written in exile

ode to an unbloggable blog

I give up

Here I sit, ousted from my own blog by the almighty power of the internet security system. We have had this installed for our kids’ benefit on their computers, but my husband goes through periodic fits of installing it on ours. I want to like this program. It does block a lot of the unsolicited material which bombards you when you open an otherwise harmless website, but there is always a downside. In past incarnations, I have accustomed myself to losing the use of google image searches (which makes identifying a particular rash a tad difficult). I have lost the ability to see half of the pictures when other people post them. Again, this is livable. I can work out the gist of the thing from what I do see. But this time, I am beyond my tolerance level.

BSafe has decided to block me from reading comments on any blog. It has blocked me from any page in which I can log on. So, while I am perfectly capable of reading my blog or any other (including those with what would be deemed offensive language), I cannot post. Apparently, I need to be protected from myself. Lord knows what I might type if given the opportunity to set my fingers to the keyboard. Oh wait. I am typing those words now. So, I guess it is simply protecting the rest of you from having to read it!

The dear husband, when asked, did apparently submit a request for un-blockage, but I have very little faith in the system. And as the trend would go, I suddenly have a million thoughts.

Maybe BSafe got a look at my untidy house and figured I needed a little push in the cleaning direction. Oh how misguided this effort to save me from myself. I am obsessive. I can find anything to distract me from what I really should be doing – including the overwhelming guilt from being unable to conquer the grime. The waves of depression from that one are good for at least two days’ procrastination. After all, there’s nothing like the knowledge that I can spend hours scrubbing away only to turn around and find no evidence that I have done a single thing.

Ah well, I guess it’s back to the pile of papers I am trying to sort. I tried to talk myself out of it. I really did.





ooh-ooh ah-ah p.u.

Recently, I have been running across precious quotes made by children. All parents feel suddenly warm and fuzzy, captivated, or amused by the fact that “kids say the darndest things.” I am not immune. But the recent bouts of kid-isms which have given me a jolt are from two distinct categories. Both require set-up.

Imagine if you will Princess Pink One in all her splendour - perched upon a pile of pillows in the most comfortable seat in the house, hugging her blankie tightly. From this position, she is perfectly poised to bark orders out to anyone passing.

“Happen my juice?”

“My have cookie!”

“Not dat! Want my baby show!”

This is a daily occurrence. I interject, of course, with small instructional words in an attempt to teach politeness or, perchance, with refusal (heaven forbid), so the child might come to understand that she is not the center of the world.

On such a day, when the demands and requests had been flying past any ear within range, I happened to walk by and get an insistent dose of, “Mo-o-o-o-o-o-m, ooh-ooh ah-ah p.u.” And I just had to laugh (behind her back) as her mien became that of a poor little rich girl directing her maid, “And by the way, my stuffed monkey stinks. Take it away.”

It’s one of those you had to be there moments.

kidism part two:

The littles enjoy going in N’s room and “borrowing” his stuff. This trend is so common that we had to put a latch on the top corner of the door to lock them out. Every once in awhile, that door is inadvertently left unbolted. Like yesterday. So, I had to laugh when I went up to say my goodnights last night, and I saw the sign N had written that was hanging on his door.

_____________________

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
“You must be at least this tall to enter.
If you do not meet the designated height requirement,
a rabid monkey with a sledge hammer will attack you.”


kidism part three:

And as I typed this:

N: Mom we need to buy J (mumble mumble)

Mom: Buy him what?

N: Bigger ears. (pause) You should think of investing in some too.

the curly-headed imp

My youngest son, T, who is five, has been affectionately nicknamed Spongebob for several years. You'd have to see the grin. Tonight I ask myself if signing him up for football was a mistake. It seemed such a natural thing. The boy has been able to tackle a full-grown adult since he was 18 months old. When pregnant with my daughter, I was told by the doctors to wear pillows around my mid-section to protect from his head-butting hugs. But, the same power behind those acts of aggressive love is the power which makes football stressful. He is simply not a respector of personal space.

During practice, there is much standing in line. Have you any idea what happens when a bunch of 5-7 year old boys stand in line, one behind the other? Normally, there is just a bit of jostling, joking, knocking each other slightly sideways - unless the one behind you is my son.

The sudden grinning appearance of a panting, drooling bobblehead mere centimeters from your face is sometimes a mite uncomfortable. Turn your back, and he will press against you and breathe loudly in your ear or wrap his arms around you and swing back and forth. It is a joke to him.

I tried being his buddy and standing in line with him. The thing is, when he gets in a certain mood, while you are trying to discipline him, he presses his nose against yours and looks right in your eyes. You try to back him off and he does the "go limp" thing. The more you try to stop him, the funnier he finds the joke. As soon as you walk far enough away, he tries to get as close to someone as possible without touching them. My goodness I am glad it is the DH's turn next practice!

Donations of advice or duct tape will be accepted. Thank you.

fits of creativity

I can get out about a paragraph, bringing myself right to the point where the climax or punchline should be reached - then fizzle. You know those parties where your husband fills so many balloons with helium that the hanging strings actually obscure the view across the room? You know the resultant balloon hissing madness when six kids get to those balloons right before the party starts? That's kind of how my blog writing is going right now.

I can't even seem to hold my own interest for more than a few minutes, so how can I expect to write anything with humor or depth?

Should I continue the ankle saga? Should I discuss the space-age miracle foam mattress pad which is at least 6 inches narrower than the bed (and the resultant comedy)? Should I get out some of the rare bits of passion concerning politics and religion (shhhh, don't mention the war)?

When I was a child, I ran freely across the snow-covered playground. I didn't see the ice under the surface. I didn't expect to come crashing into the seesaw, propelling it downward, thus lacerating my chin and causing me to bite the tip off my tongue. Mouths bleed a lot.

Creatively speaking, I keep hitting ice patches. Doors are opening inside me because, for so long, I have not allowed myself to touch the deeper insides. It excites me a little to feel, but it scares me too. I don't just feel for me.

Whirlpool

Piercing -
can’t anyone else hear the screams?
Grasping -
fingernails scratch-searching for a hold -
falling.

The people go on
buying
their new and improved,
bigger,
better,
self-improvement
foods, ointments, cars, homes.

And the lost fall
screaming
to the ground,
invisible,
inaudible,
alone.

(1994)

mourning maturity

As I sat alone at football practice last night, I had a few quiet moments to myself. For an introvert, that is energy; that is air; that is food. Why on earth an introvert would decide to have more than a few children is a mystery I have yet to solve. They are the anti-alone, but I wouldn't trade them for the world.

That said, there are still times when I am alone in which I mourn parts of who I used to be. I am glad that I am nowhere near as self-conscious as I was (though the nasty plague is still with me in strong measure), but I miss some aspects of me.

Taking the time to people watch - to simply appreciate the variety of God's creation. As a child, riding in the car, I would look at the other cars and make up stories about their occupants. I would spin elaborate tales of who they were and where they were going based on the body language of the riders and the cargo they were carrying.

As I grew older, I would watch people walking by me or intersecting my life in some way, and I would wonder about their story. What was on the inside that I couldn't see? We all have so much more to us than shows on the outside. Were there secret pains and insecurities spawning the scowling face of the girl on the other side of the counter? What was causing the tears just behind the eyes of that young man?

Most of the time, I didn't find out the stories. However, I seem to be a person others can talk to when I have the time to just sit and "be." My eyes always sought deep into the soul of other eyes. I wanted to know, understand, and comfort. As a result, I did hear some.

I miss having the energy to let myself care deeply for others. I still do care like that about the people I know, but I have to limit my scope so much more, or I am emotionally exhausted.

I miss having intensely deep discussions about trivialities that encompassed so much more than the mere words would suggest - reading into the layers behind each other's words.

I miss simply sitting and breathing as the surroundings of bush, tree and stream brought me into their natural rhythm.

There are new rhythms. There are new souls to delve - those of my own children. And yet, there is a sacrifice in reciprocity. No one delves back. Does it make me selfish to miss that?

This may never make it to the blog. I sit here with so much on my mind, and yet each word is an effort to type. Nothing comes smoothly from me. Usually when my words are stilted, they are not worth writing. Still, a blog is theraputic. Composing it can ease the aching beast. Yet, I know I will feel guilty for posting something which is a chore to read.

some measure of pride

When your child is the slowest one on the football team in running laps and sprints, you are often the only one who has pride in him. When he is still a few pounds over the weight limit a few days before the first game and is sent to run laps, when those laps turn into 9 three quarter mile laps with nothing but the strength of his own will to push him on, suddenly the best two members of the team look at your child with a new level of respect. And that is really something to make a mom's heart warm.

I knew that stubbornness was good for something.

proverbs eleventy-twelve

"Thou shalt not paint walls chalkboard green lest those of youthful countenance be tempted unduly."

it sneaks up on you

This thing called melancholy sneaks up on you sometimes. One of my favorite quotes has always been, "The years fly by, but some days last forever." Can't remember where I read it. Today was a forever day. Niggling at the back of my mind throughout the whole day has been the unsettled feeling. The strange part is, it was a forever day because the years fly by.

It is coming up on the ninth anniversary of the birth of my stillborn son. Really it is still three months away, but what is three months in a lifetime? Not even a blink. And just as surely, I know that the anniversary will pass and another will be at the doorstep before I have time to catch my breath.

Loss is a strange thing. It seems that all loss, through death or otherwise, is intrinsically tied together. An inadvertant memory of one loss, a mention of someone else's loss, the simple grieving of a passing age can suddenly pour life giving water on the roots of heartache which dwell still beneath the surface. In the wee morning hours, suddenly, the landscape blooms with a strange breed of flowers, torn and tattered at their inception.

That's how I feel today. There is no apparent cause for the sorrow. For all intents and purposes I should be shouting praise to the rooftops. So little is wrong in my life right now. And yet, the tender sadness furls around my soul, and I am almost glad for it. This is evidence of feeling. And off in the shadows, I perceive the hand of God reaching out to hold me through the night.

utterly blessed

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my children? You know what? I don't think I have ever mentioned it here.

To N, my 15 year old: Thank you for bringing joy to my days with your sarcastic wit and ability to pick me up. I used to cradle you for lullabies, and now you do the same for your little sis. You can even throw me over your shoulder. Thank you for your lego inventions which are rife with creativity.

To S, my 13 year old: Thank you for the sense of humor you hide behind your silences. Thank you for the secret code you use to let me know you care, even when you can't say it. Thank you for giving me hours of "entertainment" as I swat away the mosquitos and biting flies at football practice.

To M, my 11 year old: Thank you for the silliness you still love to exhibit. I am so proud of the way you are starting to learn to conquer your fears. Thank you for always having a "fum" for my "fee," "fi," and "fo."

To J, my 7 year old: Thank you for your energy. Thank you for that huge lopsided grin. I love that you are starting to try to show some responsibility. I love how you love your sister. Thank you for teaching me the ins and outs of corneal abrasions (again and again and again).

To T, my 5 year old: Thank you for your "spongebobbiness." Thank you for wrestler hugs and slobbery kisses and the way your face lights up every time you see me. You make me smile. I'm so glad to have you, even when you knock me over.

To R, the pink one, my 3 year old: Thank you for singing and dancing to the commercials. It was so fun to watch you pretending to karate chop your Dad with disco flair. I love your attitude, though you might want to tone it down a bit if you want to keep those boys wrapped around your little finger.

To all of my children: Thank you so much for getting along with each other all day (even if I did have to screw the doorknobs back on)!

time gnomes (a.k.a. idiot games part one)

So, keys are an important part of daily life once you become a card carrying member of the adult population. They represent the weight of responsibility, and a bit of a power trip to boot, depending on the size of your ring (yes, gentlemen, size does sometimes matter). Not only that, but they serve the entirely practical purpose of unlocking things, or so the story goes.

My children and husband adore laughing at me. This has been a long running sport, the rules of which my husband indoctrinates the children in before they can even speak the English language. Granted, I often make it a little too easy for them, like the time my hand got trapped between the handle and the drawer front on one of the kitchen drawers while my other hand was mere inches from the screwdriver which could set me free. When I called for help in reaching the screwdriver, instead they raced for the camera. I believe the husband won that particular race.

Lately, I have been attempting to lighten the mood in the house regularly. This could also be called making a lot of silly mistakes, but I choose to look on the bright side (here we must whistle a little and think Monty Python).

So, a few days ago, before the bodily collapse, when I was still doing a lot of yard work, I misplaced my keys. I figured I had just set them down in the wrong place. It became obvious after awhile that they were well and truly missing. My brain had fizzled to such an extent that I didn't even know if I had brought them inside. After an hour's search, my darling husband decided to recruit the whole household in the operation. My eldest (N), in an effort to encourage the youngers to put forth maximum effort calmly informed those youngers that lost keys meant it quite possible that someone would come into our house and murder us all in our beds. This going for them, they bent noses to the ground with added gusto.

Eventually, the keys were found in the diaper bag (the first, sixth, eleventh, twenty-seventh, and last places searched). Everyone went calmly back to their duties of destroying their living environment.

Fast forward twenty-four hours. About to take S, the second-born, to football, I suddenly realized I didn't know where my keys were hiding. I whispered this tidbit of information to S in the hopes that he would protect my vulnerable ego from vigorous bruising. I begged him to check the diaper bag while I would check the purse (the two places they are usually kept). I didn't think it was going to be a big deal. After ten minutes, however, we were still searching. Since we were on the verge of running late for football, it became apparent that we were going to have to let the Dad in on the secret. He felt it his duty as coach of the National Pick on Mom Society to let all of the previously ignorant children in on our little secret.

Once they had regained control of bodily functions, the keys were soon found. They were, once again, in the diaper bag, but this time that was the only place that I hadn't searched...and they all had. So tell me, dear reader, do you think that feeling of triumph was destined to have long life?


I'll let you know after I find my keys.

time for a psa (public service announcement)

I woke up this morning thinking about my cousin's daughter. She has cystic fibrosis. Although I have heard of the disease my whole life, I have been surprised by how many people haven't. Basically, it affects the mucus membranes in such a way that the lungs and digestive system are both seriously hindered. More info: http://www.cff.org/home/

My niece (I know she isn't really my niece, but my first cousin once removed takes a lot more typing and speaking) has been doing pretty well for the last year or so. I know the median life expectancy has increased a lot in recent history thanks in part to lung transplants. Still, living into your late thirties just isn't long enough. So, if you see a "Bowl for Breath," a "Walk for Air," or any other event to support the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, think about it before just walking by.

swing low, sweet puffy foot

I know, you're sick of hearing about side-effects already. Did I mention I might be just a tad OCD? Anyway, deal with it. This is my blog. It is all about me having a place to whine and act like a three year old if I want to. So there (note the hands on hips and tongue sticking out in full raspberry mode).

No, of course I don't really feel that way. I actually care about you even if I don't know you, but I digress.

So why, since I obviously have nothing important to say, am I going to force feed you more side-effect blather? Because I can. It also might have something to do with big bold letters which read, "DO NOT LIE DOWN FOR AT LEAST HALF AN HOUR AFTER TAKING THIS MEDICATION." Even though it has been over an hour, I cannot make myself lie down. There doesn't seem to be anything to do other than cleaning, but I'm not about to start that bad habit.

Ah, you are saved, I hear the telltale signs of wide awakeness from above, and it is almost midnight. Which reminds me of Bill Cosby. That tangent could take awhile, and I have monsters to wrangle.

Farewell you lucky soul.

soup therapy

Yes, I know it is summer. My electric bill refuses to let me forget it. But there is just something about soup.

S, my second oldest, said suddenly, "You should make soup."

Forseeing my possible objections, he immediately set about checking to see if we had all of the necessary ingredients. And in that single moment's pause, I thought, "I really could use a nice bowl of soup."

So now, we sit and wait as the house fills with the aroma.

But I wonder, what is it about homemade soup that has so much healing capacity? It isn't just a physical thing. So many warm, snuggly, comforting memories seem to curl about my body right along with the fragrance of soup.

Is it aromatherapy? Yes.

Is it self-indulgence? Yes.

Is it something that helps chase away a sudden bout of unexplained melancholy? Again, yes.

Is it something which will keep me from asking the deeper questions I am trying to avoid? I doubt it. My life is defined by asking the bigger questions on a regular basis. But it is easier to ask questions when your throat is soothed by the liquid warmth.

Is this a contemplation worth posting? Probably not, but I am going to anyway.

evidence of instability

As if anyone needed more proof that I am at least a little off-kilter, here I sit second guessing myself.

So, the doc asked a series of questions which I answered as truthfully as possible (considering my mind turns into a steel sieve the minute I see the stethoscope). Why does it take me until hours later to realize I answered something with potential incorrectness? This is especially aggravating since I have a mortal fear of making phone calls. I am fine when people call me, but the other way around is a panic attack waiting to happen. It likely wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't have just enough medical knowledge to make me dangerous. I get the ramifications of what I accidentally answered wrong. I have to call the man; I just don't want to.

And while I am on this rag about all things medical, what is it with medications whose list of potential side-effects and complications are 3000 times worse than the condition they are supposed to be treating?

"Gee kids, Mommy is sorry she can't play with you today because she now has a hole in her stomach since she no longer felt like having a puffy ankle. Yes, it could be fatal, of course, but my ankle will look so much slimmer in the coffin."

Hmmmmmm.

So, I guess the fact is, no matter how desperately I tried the word association, one of the big questions is sneaking its way into the picture.

Why do I always leave room for second guessing? Why do I always have to know? Why do I continually slightly influence the impressions people get by responding partly with what I think someone wants to hear instead of with the whole truth (even though what I am saying is still the truth)? Will I be able to publish this post, or will I deem it too revealing?

Geesh, now I can't even count. That sure looks like more than one to me.

the invasion of random thought

Remember word association? Phychologists use it as a tool. Children use it as a game. Picture those childhood days spent with a close friend or two saying the first word that pops into your head. My brain never outgrew it. My mind never developed the ability to stick to one thought for more than a few seconds.

When I was younger, as tangent queen, I always remembered to somehow bring it back to where I started. Now, not so much. Follow with me, if you will, as I chase these random thoughts around the office, as they dodge between the scattered evidences of a large, untidy family.

Why does the dog have to take his food out of the bowl to eat it? Does he enjoy watching TV so much that he has no choice but to obey the impulse to bring mouthfuls into the living room, drop them on the floor, and consume most, but never all of the food therein?

Is it worth it to make the old wood floors look better by covering them with laminate that has some trouble holding up to my kids in the dining room? We can't refinish the wood. It's been done too many times, and there isn't enough thickness left to work with.

Am I up to the challenge of making my kids spend less time on their computers when I don't feel like getting off of mine?

I wonder if I can get by with vacuuming the curtains or if I actually have to take them down and wash them. I don't feel like thinking about that today, so I will put it off until at least tomorrow.

Am I afraid to let go of procrastination because it is the one constant in my life?

How does one explain to a 3 year old that "baby shows" do not have to be on two different TV's at the same time?

Why do the bubbles in a bottle of soda collect around the top edge of the liquid as it gets lower? Is this the backwash making that edge slightly dirty (like pollution in a stream)?

Why are there so many computer parts lying around my house?

Will I remember to take my eldest to his first job interview Thursday?

Why is my ankle bone visible for the first time in weeks on the very day I am supposed to go to the doctor about it?

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? And where do woodchucks live anyway?

Why do my fingers misbehave when I have loads to say, but type perfectly when I am doing nothing but babbling incessantly about nothing?

If one is sick of the sound of their own voice and the sight of their own type, why do they continue spewing?

Why do some bruises turn purple while they are healing and others turn brownish-green?

What is an organized way to keep all of those darn lids when I don't even have enough cabinet space for the things they belong to?

Where are all of the rechargeable batteries?

And, of course, what deeper questions am I trying to avoid by concentrating on silly nonsense?

outside looking in

Some time before my body completely gave out on me, I was breaking apart vines with abandon. It is a bit of an adventure pulling up old vines. You never quite know what you will find under them. Fearing furry things and broken glass, my discoveries confined themselves to the much tamer categories of trash and old wood.

Of the latter, I was thankful for age. In this case, it made the rending into garbage bag worthy pieces that much simpler. I did feel that way, at least, until the last piece. Upon breaking that open, ants flew everywhere. These particular ants were invaders, as was I. For, standing in the center of the break, was an extremely attitudinal termite. Being the astute judge of termite body language that I am, I immediately perceived 'the look.'

Basically, he was saying to me, "What are you doing here?"

Which is about the time I decided to vacuum the pool.

weeds, insomnia, and eyelashes

Three things I learned today:

I am a great gardener, as long as my crop is weeds.

I am thankful for whoever invented insomnia. If it weren't for that gift, I would likely never get any time alone.

My eyelashes are about 1/3 the length they were a few years ago. The only comfort I can take in this is that, no matter how many times you divide something fractionally, you never get to zero. Though, I might need to purchase a really large telescope sometime in the not so distant future.

And to think, my kids are under the impression that you stop learning things once you get out of school.

poetry through the ages (by request in jest)

Ask, and ye shall receive - even if you weren't serious!

When I was 16:

Nature’s Child

The mountain stream
sent gentle cascades
through her heart.
Moonlight danced
within her eyes.
The dew on the grass
sent shivers up
and down her spine.

As she stared up
at the glimmering stars,
a tear glistened in her eyes,
as if to return the sigh
of the infinite sky.
Life seemed so empty;
she realized she would
never touch the sky.

The steps of small animals
echoed in her mind.
The music of nighttime
reminded her of long ago days
when she danced in his arms.
As she slipped, naked, into the cool water,
she remembered the nights
spent with him.

Stretched out on the
cool, comfortable grass,
she had dreams of love.
The water gently beaded
on the skin he once touched.
It soothed her to think these thoughts,
until she opened her eyes
to the empty sky.

His eyes used to glow
into her waking face
just as the stars now did.
But, warmth, love and
understanding were not
the secret of the stars.
She held out her arms
And embraced the night air.


The sun slowly rose,
hesitantly touching her skin,
waking the world of nature
to find her there, alone.
The creatures of nature
became a part of her solitude.
She was born again
a child of nature’s emptiness.



and twenty:

Canvas

You paint for me -
Delicately lacing fields with
The softness of autumn-blue skies.
A breeze, felt in the warmth
Of the colors from your brush,
Trees dying their leaves
With farewell orange and gold -
Until we meet again.
Our lips touch with a fire
Only known by us.



When I was older:

Graveside

A handful of ashes tossed on the grave,
A shovelful of dirt - followed again and again,
And it is over.
Go on with your life -
Three days acceptable mourning are up.
Go back to that job; paste a smile
To the lips
You show to the world.

Inside, the ashes
Are tossed,
Slow motion,
Each granule striking
The polished wood -
The beauty, carved and crafted
To cover
The ugliness of death.




And ancient (though the same age as older):

Caress

Under a shade tree
with eyes closed,
dreams -
filtering through the
leaves,
translucent with sunshine -
float away
with the breath
of springtime.

The wind bears the kiss
of a mystery,
the touch of hands
never seen or felt.

As the hair is blown
from her face,
she knows in the emptiness
that she is not alone.
His fingers trace
the line of her jaw,
her lips,
then flutter away
as the breeze calms and departs.

m-i-s-s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g....misspelling

I knew how to spell once. Really. I was never spelling bee worthy, but I could get by. My question is this: What is it about birthing children which makes little pieces of functioning brain tissue fall out of your head never to return?

I avoid words now, words that I suddenly no longer know how to spell. This can be quite irritating, as those words are sometimes as simple as "their" and "eat." I sat for twenty minutes last night looking at a word. I typed it. it didn't look right. I looked it up on trusty dictionary.com. It was right, but still didn't look that way. So, I continued to stare.

You know, the longer you stare at a word that doesn't look right, the stranger it looks? It's kind of like the reflex to start feeling around on your head the second someone says, "tick."

cat sitting

So, I get a call from my mother.

"I know I said I would try to make it to football practice on Wednesday or Thursday, but I completely forgot those were the days I told your sister I would feed the cat and spend some time with him."

Since my memory is such that I had completely forgotten she had mentioned coming to practice on those days, this was not even a hiccup in my world. If my family were normal, the story would end here. But you see, I got my skewed nature quite honestly.

"I played with the cat with a flashlight for awhile, but he got bored."

Again, nothing major to this little revelation. Cats never let you think you are entertaining them too much. They would never relinquish their lordship so easily. But it does go on. Apparently, a school friend of my niece's is to be feeding the cat in the AM's. Apparently someone left the sliding door unlocked(hopefully they were not still outside as my sister often has people staying there). Paranoia point one. Apparently, the blinds are broken in the master bedroom (which, by the way, faces the REAR of the house). Paranoia point two.

"It would be easy to see that no one was in the bed all night. So I (giggle) made a fake body. I couldn't find a wig."

Here there was one of those pauses my mother is famous for. A pause just long enough to make you wonder if she is going to leave you hanging on this bit of information.

"So, I got (niece's) stuffed monkey. Some people do have white hair."

Again with the pausing.

"I found a basketball. And (BIL's) clothes were there, so I arranged them. There was a book sitting on the bed stand, and I put that on the bed. Where it dropped when he (the dummy) fell asleep. I don't know if anyone is actually reading the book or not."

Again the pause.

Have you any idea how hard a person can shake from stifling laughter before causing some kind of explosion? I am relatively sure I was close to the brink on this one. The strange thing is, the retelling can't even begin to capture the reality. I'm sure glad I don't come from a normal family.

"Gosh, I hope they don't get scared when they come home."

loose lips and puffy ankles

Not that this is even slightly related to the subject matter, but if my distaste for capitalizing titles upsets you, suck it up (thinking of Monk and an elephant episode).

Anyway, I still have no thoughts. For an introspective person (translated a self-absorbed ninny), this is a somewhat novel experience. I can ponder the various forms of belly button lint for hours. I can only assume that having the pressure of the empty compose box deflates my sense of self-importance. Pity, that, considering I am often the only one who views myself as important. Which leads me to the aforementioned lips.

People I sort of know, that is my greatest downfall. I am such a shy person, really. But I can talk. In fact, give me a healthy dose of football practice, time, and a group of people I barely know, and I can talk more than you would believe humanly possible. Unfortunately, almost nothing that comes out of my mouth will be interesting. And, no matter how much all of the little social cues are telling me it is time to end a conversation, I don't seem able to stop talking.

There is masochistic blood in me somewhere, too. Not only do I subject others and myself to the endless babble, but I rake myself over the coals about such slips in self-control for days, hours...even years to come. And all this while I am really only thinking, "My ankle is really swollen again. I wish I had brought two ice packs, but the iciness of my beverage takes precedence over pain!"

Which reminds me, why is my ankle swelling? Yes, I know I have been on my feet a lot today, but I have just recently gotten over a bout of hypochondria. I do not need a new one to take its place. My goodness, I'm a whiner. Could it be that you are making me uncomfortable because I barely know you? Am I now subjecting you to the same form of babblemania which accosts those unsuspecting souls who meet me in real life? Eeek, someone take away my blogger's license. I'm going to go sulk (or make soup).

From under what rock did I crawl?

So, here I sit, finally bloggable, with not one original thought in my head. Isn't that the way of things? Therefore, I figured I would subject you, the poor unsuspecting reader, to a brief overview.

I am a mom. I am a mom several times over. I am a mom who has five boys and one girl on this earth, and one boy who went on off to heaven before me. I am a mom who finally crawled out from under the piles of homeschool papers, legos, and video games, scraped off a portion of the thick layer of computer illiteracy which has formed a crust around my fingers, and decided to write a blog. I am a mom who is very bad at self-motivation. Therefore, I am a mom who will likely write a very mediocre blog.

I wanted to be a starving writer when I grew up. By that, I don't mean that I wanted to be a lousy writer. I am not that, though I am sometimes substandard. I wanted to be a poet. Most poets don't make any money before they die - thus the starving. For several years early in the marriage, I was doing pretty well on the starving bit. Now that's gone, yet I barely ever write. When I do, it usually comes out as little thoughts to myself. So, what better way to express them than by blogging? And, since I am doing this for myself, you won't offend me by not reading (okay, you will since I am a sensitive writer type, but I will pretend you didn't).

Unbroken
Freeing the boat from its dock,
casting off,
allowing the stream’s current
to direct my course.
I am soon caught in a
small tidal pool by the bank,
a patch of forest near at hand,
too far to touch -
Delicate wild flowers
intermingle their scent
with broken, rotting limbs
of ancient trees.
Brambles underneath
catch much
in their thorny hides.
I dip the oars into the water
at last,and slowly float away.