Cat Attack

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”  Romans 12:15

 

Remember the orange cat?  He’s grown up nicely into a very sweet loving kitty cat that I love despite his color and has provided us loads of entertainment with his sweet gestures of flopping down in front of where ever we may walk wanting us to rub his belly.  He’s also started a little game with us called “Sneak into the House”. 

It all started about a month ago when we had a little cold snap.  The kids wanted to bring him in. 

Okay, it was me.  I thought his little kitty paws might be cold. 

Anyway, I let him wander around the house and he found a wonderful spot called “Under the Bed”.  He could hide just behind the dust ruffle and then when he noticed I sat down on the floor right on the other side of the dust ruffle to play with him, he could sink his claws right into my bottom causing me to holler and my son to almost wet his pants from laughter.  It was quite the little game we had going.  Ha ha, hee hee. 

Then he found that if he moved to the exact center of Under the Bed, no human arm could reach him.  Well, it had been so long since we’d had a cat in the house, I’d forgotten about flushing them out from Under the Bed with the broom handle, so we just let him be, thinking he’d come out when he was ready. 

We thought he’d come to us.  But he decided to go out the other way and see what adventures he could find in the rest of the house.  What he found was the Hamster Cage!! 

We found him with front paws wrapped completely around the hamster cage, and his kitty nose pressed in desperation up against the thin bars that separated him from his prey, and a look of unfathomable luck upon his face.  We had to practically pry his claws off of the cage and sent him back outside. 

And then he had to live with the fact that we keep tasty cat treats in a cage in a nice warm house. 

And it was just too much for him to live with. 

So, for the past several weeks we’ve occasionally found Sunny hiding under the bed waiting for the right moment in which to unleash his Master Plan.  Lying in wait, I believe it is called.

He’d only made it into the room with the hamsters a couple of times, but was quickly discovered and ushered back to his natural outdoor habitat.  Sunny practiced his murderous skills several times in the past few weeks, picking off several birds that have visited my bird feeders.  He’s left their lifeless bodies on my front porch as a sign of things to come. 

Or maybe affection.  Depends on who you ask.

And so it was tonight that Sunny decided to finally unleash his Master Plan for either liberating the hamsters or having a tasty treat. 

I had left with the children to return two friends to their home, and the hub sat at the kitchen table working a Sudoku puzzle and reading the newspaper.  Sunny apparently sneaked in the laundry room door when one of the four children was exiting the house to get into the car.  In my mind, he probably went straight for the center of Under the Bed to wait for the perfect moment. 

So while the hub was enjoying an otherwise uneventful quiet moment to himself, Sunny pounced.  He jumped on the top of the hamster cage, ripping it from its perch on a stand by the window, knocking a hamster bedroom insert completely away from the cage itself, and exposing a large gaping hole through which he would retrieve his snack.  Unfortunately his plan did not include the hub grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, spanking his bottom, and depositing him back outdoors so quickly. 

Pine pellets and hamster bedding slung all over the floor, it wasn’t surprising that the hamsters had escaped.  The elder of the hamsters has been out at least on one other occasion since we’ve had her and she tends to run in a circle around the cage until the humans show up, but the other hamster is young and new and really doesn’t care for humans that much in the first place, so she decided to make a run for it. 

The hub said he could see her hiding behind the cabinet peeking at him, but as soon as she noticed he saw her, she would run to another spot.  The hamsters are robo dwarf hamsters, which the lady at PetSmart said meant “fast”.  The hub confirmed this definition after having several misses in catching the baby hamster before snagging her back into her cage. 

I returned after depositing the excess children at their home and found the hub at the table reading the newspaper and working a Sudoku puzzle.  He told me of all his action while I was out and I thought I would die laughing.  He didn’t find the experience as funny as I did. 

Probably a classic case of:  “Guess you (didn’t have) to be there!” 

The pine pellets and hamster bedding still remain on the floor.


He’ll probably laugh tomorrow when I have to clean them up! 

The Duck Quilt

"Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.  But how can one keep warm alone?"  Ecclesiastes 4:11

My Granny Donaldson gave me this quilt.  She called me one day, sometime before I got married in 1997, and said she had something for me.  She was quite the quilter and had a huge quilting machine in her house.  I was less than impressed with the duck quilt, considering I’d seen some of her other creations, but I remember her telling me “I thought it might keep you warm.”

Granny Donaldson died in 2001 at the age of 96.  The duck quilt never found a prominent place in my house.  It’s a bit manly.  Doesn’t really go with anything, and the 20 ducks on it are a little too brown and orange for me.  Plus, Granny Donaldson is gone now and I’m never getting another one, so I should put it away and save it.  But…

In 2007, we experienced an ice storm here in Northeast Oklahoma that caused horrible damage and power outages and constraints on normal folks that I wish not to live through again.  Trees literally exploded with the weight of the ice breaking enormous branches.  Standing out in front of our house the next morning, we thought we were in a war zone for all the explosions of trees around us.  Our power was out, but the husband had secured a generator from his workplace for us to use. 

There was a mad dash to secure a generator if you did not have one, and we provided the cash necessary for our neighbor to buy a large one from a wholesaler who had come to my bank to sell generators.  Everyone was desperate!   

We have a wood burning fireplace, so we camped out in the living room for 13 days without power!  One of the things I did to conserve heat was to place this quilt in my doorframe that leads to the upstairs of our house.  I remember thinking then that “it had kept me warm” just as Granny Donaldson had said it would. 

It was without a doubt the worst camping adventure I’d ever had and I hope not to do it again!

Ever!

And then yesterday, our air conditioner to the upstairs decided to die.  While we didn’t have to worry about freezing to death, sleeping was a high priority last night.  We camped out, once again, downstairs, but this time we slept in the extra bed and bedroom since we didn’t have to keep the fire going.  And once again, I hung Granny Donaldson’s quilt in my doorway to conserve energy.  And I’d say it is working!  The upstairs thermostat is currently reading 81, while we are sitting at 73 downstairs.  The air conditioner has only kicked on a few times in the past hour, so I’d say the quilt is keeping me cool too! 

Thank God for two air conditioning units, local repairmen who will hopefully show up today, and a less than impressive duck quilt from someone who knew I would need it!

A Skating Good Time

"So come on, come on, and do the locomotion with me!"  - Kylie Minogue, 1988.  

My boys were invited to a skating party a couple of weekends ago.  I hated to even tell them where it was because the oldest one had tried skating once before.  And it didn’t go well.

And that brings me back to my memories of the Miami Skating Rink.  I spent many an afternoon there at skating parties, or church parties, or just because Nanna was sick of taking us to the swimming pool.  Or maybe we were too sunburned.  I don’t know.  I just know I have a lot of skating rink memories.

Of course the biggest deal of skating is trying to find the perfect skate and then get them on.  In Miami, they were a kind of beige leather with brown laces that you would eventually wrap around the top of the skate and your leg several times so that you wouldn’t trip on your own ties.  They had orange wheels and stoppers if I remember correctly. 

The laces and wheels perfectly matched the brown and orange shag carpeting that made up most of the skating rink and its lovely round benches that were parked in front of the lockers.  There was about a two inch drop to the baby blue painted hardwood floor of the actual rink.  The floor was warped and if you made it about half-way around, there was a dip big enough to give an unseasoned skater the thrill of going dangerously fast.  Just when you thought you had your balance on the wheels of death, they would turn on the disco lights.  There was an actual mirrored ball that hung in the center of the rink and I hated that thing!  When the patterns of light fell and spun on the rink, it would mess with my mind and make me fall down.  Yeah, that’s what it was! 

I mostly stayed on the carpeted areas, trying to make it from round bench to bench.  Every once in a while, I would get brave and try the slick surface of the concession area where there were booths to hang on to.  Inevitably, I would brave the rapids of the rink.  And it always seemed that just as I was getting good at it, they would clear the floor for a couple’s skate, or limbo, or the choo choo train thing.  Kylie Minogue’s Locomotion still plays loudly in my brain when I think of the skating rink.  (I secretly can’t believe I still remember who it was by!)

And then there was that inevitable trip to the restroom where it was nearly impossible to maneuver in the bathroom stall, precariously perched on one leg with the skate stopper down, trying to take care of business without  rolling out the space at the bottom of the door or off the toilet. 

I don’t want you thinking that bad skating skills run in the family.  My dad’s brother, my uncle Bill, was quite a skating phenom.  He was the classic disco skater.  I was at the skating rink a few times when he was there.  He was probably a little old to be there.  Probably all of thirty or so, but he could do twists and turns and spins that nobody else could do.  Not even the weird guys who worked there.  Yes, it has always been a prerequisite that you must be only slightly on the edge of morality and normalcy to work at a skating rink. 

So back to the kids’ birthday party invitation…

I told them where it was.  They said they’d try it only after I told them if they didn’t like it, they didn’t have to skate.  Of course, they never took their skates off until it was time to go.    

We get there and they have these handy dandy walker looking things that make it look like a place for geriatric skaters, but they really work!  Uh, I mean, they look like they would work.  Okay, I’ll admit that after making it around ONCE without falling, I grabbed a walker.  And even though it was about two feet too short for me, it really did help.  After a while with the walker, I actually made it around FOUR times without killing myself or my tailbone. 

My husband had a different technique.  He would carry the walker and only put it down if he thought he needed it.  It was hilarious to watch! 

But what neither of us did was continually fall on our rears like one dad there.  He was nearly my inspiration to stop while I was still ahead.

AND, after putting it off for quite some time, I finally had a less than exciting trip to the restroom still on my wheels! 

A good time was had by all!  Many new skating rink memories were made including the lights of death, countless falls, and some slightly inappropriate music for the 7YO crowd.  And of course, there was the one guy there who was an ice dancer in another life who could turn around backwards and actually HELP little kids who’d fallen get back up. 

My only defense was to crash myself before I crashed into them. 

Keep on rolling!

Immigrant Legacy

“Do not oppress an alien; you yourselves know how it feels to be aliens, because you were aliens in Egypt.”  Exodus 23:9

You never really think about the legacy you’re building or the place you’ll hold in family lore.  It’s all about the here and now, living in the moment.  But today I’ll reflect on the past and project into the future.  Perhaps I am becoming an existentialist. 

Or maybe not. 

I had to look existentialist up! 

Anyway, my uncle sent me the scanned photo up there the other night.  Hans and Hulda Foss - my great-great-grandparents on my mom’s side.  The boy in the middle is my great-grandpa, Alvin.  He is flanked by two of his brothers – Harris on the left, and Clifford on the right.  Yes, I know, Clifford doesn’t seem like a nice little girl’s name, but that was the custom of the day.  Why did they do that???  Clifford lived to be over 90 and liked tractors, so it must not have affected him too much. 

Hans and Hulda immigrated to this country from Norway.  They came by ship.  Not sure what their initial reasons were, but probably freedom, a better life, you know, typical immigrant ideals.  And then there were a lot of begets, and eventually I came to be, but the Norwegian tie has always been remembered.  My uncle’s name is distinctly Norwegian.  My grandpa can speak a few words of the language and has always held an affinity for all things Nordic.  I, myself, have tried my hand at making lefse.

Ok, so fast forward to yesterday… 

The hub says the last time he talked to his dad, his dad mentioned he wanted to come visit, so would I mind (once again) looking up what paperwork we needed to do to get the ball rolling on a visit?  Today I spent the morning perusing the Department of State’s website looking at forms regarding a visitor visa application. 

But if it were only that simple… 

When his mother wanted to come visit in 2006, she didn’t have enough “ties”, as determined by the consulate office, to sufficiently prove that she would NOT immigrate to this country, so she was denied a visitor visa.  We contacted our State Representative and got a nice “too bad, so sad” letter from the consulate office, but there was nothing else we could do on the visitor visa road.  BUT… since my husband is a US citizen, she did qualify for a green card which would allow her to visit and immigrate to this country.  Logic is not a strong point for immigration procedures, I have found.  We had to go through the entire process (and paperwork) of getting her a green card just to come visit. 

She stayed five weeks, hated it, and promptly returned home.  We’ve not tried to get her to come back over and really don’t know how that will work since her green card is in limbo since she didn’t immigrate.  Will she ever immigrate?  I don’t know. 

Any who, we’re hoping the hub’s dad has more “ties”.  It all depends on the opinion of the consulate officer who is conducting the interview.  My father-in-law has traveled extensively, most recently to India, and has always returned back to Russia, so we’re hoping this makes a difference.

So all this foreigner-immigration stuff has got me to thinking about the future.  Someday I’m going to be somebody’s great-great-grandma.  And there’ll probably be a picture of me somewhere with my kids and husband.  And the story will be “she married a Russian, and that’s why you’re part Russian.”  And maybe they’ll like fur hats, and maybe they’ll like nesting dolls, and maybe they’ll try making borscht. 

And maybe all my paperwork will not have been in vain!

Communion Wine (Whine)

“Then he took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, saying, ‘Drink from it, all of you.  This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.’”  Matthew 26:27-28


Okay, so we’re not good Lutherans. 

When I first learned to commune, I used to drink from the traditional chalice.  I was young.  I liked Pastor communing me.  And I knew they used Everclear to wipe the rim of that cup between rounds of communion.  Nanna was on the Altar Guild, after all, so that meant I was an honorary Guild-ster since I helped her put communion out when it was her turn.   I remember when we got those tiny cups for individual wine servings and started offering an “option” to drinking after everyone else.  I remember the horrible filling of those tiny cups with this glass jar apparatus with a rubber bulb on the top. 

I also knew that the inner-round of those circular trays didn’t have wine in them.  They had grape juice.  Welch’s.  Straight from the kitchen refrigerator, to be exact.   It was purple, just like the wine, so you’d have to know what was in those cups.  And, of course, it was assumed by me throughout my growing up that if you took grape juice at communion, you were a recovering alcoholic. 

I’m judgmental that way.

Or maybe I was told that. 

Now they say “allergic to wine”. 

Anyway…. 

Years pass, Nanna dies, I go off on my own, I get married, move away from my home church, and start attending where I do now. 

And it turns out, I don’t feel so comfortable drinking after all these people anymore.  And it turns out, that the wine tastes like rotten raisins.  And it turns out, you can have grape juice at communion and not be a recovering alcoholic. 

My church uses white grape juice, probably Welch’s, so you know what you’re getting.  Every communion Sunday I have the grape juice.  I don’t care what you say, wine is nasty.  It burns my throat, gives me dragon breath, and is not an enjoyable experience for me to consume. 

And, if my Lord can put his cleansing spirit in wine, then I’m pretty sure he can put it in grape juice too!

So this Sunday, the wafers and the Pastor pass.  Wafer was not stale this Sunday, I note.  Sometimes they are chewy and get stuck in my teeth.  I like to think of myself as quality control for the Body of Jesus.  Ok, maybe not.

Then the elder comes with my now-usual individual cups.  I only say “elder” as a church term.  He was younger than me.  And we’ll blame it on his lack of “elder” knowledge and experience that he’d let the center circle of cups of grape juice run OUT before he got to me.  So I made a face at him.  And he kind of paused and grinned at me, wondering what I was going to do, my unspoken disgust for the situation written on my face. 

And then I took a tiny cup of wine. 

While the elder spoke the words of communion, I threw back the wine so as to limit the exposure of my taste buds to the horrible taste.  It burned my throat as it made a fiery path to my stomach.  My lips curled and a shudder went through me.  My face got hot and red.  Then I looked over at my husband, who was chin to chest with his face contorted into a grimace usually saved for cough syrup. 

And I laughed.  Ok, not hard, but I found all this quite funny.  I don’t think there is much of a chance of the hub and I ever becoming alcoholics if we can’t even handle the communion wine! 

Maybe we’re “allergic”! 

I did feel a bit more renewed, or cleansed, or like a new person, as I walked back to my pew.  Maybe I needed a reminder of what communion is all about.

Plus, the kids enjoyed my dragon breath!     

Thanks be to God for powerful blessings that can turn even stale wafers and grape juice in to perfect reminders of our salvation through the death and resurrection of Jesus.  

And for forgiving even bad Lutherans like me!

The Rabbit's Revenge

“For by now I could have stretched out my hand and struck you and your people with a plague that would have wiped you off the earth.”  Exodus 9:15

A couple of weekends ago, my neighbor and I headed over to Claremore on a mission to visit Hoover’s Antique Mall.  I’d been in there a couple of months ago and saw some wooden signs with funny sayings that I thought would make good Christmas gifts. 

Like: “I’m so busy, I don’t know whether I’ve found a rope, or lost my horse.”  Ha ha!

After hitting Hoover’s and having lunch at The Pink House, we were just about ready to head home, but…  who could visit Claremore without hitting the Goodwill? 

Well, maybe you can, but I can’t.

“Since we’re so close….” I said. 

My neighbor was willing, so we headed on over.  I noticed when we pulled into the parking lot that it was completely full except for one space reserved for me.  Ok, I don’t really have my own parking spot, but there was just one hole left and I assumed it was for me. 

We go into the store and it is a frenzy of shoppers.  The sign on the door said “50% off all clothing sale”.  That explained the parking lot. 

I found several sweaters that beckoned me take them home to replace other Goodwill sweaters that have grown weary over the winters.  I found two red ones from Land’s End and Eddie Bauer, a brown one from Liz Claiborne, and a white one from a frou frou mall store who will remain nameless to protect the innocent. 

The white one was a turtleneck lovely that was as soft as a cloud.  Kind of felt like a rabbit.  I checked the tag….

Yep, sure enough, it WAS a rabbit! 

I loved it, but it seemed kind of hairy.  So I washed it with some unsuspecting other clothing items.  Yes, the tag says hand wash, but around here if you can’t make it through the washer and the dryer, then it is back to Goodwill you go.  Everything seemed okay when I placed said sweater in the dryer along with all its other new friends from the washing machine.  I had the forethought to assume it would be putting off a lot of fuzz so I checked the lint trap twice during its drying.  Both times it appeared that I had stuck a cat in the dryer.  A big, fat, fluffy, white cat… who was shedding profusely.

Little did I know…

I put all the laundry up into their respective places and then decided upon wearing my “new” sweater the following day.  I ignored the first few strands of fuzz that landed on my eyelashes as I pulled the thing over my head. 

As the day wore on, I noticed my nose tickling.  Then, as I was speaking with animated hands at Sunday school, I noticed that I was caught in a veritable whirlwind of fuzz trying to shove itself up my nose.  This was one hairy sweater!

I would not be deterred.  It was a nice sweater.  It fit me perfect and looked cute with my red snowman scarf I’d gotten from the dollar store.  I took it off as soon as I got home and threw it back in the laundry. 

Monday passed and upon the arrival home of my husband, he asked me if I’d washed his shirt with something fuzzy.  His entire shirt was a veritable spider web of fuzz! 

Great.

Then I began to notice fuzz on my coat, on my undershirt, on my underwear!  It was as if I’d released a great fuzzy pestilence upon my household.    

I was still in denial that I could be beaten by a $2.50 sweater.  So I washed the sweater again, by itself, twice.  And I dried it… twice.  And each time it was as if the rabbit within was releasing more hair this time than the last.

But it was such a nice sweater. 

Yesterday, after wearing the sweater again, I resolved myself to the fact that some clothing articles should just stay at Goodwill.  After a day filled with pulling fuzz strands out of my nose and itching my eyes to clear away the cobwebs of fuzz, I placed the fuzzy sweater into my own Goodwill donation pile.  I hope it finds a good home, really, I do.  Maybe someone who will be willing to hand wash it this time.  Maybe it was my own fault for trying to change it into something it wasn’t meant to be.  Or maybe it was the company’s fault for using a rabbit to make a sweater in the first place.  Or maybe it was finally the white rabbit’s revenge.  What he had against me personally, I’ll never know. 

As for me, my days of angora are over.  After this rabbit sweater experience, I can only imagine what a mess an angora goat sweater could make.  (If you thought I was going to stop shopping at Goodwill, you’re sadly mistaken!)

May your days be fuzzy and bright, and may all your rabbit sweaters be white!

Darth Mother

“You don’t know the power of the dark side.” – Darth Vader

I like to say that I am the Darth Mother.


My oldest is preoccupied with Star Wars 90% of the time. iCarly and SpongeBob occupy the other 10%.


At one time he said that he wanted to change his name to Darth Vader. I told him that I was the Darth Mother because sometimes I have to go over to the Dark Side, not to mention the fact that I almost have the force choke down.


He doesn’t believe me.


“Just try me,” I say.


Anyway, yesterday I had to go over to the Dark Side with the neighbor kids. I had six boys, ages 3 to 13 (my two + four), in our swimming pool and much dunking, splashing, screaming, and crying was taking place. I also looked out to see the oldest, whom I’ve told to stay off the side of the pool multiple times, hanging his gut over the edge and letting gallons of water pour out.


My youngest got out and said they were trying to drown him.


My hub (The Republic) said to leave them alone.


One more wail from the oldest while holding his mouth from a head bashing sent me straight into Darth Mother mode. I could feel the Force.


I Stormed (Trooper-like) to the pool. (Cue: Imperial March music.)


“Why are you crying?” I said. (Insert Darth Mother robotic breathing here.)


“I told them to quit, but they won’t!”


“That’s it!” I said, “Everybody OUT! Come back when you can behave yourselves.”


I used the pool cleaner outer net as my Light Saber. I should spray paint it red.


After all the Padawans had been admonished to their chambers, I turned, pool towel flowing behind me like a big black cape and returned to debate the Republic on the Imperial Senate (garage) floor.


There was a disturbance in the Force.


However, after much deliberation, I was pardoned of my tyrannical tactics for fear of another uprising.


Darth Mother indeed.


After the disturbance had officially subsided, my two minions stared at me with wonder-filled eyes. They were actually happy that I’d gone over to the Dark Side with the neighbor kids. My young Jedi have much to learn in the skills of negotiation and conflict resolution.


Teach them I must.


Wait, that’s Yoda.


Anyway…


They might tell me that the Darth Mother isn’t a REAL Star Wars character, but I’m here to tell you, she does exist.


“Just try me,” I say.


Good luck with your Storm Troopers today, and I hope the Republic doesn’t rise against you!


May the Force be with you!



P.S., all references to Star Wars may be totally inaccurate as I have only a limited knowledge of said movie series and an 8YO to rely on for facts about such things.

An Ongoing Debate

“Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom…” Matthew 24:7

As I’ve told you before, my husband is from Russia. That makes him Russian.


His family is also from Russia. That makes them all Russians too.


I’m from the US. All my family is from the US. I’d say we’re all Americans. Sometimes we say we’re Norwegian, or American Indian, or whatever, but we can all agree that first and foremost we are Americans.


Now the husband threw a kink into all this 8 years ago when he became a US citizen.


He says he’s an American now.


I argue that he’ll never be an American. He is a US Citizen, but is still Russian.


He says he’s learned the language, adopted the “way of life”, which I argue only includes going to Wal-Mart on Sunday, and that he’s an American.


I say, “Well then I’m Russian because I married one.”


He makes terrible faces to the contrary, and I reinforce my opinion that he’ll never be an American.


Then I say, “If I moved to Russia, and ate borscht every day, would I be Russian?”


He says, “No.”


So I tell him that he’s not an American!


We both get kind of huffy about it sometimes.


Apparently we both have a great deal of nationalistic pride.


So what do you think? Is being American (or Russian) more about your birthplace, or your heritage, or your culture, or your current location? Can someone originally from another country really become an American? Or are they just citizens?


Thanks for settling this matter in advance.


Love,


The American

Monday Musings

What a weekend!!


First, a birth certificate.


Then, a royal wedding.


Then, a trip to the ER for a broken arm.


Then, a terrorist was killed.


Only one of these four things impacted my family directly, but I think I’ll talk about the one that had the greatest indirect effect on my life.


It was a Tuesday. I was driving to Spiro, OK, to do my job as a bank examiner for the government. I was 24 years old. I was listening to the radio, as was my habit while driving to the ends of the earth, and suddenly all I could find was news on the radio.


World Trade Center


New York


Planes


I remember stopping to use the restroom at a convenience store and I ducked in and ducked out as quickly as I could.


When I got to Spiro, the images on the TV were even more unbelievable than the stories I’d heard on the radio.


Terrorists


Collapse


Thousands


I stayed in a motel that night in Poteau, America. After hours and hours of watching the news on the TV, I had to get out. I went to Wal-Mart. There was no one there. The workers were all glued to TVs in the stores and stared at me like “why aren’t you at home watching TV?”


Pentagon


Crash


Hole


I probably bought some brownies and something to drink. My motel comfort food.


Then I finished my stay in Spiro and headed home for the weekend.


Our church service on Sunday included a photo montage of images of the burning buildings, the fiery planes, the terrified people. My hub stood crying beside me.


I looked over at him and said, “I’m not going to take my pill today.”


And he said, “Ok.”


I’d been on the fence concerning the whole child thing. I swore I’d never have children. I didn’t want to get fat. I didn’t think I’d be a suitable mother. I had three brothers who died, so I was sure my kids would die too if they were boys. I didn’t like kids, so I didn’t think they were a good idea. 


My husband thought he wanted one, and if we had one, we’d need another because he and I both were only children in our families, and the first one would need someone to play with.


And so it was a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day that plunged me off into the sea of anticipating motherhood. It was a terrorist that I blame for my children. A terrorist who is now dead.


I’m happy to say I was wrong about children and motherhood and dying and getting fat (well, depends on the day) and all the things I thought seemed like excellent excuses to never try it. I’ve had an enormous amount of fun and pride and love and stickiness that I could not have experienced without them. They complete me and I’m a better person for having had them. I think.


So even though my kids are too young to understand the implications of the death of a terrorist, I want them to know that good can be found in even the grimmest of circumstances. People are changed by such traumatic experiences. People do extraordinary things that they wouldn’t normally have done.


And we will never forget!

Ice Cream Hogs

“Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and then turn and tear you to pieces.” Matthew 7:6

 After a hard morning of shopping for dog food at Wal-Mart, I decided to make myself an ice cream cone. Here is what I found in the freezer:

Is that a happy face on the lid too??


I knew the culprit.


I called the hub and said, “I just want you to know...”


(He starts laughing.)


“That if you ever leave the ice cream in the freezer…”


(He’s laughing harder now.)


“With one bite left in it again,”


(He thinks he’s SO funny!)


“I will hurt you.”


So through his laughter he explains that he would have felt like a pig had he finished off the rest of the carton, but he knew he would get in trouble for putting it back like that. He decided it was better to get in trouble with me than for him to feel like a pig, so he put it back knowing I would find it and would know who had done it.


Who says there’s no excitement in marriage after 13 years?


He’s just lucky I bought another carton!


Oink! Oink!