug in on either side of the porcelain bowl, knees bent, and torso forward ready to leap out of the gate. Do I really need to have only inches on either side of my shoulders before I hit metal walls? And will someone be calming me down with a pat on the neck and some soothing words? The lady in the next stall turns to her cell phone for comfort. The beeping of the buttons and sounds of "Angry Birds" confirms this. The lady on the other side clacks her heels on the tiles, first the left heel (click, click, scuff), then the right (click, click, scuff). It starts again... FLUSH!!! and the doors fly open! It's a race to the sinks, the soap dispenser, and finally, the air dryer. Thank goodness it's a Dyson supra jet dryer. Zoom!!! I take second place, but know I have done my best. Bathroom designers here have a sense of humor, and have seen Micky Rooney riding a bale of hay in "The Black Stallion". Yet another wonder of loud, crazy restaurants.

Some Things Just Shouldn't Tilt

I have been on the Tilt-A-Whirl at Six Flags Amusement Park. That was a fun experience. Nowhere in Six Flags was there a ride called, "Tilt-A-Toilet". I know because I looked. Tilting should only happen when it is expected and when it is fun. I'm just sayin. This blog, however, is not about tilting for fun. It is about tilting with a look on my face that says, "Are you freaking kidding me?" It's a ride, just not fun. Let me go back a few days. I was in the car with Micah after doing some errands when he decided that what really sounded good was a fountain drink with that fantastic crushed ice. And because he knew that I was in need of a pee break, but quite a snob about public restrooms, he let me know that the gas station we were stopping at had really nice, clean restrooms. Now I was just planning on holding it until we got home because I really can't relax in a public area. Shy bladder and all that. But his recommendation, and the fact that i really really really had to pee, led me into the gas station. This place was clean and up to date, and while Micah was getting his icy goodness, I just headed right on into the restroom to do my business. Now please understand that this isn't a blog about me doing my business. I mean, well, it is, but it shouldn't be. In fact, I don't usually talk about it at all. BUT, I ended up laughing on the toilet, and that is rare. Really rare. Ok, as I shut the door behind me, it should be repeated that I really REALLY had to go. ahem. That being said, I noticed a few things as I was doing my business. 1. This toilet was built for someone a lot taller than I was. I am not short, but I basically ended up teetering on my tip-toes, so i am wondering, "Is this made for giants? What kind of bathroom is this when I feel like a child on a toilet?" I really needed one of those step-stools that grandma's have for their goofy toddler just trying out the potty experience. it was that high. Seriously. And it got a grin from me. Did I mention I was wearing high heels, too? The visual was what I grinned at. If you do a visual, Please fuzz out the inappropriate parts. Or just know I was wearing a skirt and trying to keep it out of the way. Whatever. 2. As I was in the middle-ish part of my public experience, it occurs to me that I am ALSO tipping and tilting over from one side to the other. I would go as far as to call it listing from side to side. At first I think it is my heels, or that I am too short for the enormous toilet. Nay, it is actually that the TOILET IS TILTING FROM SIDE TO SIDE. Yeah, it is loose, really loose, and is really falling over. This means that my butt is the only thing keeping it upright. I kept trying to hold still, or even get off, but between being on tippy toes, and the fact that the water in the tank was listing from one side, and then compensating over to the other side, I felt like I was peeing while kneeling on a water bed. True, it's not a fun visual, but some things should be told. And while I am at it, I am not able to stop my business because once some things start, they can't stop, so I am on my tip-toes, in a skirt, balancing with my bum while trying to keep my clothes dry and clean. I couldn't help it. I started laughing. 3. I had no idea if I was going to be able to reach the TP. 4. It became irrelevant when I saw that there was no TP in the holder. Surprise!!!! It stopped being funny. I was starting to get sea sick as I swayed one way, balanced another way, and craned my neck to look for other sources of TP. Luckily, I...... Just kidding. There was no Luckily anything. There was no TP. Period. 5. When I found a roll of either cleaning towels, or paper towels, they were so so so stuck to themselves that all I could do with it was rip off small bits of the paper. Yeah, I think I still have some pieces in unmentionable places. Rip, Rip, Rip, Rip, Rip, Rip..... Not my finest hour. One does what one must, in odd situations. So I have ridden the ride, and have a bum that is raw from gas station paper towel, and I am still stuck. Because I cannot find the kickstand for the toilet. If I get off, it will fall over, and I do NOT want that water on me anywhere. I just sit there for a minute thinking, "What would Laura Ingalls Wilder do in this situation?" and then it comes to me. I am going to have to call for help!!!! Not what I want to do, at all. But .....Nope, I do not ask for help in this situation. I am to busy giggling every once in a while thinking that I am such a dork!!! Eventually, the toilet stops swaying enough that I feel it will stand on it's own. I can tell because i have had to use my butt muscles and my thigh muscles to balance it out. I wonder if I should write a comment card letting the next user know which muscles are best to balance it out, but I opt to just get the heck out of there. I stand up, and flush, knowing that it could spray everywhere. It doesn't. I now feel lucky. Or cocky, because then as I turn on the water to wash my hands, the water goes from full blast, to a trickle, then nothing. APPARENTLY, the toilet water and hand water is the same stuff, and cannot be used at the same time. I feel grimy right now and just want to wash my hands. So I wait to see if the water will come back. It does, but only after the toilet has finished running. trickle, trickle, and then water again. Soap does work, but after rinsing off, the only option is the nasty towels that will rip, rip, rip, rip, rip.... in a million tiny pieces. no thanks. I take one last look at the place that has been one crazy ride, and open the door with my wet hands. Micah asks, "What took so long? Did ya fall in?" and I give him a look that says, "yeah, kind of." I snort, and ask if we can just go home. I did sip at his Mountain Dew on ice. It's as close to a drink as I am getting for now.

Thoughts From A Member of Life: Beam Me Up, Scotty!

Thoughts From A Member of Life: Beam Me Up, Scotty!

How Bout Now? No...Now? Grrrr.....

Writers block can be frustrating, intimidating, and, well, downright discouraging. I know, because I have it. It seems the more I force the situation, the more the writers block just digs in and says, "Um no. You are not in charge of this part. Go for a walk, fold some socks, or just throw your tantrum in the other room. It's not a good time to be writing anything today." Now after I have gone for a walk, and folded the socks, as well as throwing my tantrum in the hallway so I don't mess up any creativity MOJO that may still be lingering on my writing space, .... I'm still blocked. Now what? Um, it's still not time! This is about when I notice how writer's block is like other areas in my life. I simply don't have control over the timing in these areas, either. And no matter how I prepare, or manipulate the elements in that area, the TIMING is simply not mine to control. For instance, the birth of my 2nd son. 1. I had a date narrowed down, ... sort of. 2. I had a route to get to the hospital, ...unless there was traffic/construction/tidal wave, etc. 3. I had an idea of who would be delivering my baby, ...mostly. 4. I knew without a doubt that the epidural would be my choice of pain control...-ish. Yah. This is how it really went down: A. Waiting, Waiting, Waiting. B. Wishing and willing the boy to start his engines so I could keep my schedule. C. Waiting and waiting and waiting some more until I was tired of using my Vulcan Mind Tricks on him. D. Desperately walking and watching TV while practicing eating ice chips. Pretty soon I just took a nap because, after all, I could continue to will him to get moving in half an hour or so, as I was dang tired. THAT WAS ALL ON MY TIME. Now, it seemed that as soon as I let my guard down, the actual plan went into motion. I was yanked out of my sleep by huge pains coming about a minute apart. I was hyperventilating before I realized what was going on, and knew I was having my son right then. I was no longer in charge, I was simply watching what unfolded, along for the ride. SOMEONE ELSE tracked down my husband. SOMEONE ELSE bundled me in the car. SOMEONE ELSE chose their own way to get to the hospital, AND how fast to go, AND which bumps and potholes to use or avoid at their own discretion. I didn't pick who wheeled me to a room that I didn't pick out because there was no time to get settled first. And I certainly wasn't the one that made the decision to let me have the baby naturally, simply because my muscles were too clenched to safely get the epidural in my back. You want to know what I was in charge of through that small but revealing time? My attitude. That's it! Through the whole ordeal, I got to choose how to deal with what life hurled at me. And, no, I didn't rise to the occasion right off the bat. My exact words were, "But I didn't take Lamaze class this time because I planned on using the epidural! Never mind. I am not ready yet. Not like this. Please make it stop. I don't want to do this. Noooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and I'm pretty sure there was a swear word in there somewhere. How did life respond to my response? The pain got worse!!! Eventually I stopped complaining and concentrated on working with the process to get through it. What that looked like to me was finding a specific 1 inch square spot on the ceiling that I could concentrate my will, my force, my pain, my everything that was not my body, and just breathe. I got very quiet and just let myself breathe. Once I got to that point, My son came quickly. Actually I screamed my bloody guts out right before he came, my mother tried to soothe me by saying, "SHHH... it's ok. Don't yell." And I told her, in my least demonic voice, to shut up. (Side Note: I have never told my mom to shut up until that point. It was kind of freeing. I am hoping she doesn't remember that part.) And THENNNN, my son came. And I found that I was a part of life that I wasn't in control of. And Life Still Played On. Again, freeing. To bring it back to my writer's block, I can do all the exercises I want, but when I write best is when I am simply part of Life. I think I will leave the directing to those who really have the schedule down. In the mean time, I just clipped my nails and reorganized my shoes, which I have never scheduled into my life before, so I guess that's good too. Otherwise I would never have thrown out the furry muk-luk boots, complete with tassels, that got handed down to me by some relative in Alaska.

Who says a Camry with a messed up fender can't be the next Wonder-mobile, anyway?

Sometimes life comes at me in little ways, like when I'm doing laundry, dishes, or vacuuming, and a piece of flotsam or jetsam gunks up the works. I have to stop what I'm doing to get rid of it, dispose of it, and then decide if I want to go back to the mundane, or play video poker online. Other times, life throws me a curve ball that takes more heart. Like through the kids. For instance, I got to have the talk...THE TALK... with my 7 yr old today. In a casual way. I wasn't ready for it, but I took a deep breath and just went. It turned out better than I thought, but still received the look from her that said, "I cannot believe you actually knew about this for so long and still acted so NORMAL!..." THEN, there are the times that life winds up and whacks me in the gut, no holds barred. OOF! ZONK! KA-BLAM!!! Those are the times that I find out what I'm made of. Usually, I'm not that impressed. Why? Because it's me doing it, silly. I know the why of why I do what I do. When there are life changing decisions to be made, or decisions being made whether I like it or not, a part of me says, "OOF! Oh, that stings! I don't really have a choice in this, so what am I going to do with the facts?" And... there is also a leeettle part of me that says, "Wait! Not yet, not yet, NOT YET! I'm not done being comfortable. Can't I wait for the next commercial/day/week/vacation?" That's when the decision comes. The choice of when I decide to be strong, calm, and turn lemons into lemonade.... or to run screaming small profanities and cause panic to the masses. I'm currently about 40/60 for my record, I believe. Other people can say how brave, strong, patient or amazing I am. It's been said of many women after all, when husbands/partners/coaches see them give birth, that they could NEVER go through that and survive. Um, for crying out loud. I just think, "Where is that special corner I can curl up in and rock back and forth?" I don't know that I do all the things that I do because of any noble causes at all. The truth is, hero's aren't a special breed of people. They are just people that crap happens to and they didn't run. Maybe their mind went blank and they didn't have an escape route. Maybe they stumbled on their shoelaces and then it was too late. Or maybe the circumstance reminded them of when they were humiliated in 7th grade and this is a way to redeem themselves. Who knows? It just happens that for whatever reason, they stayed and kept going. Not as romantic as being born with red tights, a magic tiara, and a really fantastic set of boots, but still. Here's a secret. Most of us, by far, are heroes. We are someone else's hero. In some way. I think that's the cool part, because I cannot see myself in a cape or a cat mask, no matter how hard I try. But I do see others as my heroes, complete with the persona. My just-in-the-nick-of-time guys, my WHEW! YOU JUST MADE IT!'s. Yeah, I am amazed by them. It is amazing that they show up when I need them, don't ask for payment, and I usually forget to ask for their name until they are gone. So I just think of them as Bob or Frank, or Edna. Those are noble names, right? I Don't have to know em, to experience the talents that are unique to them. Especially when Frank is in a suit and tie, or Edna still has curlers in her hair. HMMMM. In fact, the good news is that we all have secret identities. I could care less what I JUST THOUGHT YOU COULD USE SOME TIME AWAY FROM THE KIDS SO YOU CAN GO TO THE SPA gal does for her secret identity. She shows up and whisks my kids away to the park and I end up making it through a really hard weekend. Where in that saving grace does it say I have to approve of her shows,her occupation, her bedspread, or cooking skills? I DON'T CARE. Other than to know that she is capable with my kids I mean. She just noticed I looked tired at one point in the 3 hour Sunday ritual and thought it might be something more than hearing the TRAVELAMONY that Sister So-&-So was citing. She was right. At no point will I be looking for the labels that I NOTICED YOUR CAR BROKE DOWN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AND I HAPPEN TO BE A MECHANIC guy wears on his shirt. Don't care. He is still my hero of the day. I'm just thankful that he happened to be flying my way, you know what I mean? So is it so far fetched that we can be someone else's hero? I mean really. I got to be CAR BATTERY GAL on Wednesday morning, and it didn't occur to me that I did anything out of the ordinary. I just happened to be driving up alongside a woman in an ENORMOUS car who's flashers were on. I could have passed her by, as A. I'm a woman and not a mechanic so what could I do? B. I'm a woman, so I would probably make it worse for whomever ended up rescuing both of us, and C. This is stupid. The light is going to turn green and she needs help. So I roll down the window and ask if she's ok? She says she just put some gas in the car, but she thinks she will need a jump. "Hey! I can do that!", I think. So I pull through the light, through the gas station that is literally 20 feet away, and pull back into traffic. Yep, I'd have to stop up a lane a bit to get into position to help, and did I remember at all which thingee went on black, and what thingee went on red? Crap.... But I still did it. The lady had her own jump cables, and knew what to do so I didn't have to look like too much of the idiot that I felt like, at all. Within 15 seconds she was up and running, and I was back on the road. Sure I was a bit late, but it wasn't a big deal. It hit me then that the term HERO is a term that others give to the person. It isn't self inflicted. Much like "Jerk" or "Molly Mormon/Peter Priesthood" or even "Workaholic". We would more likely call ourselves "Strong willed" or "Devout" or "hard working". Don't those sound nicer? Honestly, when life throws us little curves, or big curves, or even an entire CURVES building, it is up to us to label ourselves, listen to the labels that others give us, or just quit caring about the label at all and just go. I'm much more effective as just someone who gave a crap than anything else. That works well for THE TALK with my daughter, or vacuuming and doing dishes when the flotsam gets in the way, or even when deciding if my life is better lived at 40% or 100%.