Fortune Cookie revelation

Long time, no blog, eh?  I keep meaning to get back on the wagon.  I even have wonderful posts all composed in my head.  Alas, I sit down at the computer and do something else instead. 

Tonight, though, I am sitting down and am writing what I intended to.

So, about a month ago, my mother brought down a bag of fortune cookies.  I have no idea why she had an entire bag of fortune cookies, but she did and so we were gifted with them. What does that have to do with tonight's spaghetti and meatball dinner then? 

Luis opened the cupboard after and saw these fortune cookies.   He immediately pulled them out and lamented the fact the we forgot them last night.  Last night, we had fried rice, pot stickers and spring rolls for dinner.  So, Luis handed out the fortune cookies, and the three older children ripped into them. 

Simon, on the other hand, had a little difficulty.  He struggled and strained to crack the cookie apart.  He tried setting it on the table and hitting it.  No luck.  He simply could not get his cookie to crack apart.  Finally, Luis held it on edge so that when Simon hit it, the cookie cracked.  Simon very seriously handed Luis his fortune to be read. 

What did it say? 



We've struggled with helping Vincent learn to speak in an understandable manner for years. Goodness, back when he was two, we just struggled to get him to speak. He was such a master of non-verbal communication, and truly he still is.

His inability to properly say some sounds has impacted his reading ability. While I've asked others for advice on and off over the years and have searched the web for help too, this spring was enough. We reached out for help from a speech therapist. His speak has improved tremendously. While I am occasionally frustrated because while honestly, she does not a thing differently that what I had been doing, Vincent listens to her and follows her direction like he never followed mine, I am very happy with the results.

He is more understandable, and now his reading is starting to blossom.

The other day, I had the best proof of his burgeoning abilities. He wrote me a note asking for two pizzas for dinner with a picture of a pizza and the word "to" which he sounded out and wrote all by himself. He had occasionally wanted copy work to jot things down, but he had never attempted creative spelling at all before that. bliss

I love seeing little notes from him with things like "to tls" (two tools) and "misin baj" (missing badge) written down in occasionally backwards letters. This is such a huge milestone, and I am so thrilled that my little man is finally here.

Notice that it is midnight and I am posting something. The is a little one sleeping in my arms, and I found our conversation just now too funny not to record for future smiles when I reread this.

Simon: (awake and crying)
Me: Ohhhh, what's up?
Simon: Meeeee.
Me: (laughs)
Simon: (gets up and starts climbing out of bed)
Me: Where are you going?
Simon: On your lap. (sound asleep twenty seconds later as he sits on my lap on the floor next to his bed)

I do enjoy how preschoolers are completely literal. Such concrete little thinkers, even when more asleep than awake.

If it is nine hundred degrees in the kitchen and everything in the kitchen is sticky, then it must be peach season.

Three more canners full of peaches have been put up. That makes twenty eight quarts so far this year. I think it might last until mid-winter if I'm lucky. Considering that Simon finally tried a bite peach in syrup tonight and promptly gobbled up half of the peach, I think I might not be so lucky. I have a quarter of a bushel left, and I want to make an utterly divine peach salsa out of that. I should have bought another half bushel from the peach delivery people yesterday. I will just have to hope that the fruit guy can give me a good price on another box or two. One bushel so far, and I have not even made a peach pie yet.

On a related note, I have been trying to get Vincent to expand the fruits that he will eat. Last year, it was only sliced apples, bananas and grape jam. This spring, he added strawberry jam and alpine strawberries. Doesn't that figure? A fruit that is the size of an m&m and not very prolific, he decides that he will eat. I'm working on expanding that patch in the garden.

Yesterday, he had to eat five spoonfuls of applesauce with dinner, and he acted like I was torturing him. Today, he had to eat one slice of a fresh peach (not even a quarter, just a slice). After eating the peach, he declared it horrible, but then said that he loves applesauce.

Go figure.

I'm going to keep on the forced fruit trying for a while longer. I need him to eat something more sustainable than bananas (oh, it kills me to buy a bunch imported, monoculture fruit every week!) and while apples are great in the fall, to buy them in the spring and summer means I'm getting imported fruits or the tail end of last year's stored harvest. I want that child to eat a little more seasonally. At least with applesauce, I put up quarts of that every year, so it is a more sustainable option.

I wonder, could I get him to eat blueberries or even pears?

Conversation with Simon last night:

Me: Time to be quiet and go to sleep, bop.

Simon: I quiet. I no talk. See, I quiet, mama. Lay in my bed; I quiet now mama. I no talk.

Me: Shhhh.

Simon: Mama, I wiwy* quiet, see? I no talk. Lay with me now, mama. I quiet!

Repeat three more times. I think he misunderstands the meaning of "quiet", eh?


* wiwy = really for those of you who do not speak Simonese.

I'm thinking about names today.

Limburger cheese is received with turned up noses. Semi-soft, stinky "artisan" cheeses are placed on tasting trays and given respect.

Sauerkraut, gross. Kimchi? Intriguing and exotic. Both are fermented cabbage.

Can I interest you in a pair of shower shoes? How about these cute flip-flops from Old Navy?

Would you wear a tummy shaper or Spanx? Grandma did too, but she just called it a girdle.

Dinner might be carne macinato e tagliatelle or perhaps we'll just call it Hamburger Helper.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
~ William Shakespeare

A few years ago, I was sitting in the kitchen eating lunch with the girls when I looked up and saw the neighbors' large, old oak tree fall over. It was not a stormy or windy day, and the tree looked healthy with a full crown of leaves. Yet it simply collapsed, like an antebellum belle in full swoon, the rustle of leave hitting the house replacing the whisper of skirts and crinoline.

I'm not sure where I am going with this, but I was thinking of that tree fall tonight on my walk. Thinking of how something can go from appearing sturdy to becoming frail in the blink of a firefly.

While waiting to pick up the girls from their community theatre play rehearsal tonight, I was talking with another member of the group. Gloria is in her eighties, and physically, she is becoming much more frail than sturdy. Yet she adores the theatre and is an active member of the guild, acting in many productions. I was knitting a sock while waiting for the girls and she started talking about how she took up knitting when her children were younger, knitting soakers for them. Funny how life twists, as, after a couple decades of throw away diaper use in our society, I had used soakers for my children, and my neighbor recently knit some adorable ones for her baby-to-be. Gloria went on to talk about crochet and how she tried to teach herself that "oh, in the sixties sometime." I loved the offhanded way she referred to it. As a lifetime spans decades, individual years matter less.

I have been noticing that as I work my way through my fourth decade. A firefly flashes, another day passes, a year flits by. A little boy gets his drivers license, a toddler becomes a young woman, a newborn learns to walk and talk. I age, crystallizing into the woman I am, growing comfortable in my skin.

This thing called life is an interesting journey.

Unbeing dead isn't being alive. ~e.e. cummings

The Year of the Bucky Book

For the last few years, Luis has come home with a Bucky Book every fall. Bucky Books are fund raising coupon books. They cost about $35, and if used, they will save the purchaser many times that amount.

The one problem with Bucky Books, in my opinion, is that we live an hour away from Madison and most of the coupons are for Madison businesses.

The first year Luis purchased one, we were in the middle of Simon's car screaming year. We didn't travel up to Madison very often. The book languished in the drawer, completely used.

The second year, we remembered to use some of the local coupons. The third year, I got smart. I put the book into the van, which is the primary vehicle we use to go to the city. We actually used some of the coupon that year and recouped the costs of the book at least.

This winter, I pulled the Bucky Book out and told Luis I was christening this "The Year of the Bucky Book." Every time we traveled up to Madison, I pulled the book out on the way and started reading through all the coupons. Free pizza for the kids at Sole Sapori, a wonderful Italian restaurant in Mount Horeb, along with buy one, get one espresso drinks a Crossroads Coffee in Cross Plains started our Year of the Bucky Book off with a bang.

On our recent "vacation in our backyard" (an overnight trip to Madison), we had a free entree at Bellinni's (amazing Sicilian food and fab service), free supplies from University Book Store, free latte from Victor Allen's, freebies at PDQ, and free $10 from Tellus Mater and more. We should have had a free ice cream cone at The Chocolate Shoppe, but I forget to pull out the coupon. Oops.

For Father's Day yesterday, Luis stepbped up to the "#1 Papa" title and chose to celebrate at Little A-Merrick-A*. Out came the Bucky Book. Two buy one, get one coupons along with their Father's Day special (fathers ride free with a paid child) resulted in a half price trip. The Bucky Book paid for itself yesterday alone.

I like The Year of the Bucky Book so far, but we have a lot of coupons to use up before September 30. Anyone going to the Dells? There a bunch of coupons for there that we probably won't use this year.


* For those of you not familiar with the area, Little A-Merrick-A is a delightfully cheesy small amusement park. It is a fun place for the younger set, though angsty teens would certainly pronounce is lame. Carousel, roller coasters perfect for the 6-12 year olds, toddler rides with fire trucks and helicopters, monorail, train ride through the country, bumper cars and bumper boats, a ferris wheel. It is a fun time, and even without the coupons, the price is reasonable.

Spread some mayo on me; I'm facing the sandwich years

Apparently I am thinking a great deal about the elderly lately because the idea of the "sandwich generation" is on my mind.

To be perfectly honest and blunt, I find the idea of a sandwich generation to be a creation straight out of the egos of the baby boomer generation.

It seems like the baby boomers have always had the idea that their generation is the first to deal with issues. That is a load of horse pucky. Sex? Drugs? Strange music? Weird lifestyles? Redefining roles of women? Sorry, boomers. Generations before you also dealt with these issues in many ways. The suffragettes were trailblazers too. Drugs were a cultural issue one hundred years before the boomers came of age. Sex, well, that has been experimented with for centuries. Alternative lifestyles have always been around too.

It seems like every time the baby boomer generation encounters something new for them, it is suddenly new altogether and requires a name, a definition and advice on how to deal with it.

The idea of caring for aging parents as well as children is nothing new. For goodness sake, in 1936, my grandmother got married and moved in with her new husband to start their life together. She immediately began caring for her new father-in-law and sister-in-law, and she was their caretaker about the next twenty years, throughout the years of raising her family too. This wasn't anything she defined, anything that she went to support groups on, anything that was written articles about. It was part of being a family, it was what people did. Was it easy? No. Mom asked her about it once, and grandma clearly replied that some days were very, very hard.

Here's the thing, though. Life is not meant to be easy all the time. Doing the right thing isn't always fun. Sometimes in life, you have to suck it up, doing what it takes for the people that you love, and keep moving forward. Period.

We can keep on doing that things that our foremothers did without having to resort to self-help books and fancy labels (Club sandwich? Open face sandwich? Oh yes, people are even defining different demographics within the new idea of a sandwich generation). Smaller family sizes and being spread out geographically are added challenges, but this is also nothing new. I guarantee you that pioneer families or immigrant families were spread out, and even if a family had six kids survive to adulthood, only one or two cared for the the aging parents.

I'm not looking forward to having to care for my in laws or my parents some day, but you know, I'm prepared for the idea because I know it is going to happen. It is kind of a no-brainer, people. People age, they need help in the end of their lives.

I think we need to stop looking for what makes us so very special in our place in time and look instead at historical connections and similarities. The idea that the generations currently alive in the US are so very special is kind of like the idea that more than half of the kids in a school are "gifted". Sorry, not buying it.

A few years ago, my uncle was telling me a story about his mother. She was at the very end of her life, days before she passed. He was visiting with her, and she questioned him about his jacket. She felt it was not warm enough for the day, and she wanted him to put on a thicker one.

I was reminded of that story yesterday when I was driving through downtown. I saw a woman who appeared to be in her mid-80s. She was walking with what I assume was her grown granddaughter. The younger woman was in her late 20s or early 30s. As they approached the corner, the older woman reached out to grasp the younger woman's elbow and restrained her at the corner until it was safe to cross.

Maternal instincts never go away.

Special Delivery

*ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong*
"Mamam MAMAM" shouted through the open front window.

I opened to door to see my little cherub bringing me a fistful of daisies he picked himself.


Moments like this make up for all the three year old power struggles.

MIghty Life

My friend, Bonny, was recently talking about finding her dreams again, creating a Mighty Life List. Yeah, it is kind of like a bucket list; you can read about it on Mighty Girl.

It got me thinking about what I might put on my list of dreams.

In this life, I'd like to...

...watch a sunset from the Shoodic Peninsula in Maine.

...learn to spin yarn.

...hold my grandchild.

...enter a photography contest.

...dip my toes in the Mediterranean.

...own another business.

...learn to drive a motorcycle.

...dance with my husband.

...attend a live music event every week for a summer.

...shop only at independently owned businesses for an entire year...or six.

...make soap.

...make cheese.

...wave sparklers with my children.

...gather enough confidence to actually carry on a full conversation in Spanish.

...attend the wedding of a stranger.

...give a child at a lemonade stand $50 and tell the child to keep the change.

...own a full set of encyclopedias.

...donate a Knitting Basket at heifer.org.

...downhill ski somewhere larger than Tyrol Basin.

...ice skate.

...laugh more.

...visit real mountains.

...take a schooner vacation with my husband.

...invite people for dinner frequently.

...take a trip with friends.

...try making all the recipes from a single cookbook.

...eat crab oceanside in the Pacific Northwest.

...nap in a hammock.

...turn my entire front yard into garden.

...learn to do yoga.

...wear lovely hats.

...find a wine I like.

...help someone achieve their dreams.

...live in the moment.

...hug.

...always take baked goods to neighbors.

...be open to spontaneity.

...make bagels that are actually good.

...smile when I am old.

...learn to drive a stick shift.

...go on a bike ride that is more than 10 miles long.

...play Frisbee.

...take a class somewhere like San Fransisco Baking Institute or Chocolate University.

...one semester, take all the community education classes at the local community college that sound interesting.

...walk 5ks again.

...skip with children.

...see the Iberian peninsula.

...never pass by a free art exhibit.

...find joy in exercise.

...grow old gracefully.


To be continued.

Hello again, Christopher Robin

Childhood is a short season. ~Helen Hayes

I have my last child going through the Christopher Robin phase.

The Christopher Robin phase, to me, is the time when my children lose the baby chunk and when shorts start landing above the knee instead of mid-calf. The little legs look skinny for the first time since the newborn age. The child runs around independently on skinny little legs with knobby knees. Add in a pair of white socks with brown shoes and a pair of blue shorts and all I can think of is Christopher Robin from the Winne-the-Pooh books. Switch it over to yellow rain boots and dark blue shorts, and it makes me want to buy the toddler a vintage floppy rain hat and black umbrella.

The realization that this is my last child going through this stage fills me with more sorrow than the final days of nursing, giving away the diapers or the packing away of the baby clothes. I wonder why that is?

Maybe it is because I see this coming down the pipeline:

Christopher Robin: But what I like most of all is just doing nothing.
Winnie the Pooh: How do you do just nothing?
Christopher Robin: Well, when grown-ups ask, "What are you going to do?" and you say, "Nothing," and then you go and do it.
Winnie the Pooh: I like that. Let's do it all the time.
Christopher Robin: You know something, Pooh? I'm not going to do just nothing anymore.
Winnie the Pooh: You mean, never again?
Christopher Robin: Well, not so much.

I am all for ethical treatment of animals in this world, but I tire of people advocating for humane treatment of animals.

Word Origin & History

humane
mid-15c., variant of human, used interchangeably with it until early 18c., when it began to be a distinct word with sense of "having qualities befitting human beings."

Online Etymology Dictionary, © 2010 Douglas Harper

Until we can treat all humans on this earth in a humane manner, I will not advocate humane treatment for animals. It is probably a small distinction, given that I do believe that we have a responsibility as omnivores to eat food raised ethically and that as pet owners, people have responsibility to insure they are providing for the animal's needs. Still, animals are not human, so please forgive me for dismissing groups that worry about inhumane things like trapping of feral cats.

Another Vincent story

So Vincent had surgery last week to put tubes into his ears again. He did extremely well with it all, and his recovery from the anesthesia was much better than last time, thank goodness.

Last time, he was truly pitiful laying there in the recovery room, all confused as he was dozing and snuggling with the new Webkinz toy we had brought for him. Expecting something like that again, we picked up another new toy for this time, a Webkinz Lava Dragon. He was sitting up, smiling and watching the television in the recovery room as we came back after his surgery, and he was practically wrestling with Simon in the bed before he was released.

He did enjoy his new Lava Dragon, though, and has been having fun playing with the newly christened Fire Breath. Saturday morning, I was walking through the upstairs hallway when he suddenly threw Fire Breath right at me, hard. I tossed the dragon back, and Vincent did it again. Wondering why on earth he was throwing things at me, I asked him about it. His answer?

"Oh, I'm giving Fire Breath flying lessons."

I love the way this child's mind works!

Passage of time

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. ~e.e. cummings

One is not born a woman, one becomes one. ~Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, 1949

If nothing ever changed, there would be no butterflies. ~Author Unknown

...and slowly, with a little fanfare, a child starts the transition to adulthood.

Tale of Two Immigrants.

J. came to our country as an immigrant with his wife and young child. He started a life here in a community of people who spoke his native tongue. He learned English, and that became his primary language outside of the home. J's children became fluent English speakers, went to English speaking schools, and fully adopted American customs other than some foods. J's son, L, grew up. L's family was raised in an English speaking environment at home, and they were completely Americanized.

A. came to our country as in immigrant with his wife and two small children. He started a life here in a community of people who spoke his native tongue. A. raised his family with the language and customs of his homeland. A's son, R, grew up and started his own family. R raised his children speaking that native language. R's children went to schools where that native language was the primary language, and the family continued the customs of the native country. R's son, L, grew up. L's family was raised in an English speaking environment at home, and they were completely Americanized.

These two immigrants came to our country one hundred years apart. The first L is my husband, Luis. The second L is my grandfather.

I wrote this because I am tired of the myth that all immigrants historically learned English and adapted to the new culture right away.

I am tired to hearing that immigrants today need to Americanize themselves immediately upon settling here. I hate seeing the "Welcome to American. Now learn English." bumper sticker, I am sick of reading that we shouldn't allow government documents and tests to be in languages other than English, tired of hearing that companies should not accommodate non-native English speakers by allowing "For English, press one. For Spanish, press two. For Hmong, press 3."

I think it is absurd that some people expect immigrants to abandon completely the customs, dress and habits of their homelands when our immigrant ancestors did no such thing.

We are a land of immigrants. The overwhelming majority of the current immigrant population is here legally. The majority of those immigrants are integrating into the US culture more quickly than previous generations did, but it is normal and expected for immigrants to keep the native language and culture alive in their families. It is part of remembering what they left behind, because no matter how hard it was in the native country, leaving to come to a great unknown is terrifying, and clinging to some of what was is a touchstone of safety.

I am thankful that my ancestors clung to their native culture. I love the bits that filtered down to my generation: the traditional bread or holiday cookies and candies, the way my children say "Acht" just like my grandparents did, the memories I hold of speaking bits of German with Grandpa as I learned it in high school for the first time. I wish I knew more of that language now, and I wish even more of the food traditions had passed through the generations to me.

I am here today because of immigrants. My husband is here today because of immigrants.

All natural born citizens of the United States other than 100% Native American citizens are here today because of immigrants. I think too many people in our nation have forgotten their own history.

Merry meet this Beltane

The new earth quickens as you rise.
The May Queen is waiting.
Feel the pulsing ground call you to journey,
To know the depths of your desire.
The May Queen is waiting.
Moving through the night, the bright moon's flight.
In green and silver on the plain.
She waits for you to return again.
Do not keep Her waiting.
Her temper stings if you refuse to taste Her honey.
Surrender as enchantment brings
The first light of dawning.
Move with Her in sacred dance, through fear to feeling.
Bringing ecstasy to those who dare.
Living earth is breathing.
Loving through the night in the bright moonlight,
As seedlings open with the rain.
She'll long for you to return again.
Do not keep Her waiting.

- Ruth Barren, The May Queen is Waiting

Conversations

Overheard at the lunch table today:

V: "If we had a pet turtle, would it love pizza?"

A: "No, real turtles eat lettuce. Only Ninja Turtles love pizza."

Worthwhile weeding

I love the fruit of the garden, but weeding has never been one of my favorite things to do. There are a lot more interesting things in the this world than spending a couple of hours ripping plants out of the earth. Sure, it is good exercise. Yes, weeding leaves the nutrients and the garden space for plants that we eat.

It is still a pretty boring task.

Earlier this morning, I tackled the Queen Anne's Lace that invades our garden ever year. It comes up through the fences to the north and the east. We have always had a big problem with it around our grapevines because the property behind that is a rental, and none of the tenants have ever cared enough to get out there and weed the fence line. I rip it out a couple of times a year, and, slowly, it is making a difference.

Today, I discovered an extremely unexpected benefit to weeding. As I ripped out a clump of the Queen Anne's Lace, something in the roots caught my eye. Small, round, gold. It was a little ring, tangled up in the roots of the weeds, buried underground for the last four or five years.

How do I know it was buried for only four or five years?

This is not just any ring. It is a ring that my godmother gave me when I was a young child, one I wore for years until I outgrew it as a young teen. I gave it to the girls when they became old enough that it fit. One of them lost it a number of years back.

I cannot believe that I dug this ring up with the weeds. I have been convinced for years that it was long gone and would never be seen again. I guess there are some benefits to doing a hated task like weeding, eh? My little sapphire ring is now tucked away in my jewelry box to await a future granddaughter.

I do hope that she will be more careful with it.


*This photo is not of the ring in situ, obviously. Had I realized what it was while it was still all tangled in the roots, I would have run in for the camera to photograph it there. Instead, I stuck it on another plant to photograph it.

Disappearing Magic

Luis is a fan of those "Weird Places in Wisconsin" books and websites. He likes finding out about the odd little spots that most of us simply drive by and never realize are there.

Every once in a while, when he gets on a kick of looking for odd spots near us, I remember one that my father took us to as children. It was a miniature village located on a hillside. This was just down the road a little bit from the driveway to a farm that my parents owned in Vermont Township. If someone was driving along, all that would be seen is set of wooden stair built into a hillside, Civilian Conservation Corp style.

I remember walking from the Vermont farm down to this hillside with my dad a few times. Walk up the stairs, and it was like entering a world of gnomes. There was a little village up there: church, farm, homes, buildings. It was truly magical to me as a child.

Once, when Luis was looking at a book or website on oddball sites in Wisconsin, we even found a reference to this hidden village. It was listed as a spot that used to exist, but that had likely fallen into disrepair or had disappeared.

This weekend, we were on a family outing that took us up to Mount Horeb, and we took the back way to The Shoe Box in Black Earth. I thought of the little village as we went past Tyrol Basin, and I directed Luis to take a small mystery trip.

As we parked on the curve just past Peculiar (if you know the story of that name, you an old-time local), it did not look good. The stairs were long gone, and the path was completely overgrown with small trees and underbrush. I couldn't even say for certain where the stairs had been until after I had already climbed up the side of the hill and looked down.

The older three kids and I scaled the side of the hill and fought our way through the brush until we found it. The village was no more, but surprisingly, there was still a clearing there, an open spot on a hillside that is now full of small trees and bushes. There were a few old relics of the village in the clearing, enough to let me know that I had not misremembered things: a church, a barn, the old silo, a "brick" foundation of another building balanced upon a flat rock. The two buildings had been moved next to one another, and both were missing their roofs. There was small saplings growing up through both buildings.

It was a little heartbreaking to see something so magical simply falling apart, but that is what happens when the person who envisioned the magic is gone. I am sure that the creator of the village was an older man, and that he has long since left this world.

As we were up on the hillside, someone who lives in the farm below and across the road come out and got his lawnmower out of the barn. We were not stealthy at all, parking blatantly on his property on a curve and trespassing on the hillside rather noisily. Vincent said something to Luis about the man mowing his lawn not knowing what we were doing. Luis replied that the man probably did know.

That statement has been sticking with me. I hope that that man did know what we were looking for. I hope he knew of the village before it fell into disrepair. I hope that he remembers the magic and that he is happy that someone else in the world remembers it too, remembers it enough to bring her family to come look for it.

As long as there are a few people who can remember, magic lives on.

Logic

I started working out regularly again last month. Yes, time to get moving on that once more. The last year was not a good one for fitness for me.

So, tonight I was lamenting the fact that we no longer have a YMCA membership. I would like to use the elliptical or stair stepper and use some of the muscles that the Nordic Track and walking do not work quite as well.

Luis helpfully pointed out to me that we own multiple staircases.

I spent twenty minutes going up and down two steps in the basement. Whooooo, can I ever feel it in my calves. So much for using that as a great reason to get the Y membership back.

Why must my husband be so bloody logical?

Vincent just walked inside and told me this:

"Mama, I'm getting creative in the back yard. I just need two big nails."

Should I be worried?

I had the interesting experience of chaperoning Abigail's girl scout troop the to Dell's last weekend. Ten tween girls, two hotel rooms, two adults, no soy lattes to be found anywhere in the resort complex.

Good times.

Anyways, soy lattes aside, it was rather fun. I always enjoy watching the kids interact with the friends. Isabella was invited to join Abigail's troop, and I liked having some time with just the girls. It seems like too often these days, I end up going places with just the boys since the girls are old enough to stay home alone together.

I spent a lot of time people watching since going to an indoor waterpark is pretty much a Geneva Convention forbidden form of torture in my opinion. Bizarre tattoos and swimwear aside, I really like people watching. I enjoy observing how people interact with one another. One of my favorite things was watching fathers with their young children by the water. Protective and fun at the same time would sum up most of the fathers. I particularly liked watching them around the lazy river. The way that the fathers would cradle their toddlers in their arm as they floated around the river in the tubes was heart melting. A professional photographer could get some wonderful photos there.

Truly, it made me long for Luis and my boys as I watched other fathers.

I had an epiphany while shopping with the children today.

We took the kids to Madison because the girls needed swimwear for some trips they will be doing in April, and Isabella really wanted a dress for the Easter holiday dinner. While looking at things for her, I realized that I am no longer a nursing mother nor will I ever be one again.

I can wear dresses again.

Real dresses, not nursing dresses with weird necklines or access slits. Dresses one can find on the rack in any store at reasonable sale prices.

Look what came home with me:


Pretty, is it not?

Help Luis help the MDA

Every year, Luis is a happy volunteer for the Muscular Dystrophy Association's "Lockup" fundraiser. This promotion puts Luis "in jail" for a day until he raises enough money to post bail. His goal this year, his bail, is to raise enough to send two children to summer camp this year.

Can you help? Visit his MDA page to make a secure pledge online or give us a call at 608-214-5797 and we can arrange to pick up your pledge.

Thank you so much!

Some of my favorite memories of my childhood involve sitting on my grandma's bed, the sounds of the Lawrence Welk Show playing in the background while watching grandma and grandpa got ready to go out to dinner or Saturday evening mass. Grandma in her girdle, doing her hair and makeup. The scents of White Rain and Aqua Net mingled with her perfume as she dabbed on her rouge and slashed on that bright pink fuchsia lipstick.

During my childhood, moms still did their hair up in curlers to get ready for an evening out. A big Saturday night date always involved mom walking around in curlers all afternoon or sitting under the mint green polyester bonnet of her portable hood dryer as she folded laundry in the family room. Mom was never big on makeup, just a little lipstick and maybe a touch of eyeshadow, but her hair was always done up just right for Saturday night.

This all came back to me the other night as I was getting ready for my Saturday night mystery date.* I decided to put my hair up in hot rollers. There I was in the bathroom, doing my hair, putting on my makeup, spraying hairspray and dabbing on my heavenly Lancôme Hypnôse. Isabella walked by, came in and sat down to watch her mom get ready for Saturday night. She took it all in, and as the perfume and hairspray mingled, I saw her take a deep breath.

For the first time in my life, I truly felt like a grown up.



*Oh, we saw Sha-na-na in concert in Freeport. It was an absolute blast! If you like music from Grease, go see them with your friends who love to sing, dance and have fun. We had tons of fun doing the hand jive, dancing like fools in as we watched the show.

One set of tickets to an event.

One set of friends invited to share an evening.

Dinner at a nice Italian restaurant.

Luis has planned a surprise evening for us in early February. I have no idea what we are doing, just that it involves tickets, dinner and friends and that my husband thinks I will love it. The anticipation is killing me, but I promised that I won't try to find out what we are doing.

What I love most of all is the idea of a surprise date planned by and spent with the man I have loved for nearly two decades.

True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked.
~Erich Segal

I have never been a believer in astrology. I don't know why, as I embrace enough other woo-woo stuff and find relief in things that ought not to work like homeopathics. Astrology has never done it for me, for whatever reason.

That said, I am starting to wonder if there might be something to it.

A couple of times a year, things go haywire with the kids. We lose the ability as a family to talk, listen and understand. After a week or so of going nuts with this, I end up reading a comment from one friend or another online about Mercury being in retrograde. Every. Time.

Apparently Mercury rules communications, and when it goes retrograde (what on earth does that even mean??), it all gets messed up.

Sure enough, happened again last week and not only with the kids. What a mess all around on the communication front last few weeks. Oiy.