Christmas Underpants

I made Chex Mix today right before the kids got home from school. I was remembering how awesome the house would smell when I was little and would come home to find Mom had put the Chex Mix in the oven. The only time she made it was at Christmas, so it was a very special treat for us. I wanted my kids to have that same sense of excitement.

Emily walked in the back door and said with a grin, "I smell MIX!"

Later this evening when Claire and I were rolling out peanut butter balls, we were talking about how they always get new pajamas for Christmas because I always got new pajamas for Christmas. She asked what other kinds of presents I would get for Christmas from my mom and dad.

So I told her, "When I was a kid, we always got a ton of presents from Grandma and Poppy."

"Really?" she replied. "How many did you get?"

"Oh, I don't know. About 6 or 7 I guess."

She was shocked. My kids get about 4 or 5 presents under the tree each year. They get the traditional new pajamas, a new outfit, the girls get an angel and Kyle a nutcracker, and then a couple of other small things that I think they would like. We really try to keep it light and practical just because I don't want Christmas to be an orgy of presents.

So when I said my sisters and I got 6 or 7 presents, Claire's jaw hit the table. "What kinds of things did you get, Mom?" she asked.

"Well, we always got pajamas, as you know. Then every year we also got socks."

"Socks?" she said.

"And new underpants."

"For CHRISTMAS?"

"Yep. Every year. Pajamas, socks, and underpants," I said, seeing where this was going.

"Did you like getting those as presents?"

"Sure," I replied. "We liked getting new things. It was always nice to open the box and see a rainbow of colors looking back at me. One year we got underpants for each day of the week. They said, 'Sunday,' 'Monday,' 'Tuesday,' on them. We loved those."

Claire just looked at me. "You loved getting underwear for Christmas?"

"I sure did," I replied. "And as a matter of fact, we got Poppy socks, underwear, and tee shirts for Christmas too."

I told her how Mom would take us to Bacon's and with our Christmas Savings money, we would pick out two or three pair of Gold Toe black or blue socks for Dad or sometimes get him a box of handkerchiefs or a bag of Fruit of the Loom boxers.

"We usually got Grandma underwear too," I told her.

With this she just lost it. "So you're telling me that you all gave each other underwear for Christmas presents every year, and everybody liked that? Were you poor or what?"

"No," I said, "We weren't poor at all. We could just always use new underwear and socks, and they were just something that Grandma wrapped up for us to open on Christmas Eve. It never crossed our minds that this was not a 'normal' present. What would you say if I gave you underwear for Christmas?"

She gave me a sidelong glance and said, "I'd say, 'Okaaaaay. Thanks, I guess.'"

I'm seeing a trip to Target this week for one more present to put under the tree for each kid this year. It might become a tradition in our house too!

Thanksgiving 2009

Things I am thankful for this year:

My dad is still breathing air. Yes, he's slow. Yes, he looks awful. But he's still here. That is something. I am thankful that there is medicine to help keep him with us longer. I am thankful for the Movement Disorder Clinic and Dr. Houghton.

Kyle is normal and healthy. God, I am thankful for that. I am blessed that all of my kids are normal and healthy, but I don't know what could have gone wrong with them like I do Kyle. I am thankful that his spine decided not to close down in the base instead of up where it matters. His life, my life, would have been so different if things had been just a vertebrae or two off.

My girls are pearls. Really. They love each other like crazy. They are good students. They are good athletes. They are just good. I am thankful that Emily has an eye to be black today. That the ladder hit her along the bone instead of in her eye. She is very lucky about that.

I am thankful for Kirk's job. He is such a good provider. He isn't afraid to go out there and make things happen. God forbid we were dependent on me for income. Not a pretty picture. I am thankful that his military position has kept him in Frankfort and not overseas. I am thankful we have a relationship where he lets me be in charge. He is the boss at work, but since home is my work, I get to be the boss here. I am really thankful he is okay with that. I am very thankful I get to stay home.

I loved our Disney trip this summer with friends. So much fun! How lucky we are that we got to go yet again. How lucky that Kyle still wants to hang with Mom, Dad, and Mickey.

Kyle has picked his high school. I am glad about that and thankful we can afford to pay for it. He is making good choices and has friends and does well in school. He is good with children and old people. I like the man he is becoming.

Claire is an amazing dancer. I am thankful for the grace God blessed her with. She is kind with a beautiful spirit. She is self-motivated and so smart. I am so proud to hear others brag on her.

Emily is so herself. Football to dance class. She is a funny girl with a contagious laugh. I am thankful she marches to her own drummer and prays she will always do so.

I am in love with my house, my neighborhood, my city, my state. I am planted and am thriving. I love it here in my little corner of the world. I am so, so thankful that Kirk agreed to settle here 13 years ago. I would be stunted if I was anywhere else.

I am so thankful for my wonderful sisters. I am glad our children are friends. I love being with them and sharing life with them. I wish Jennifer was closer, but I am glad she gets home as often as she does. I'm thankful for Aunt Jeri and her family and all the relatives who touch our lives on a regular basis.

I am glad to be having good communications with my mother-in-law. I hope it continues to improve.

I am blessed to have everything I could possibly need and most of what I want. Who could ask for more?

Jeans Envy

For most of my life, I have had jeans-envy. Being vertically challenged, I have always been jealous of my male counterparts who could walk into a store, find a pair of jeans that fit them both waist-wise and length-wise and walk out with pants ready to wear. No trip to the tailors’ necessary. No hemming once they got home. Just jeans that Goldilocks would love: not too short, not too long, but just right.

Women’s jeans come in three lengths: “Tall,” (which I am definitely not), “Average,” (which I consider myself pretty close to being), or “Short,” (which designers apparently think I am).

The problem with“Average” jeans is that I am not 5’7” unless I am in 4-inch heels, and even then, when I’m not twisting my ankle, I’m stepping on the hem of the”Average”jeans. “Short” jeans are fine until they are washed, and then they are just too short. They come to the tops of my feet and just sit there, no way close to looking cool and fashionable.

Last week, while waiting for my daughters’ dance classes to end, I wandered into Steinmart. Near the entrance were several racks of jeans, Calvin Klein, Gloria Vanderbilt, Nine West…I walked over, remembering when all I wanted in life was a pair of Calvins. I took the jeans in hand and noticed something odd. Not only was there the usual size 8, there was an additional number, “32.”

I stopped. Could it be? I checked another pair. They said, “Size 10, 30.” I flipped through all the jeans on the rack, and sure enough, it was true! I could buy a pair of jeans not only by waist size, but also by length! There were “4, 29s” and “6, 33s” and “12, 30s.” Jeans to fit any and every woman who ever wished that she, like every single man who ever bought jeans, could buy hers by length as well as width.

I tried on several pair before I found the right size for me (I guess the designers were right about me!), but I walked out with a pair of Nine West jeans that were just right. I call them my Goldilocks jeans!

You can probably find these at any local department store that carries Calvin Klein and Nine West , but I got mine at Steinmart, ready to wear, for $29.99. (I still didn’t get a pair of Calvins, but I got cool and fashionable, and that’s what it’s all about!)

Snapping Beans

When I was a kid, my mom put up a lot of food each summer. It started in June when we'd go pick strawberries. Within the week, we'd have half a dozen batches strawberry jam in the freezer and bags of strawberries frozen to eat over ice cream later in the winter. As summer moved on, she would do the same for blackberries and peaches, making jam and bags of frozen fruit out of both. I didn't mind helping with those. I would pop pieces of ripe fruit in my mouth while we worked so that by the time we were finished, my chin was dribbled red or purple and I was sticky all over.

When tomatoes started coming in, Mom would make spaghetti sauce to freeze for us to eat later too. I loved helping with those tomatoes. She would bring a big pot of water to a boil and then drop the tomatoes in for 30 seconds or so. Then she would scoop them out real fast and put them in an ice water bath. Right away, the skins would split and start to peel off. I thought it was so cool to just pop the skin of the tomato off and put the flesh into the big Pyrex bowl where it waited for chopping. Then we'd cut the tomatoes in half and dig our fingers down the sides to scoop out as many seeds as we could. Soon the house would be filled with the aroma of garlic and onions and oregano and if someone didn't know any better, they'd think they were in Italy when they walked into the kitchen.

We had an apple tree in the back yard for a time. The neighbors behind us did too. Neither tree bore great fruit because neither my dad nor the neighbor sprayed for pests, but the trees did have apples every year and those trees are where my love for food preparation and storage ends. The apples from these particular trees were tiny, about the size of a lemon. They were irregular and spotted and wormy. Mom didn't care. She'd send us out to pick any apples we could reach and even pick up the ones that had fallen on the ground. We couldn't pick apples from the neighbor's tree, but since many limbs hung over our yard, Mom figured that any apples that fell into our yard were fair game, so we had to pick them up too. Didn't matter if the apples were bruised on one side or half eaten by bugs. Mom would cut the bad parts out and slice the rest for apple sauce, freezer bags, and pies. I hated it. The apples were so small that they were difficult to peel. I hated cutting into one to find that I had also cut a worm in half. I worried about how many worms made it into the winter stash without my knowledge. It was just a chore. But we sure loved the apples come January when Mom would take a bag out of the freezer and heat them on the stove with cinnamon and sugar and serve them with dinner.

Corn and green beans put me over the edge too. My dad had a friend who would send a bushel or two of corn home just out of the blue. We never knew when it would come. Dad would pull into the drive with a grin on his face and haul out two big burlap bags of corn. Mom's face would fall because she knew the work that had unexpectedly come her way for she had to put the corn up immediately or it would get tough. That was another job I hated. The corn always had worms and it was sticky and the silks made me itch. I dreaded pulling back the husks to find a big, fat, white corn worm gnawing away at the kernels. Once we got the husks pulled off, we had to cut the kernels off the cobs and into a big bowl. Then Mom would take the back of her knife and scrape the cobs to get all the juice out of the corn that she could. Corn juice would fly all over the kitchen. It was mess! We'd be sticking to the floor for days after, but again, there was nothing like a bag of sweet corn from the freezer, fried up with butter and salt in the middle of winter.

My least favorite job, however, was snapping beans. We would get a big bushel basket every so often and we'd have to sit out on the patio and snap the beans into bite sized pieces so Mom could can them the next day. I thought there must not have been a bottom to that old basket because it felt like it took forever to break up those beans. Mom would can them the next day and the house would be hot and we would be banned from the kitchen in case the canner blew up. I was terrified that that would happen. I had visions of the lid to the canner flying through the air and slicing through the wall. The jars would explode and Mom would die in a hail of green beans and glass. Of course it never happened, but I thought each year that it might be the year that it did. I remember the "sssssss" sound of the canner and the pops the jars made as they sealed. Mom would be so proud when all of her jars would be lined up on the shelves in the basement waiting for us to eat in the months to come. For all I hated the work that went into canning beans, I loved, loved, loved to eat them.

After she died, there were still a two jars left downstairs from the last time she canned beans. The beans were from Dad's garden. Mom had been gone a year, and my sisters and I just couldn't bear the thought of opening those beans and eating them. They were a tangible gift from her. A reminder that she had been here, been alive, cared enough for her family to go to all the work to store up food for winter. We finally decided to eat them on Thanksgiving. We opened them up and cooked them and ate them. There was not one bean left. How could we waste any?

I thought about all these things today as I sat on my own patio breaking beans. Mom and I had canned together in the summer of 2004 when she was well. I didn't feel comfortable enough to do it by myself without supervision, so she was going to help me the next year too. It didn't work out that way. She died in September of the following year after being sick the entire summer of 2005. Funny that the one thing I hated most as a kid is the one thing I wanted to learn to do more than anything. Mom's cousin, Betty Jean, is coming out to my house tomorrow to teach me to can. I am excited to learn, but I wish Mom was here to teach me.

So as I sat there today, thinking about how hard I had tried as a kid to get out of helping Mom with this chore, I just wished I could sit on the patio with her and break beans one more time.

Thoughts at the Start of Football Season

I love football season. I love the bleachers, hot in August and freezing in October. I love the smell of home fries from the concession stands and lollies and sodas that never have the right syrup/carbonated water mix. I love the players, sweaty and grass-stained, their hair messy from wearing helmets. I love the referees, older guys, working for their passion of the game. I love the coaches, those dads who can’t get enough. I love watching boys who started out little bitty guys in flag football, gain skill and confidence and strength over their “careers.” I just love football.

Football season started this weekend with our jamboree games. Teams who aren’t in the same bracket play each other for practice, to get those first-game jitters out of the way without it mattering if they win or lose. But sitting on the bleachers on Sunday (cool in August for a change), I was reminded of the one thing I hate about football…The Ugly.

I arrived with my son the required one hour early before his game. The game on the field was starting the second quarter. I took a seat and set out to work on my day planner, glancing up now and then to watch the game. It was a good game. Both sides played well. I found myself paying less attention to the work in my lap and more attention to the action on the field. I was feeling the football spirit once again.

Then, as one team scored, The Ugly began. The coaches across the field started screaming. The fans in the stands started yelling. Not just cheering the players on, but also yelling ugly things like, “KILL HIM!” and “HURT HIM!” and “TAKE HIM DOWN!” One man said of a player on his own team that he “played like a faggot.” They screamed at the referees, yelling, “Can’t you see, Ref?” “What are you? Stupid?” I even heard the f-bomb thrown out a time or two.

Since I had no stake in this game, I stopped what I was doing and observed the people around me. It occurred to me that if someone was doing a documentary on Catholic youth football, that the people in these stands would not look very Christian. I daresay that they would have been ashamed of themselves if they were to watch their behavior on screen afterward. The coaches looked less like dads and more like Bear Bryant on a really bad day. One coach was called for an unsportsmanlike penalty. Really! In a jamboree game!

A lady (and I use that term loosely) behind me was out of control. After a player on the opposing team was called for a late hit, she stood up and screamed, “Is that how you do things up there off Westport Rd?” When the penalty was announced, she waved her arms back in forth in the air shouting, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” She ranted throughout the game, making derisive comments about the other team’s players, coaches, school, and neighborhood. Nobody asked her to be quiet. A few people tried to shush her, but no one said, “That’s enough.”

After the game, one of the people around me stopped and said, “She’s not with us. Don’t judge us by her behavior.” I agreed that there’s one like her at every school. What I thought to myself though was, “Why do we let it go on? Why don’t we say, ‘Enough?’ What are we afraid of?” I have 3 kids who started playing sports at school 9 years ago, and I have never been moved to act like I was at this game.

I’m guilty of not speaking up. I have sat in the bleachers with equally vociferous parents and kept my mouth shut. I’ve sat there while our fans screamed at the referees, the players, and the other fans and not said a thing. I’m guilty as well of being a less-than-shining example of a model fan. I’d like to think I’ve never acted as ugly as the people I sat around on Sunday, but I don’t think I’d bet too much on it.

I plan to change that.

This past Saturday, our parish leadership team set a goal for the year for our church. We are challenging our parishioners to become “Eucharist-centered” people, meaning that we keep Christ in our minds in all that we do, whether it is at mass, at work, at Kroger, or on the playing field. All we do should be for the glory and praise of God.

I would like to extend this idea to the entire Archdiocese. I would like to challenge everyone to act in a more Eucharist-centered way, not just on Sundays in church but on Sundays in the stands and on the fields. Ask yourself, “Would I act this way if Jesus was on the other team? Would I scream at Jesus if he made a bad call? Would I yell, ‘KILL HIM!’ if Jesus was running for a touchdown?”

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for competition. I love the cheering and the yelling in the stands FOR good plays, FOR touchdowns, FOR the win. I love the challenges and the heartbreaks and the wins and the losses…well, not so much the losses, but you know what I mean. I love the excitement and the anticipation and the team spirit and the fun. What don’t love is The Ugly.

I think that if we all behaved as though we were being filmed for a documentary on youth football, we could get rid of some of that Ugly. If enough parents stood up and said, “ENOUGH” when things got out of hand, we would get rid of more of the Ugly. If we all try to remember to keep Christ in the game, we wouldn’t even know what Ugly was.

I love football, but it is a GAME. Contrary to popular belief, CSAA football is not a blood sport. We quit those a couple of thousand years ago. Remember, those players out on the fields, while they may look huge in their helmets and pads, are in grade school. They are CHILDREN. Would you scream at your own child like that? Would you scream at God’s?

Random Thoughts

I found out this week that my grandmother, Mimi, went to live on the Island of Jersey in the English Channel for a spell when she was 16 years old. She had graduated from secondary school, and her father, who must have been a very progressive kind of guy, sent her there to learn to speak English more fluently. She also spoke three other languages: French (obviously), Spanish, and Catalan. He also sent her to as many additional schools as she could attend---stenography school, etc.---to give her the best education possible.

I find that remarkable. It was 1906. France. He was a cork maker for the champagne industry. His wife, my great-grandmother, ran a tavern out of their house. Yet he was open-minded enough to send his girls (my great aunt as well) to as many schools as they could attend so that they would have a better chance at life than he and my great grandma did.

Then in 1912, they upped and moved to America. June 12 they landed in New York City. My great uncle was already here. When my grandma arrived, at the ripe old age of 20, she was well-educated enough in English and secretarial skills that she was able to get a good job in an office. A few years later, she met my grandpa, and that was that. But for a little while anyway, she was an independent woman, living and working in the busiest city in America at the turn of the century...what a heady time that must have been for her!

I am thankful for Grandpa Joe's liberal attitude towards his daughters' educations. It translated well through the years. My dad was raised to be open-minded toward women, and in turn, raised us that way. Even though I am a stay-at-home mom now, it has been MY choice to do so. It was never, ever suggested to me that there was anything I could not do if I set my mind to it. I think Mimi, because of her father, must have felt the same way.

Papi, je vous remercie de tout mon coeur.

Tick tock tick to ck t i c k

I dropped of a trunk load of toxic chemicals at the Haz-Bin site today. Colleen and I have been s-l-o-w-l-y cleaning out Dad's garage, and I went out yesterday and got all of the jars, bottles, and cans of poisonous crap off the back shelves in the garage. No kidding, I could have easily knocked off a small village with the stuff I hauled away from there.

My favorite aerosol can of the bunch was one called "Cabinet Magic." It had a "wood" label on it featuring Mrs. Happy Homemaker in her dress and apron, holding a dusting rag in one hand, sporting a mean beehive updo, and smiling like she was just so darn happy to be polishing cabinets today. I promise you in all of my 41 years, I have never, ever cleaned kitchen cabinets in a dress and apron, and even if I had, I would not have been smiling about it!

I also liked the can of "* Shine Brite *" glass polish in the powder blue label. I wish I could show the kind of font the text was in. It was so typically 1968 Bewitched. That can was probably loaded with enough CFCs to add another couple hundred miles to the hole in the ozone.

There was a plastic bottle full of something. Dad and I had no idea what it was, but Mom had written, "POISON XXX" all over it, so we touched it very gingerly and put it in the corner of the box so it wouldn't fall over and kill us with fumes.

I hauled away several bottles of transmission fluid, power steering fluid, grub killer, rose dust, paint thinner, spray paint, varnish, Liquid Gold, and lighter fluid from when Dad smoked, oh 35 years ago, and would refill his lighters when they got low.

I took about 15 odd cans of paint to the back yard and filled them up with the old sand from the sandbox. Some of that paint hadn't been on the walls for 2 or 3 layers. There was a full can of black latex paint that I have no idea about, and a red that I think was on the basement floor. (The basement was finished and carpeted in 1983.) Toxic chemicals and paint being what they are, they were all still mostly liquid. The only way to dispose of them, according to MetroCall, was to take off the lids, fill them with sand, and let them dry out. I guess the fumes are okay to release into the air, but I wouldn't want to hang out in Dad's garage for any length of time for the next couple of weeks. We'll keep checking on them and put them in the garbage once they are dried out. It could be awhile.

So as much as I'm ragging on all of this poisonous stuff in the garage, it was really pretty sad. I would hold up each item and tell Dad what it was, and he'd say yea or nay to keeping it. When we got to the automotive stuff, I thought about how long it had been since Dad even checked the fluid levels in his vehicles, much less topped them off. I could see the wheels turning in his head, "Do I think I'll ever be needing this again in my lifetime? No, probably not..." We did that with a lot of things: paint, lawn chemicals, WD-40, mineral spirits. We kept a few cans of spray paint, some fertilizer for the yard, and a car cleaner that had "GM" (General Motors) written on the can that Dad got as a gimme from when he worked for GM. Remember, Dad retired in the late 80s.

I stood there holding up cans, and it was like watching him shut door after door while he analyzed his future possible use for each item. There wasn't much need for a number of things.

He helped me take the paint cans back to the garage before I left for home. He is so slow. His steps are very short, about the length of his foot, and he shuffles pretty badly. He'd take a couple of cans at a time and then have to stop and sit down every trip or two. Watching Dad is like watching a wind-up toy winding down or a clock ticking ever more slowly. Only there is no key on his back with which to rewind him, and I know that sooner than later the last tick is gonna come, and he will stop.

Vinegar and Baking Soda

It's interesting how using up the last of the vinegar and throwing the bottle away could hurt so much, but it does.

I was cleaning up Dad's kitchen today, and the sinks were smelly. I poured an old box of baking soda down the drain and then looked in the cabinet for some vinegar to flush it with. There was a new bottle of cider vinegar in the front of the cabinet that had not yet been opened, and a partially used bottle farther back. I thought I'd just use up the bottle already opened, so I took it out. It was a bit murky, much more that I expected. I wondered with a chuckle how long it had been in there and looked for an expiration date. I found one.

It said, "Use before September 2005." That stopped me cold because in all probability, my mom had purchased this bottle of vinegar.

I stood in front of the sink for awhile debating what to do. Do I use this up and throw it in the recycling? MOM bought this. MOM used this. MOM held this very bottle in her hands. Was I going to keep a fermenting bottle of vinegar at my house? Probably not. If I did, where would I keep it? For how long? Somebody has to throw it away. If I don't get rid of it, Dad might use it on accident. It could make him sick. Mom bought this vinegar. Mom at Melton's, pushing the cart down the aisle, took this bottle off the shelf and paid for it and brought it home. Mom.

After a few minutes, sanity prevailed, and I poured the remaining vinegar down the drain and took the bottle out to the recycling. I had to do it fast though so I couldn't change my mind.

Snapshot: Emily

I saw her standing in the backyard under the maple tree looking up, intently scanning for something I couldn't see. She was wearing the National Guard ball cap her dad had given her on Saturday at Thunder. It's too big, so it doesn't sit well on her head, and her short blond hair was sticking out willy-nilly from under it. Her shorts and tee shirt were dirty, and her feet were asphalt black from going around with no shoes on.

I watched her through the kitchen window for a bit. She stood still, poised to spring, gazing intently at the sky.

Curious, I went to the back door and asked, "Emily, honey, what are you doing out there?"

She looked over at me with a big grin on her face and replied with the joy of a seven year old in spring, "I'm catching helicopters!"

My beautiful girl.

Friends and Clean Houses

I worry about what my kids' friends think of our house. Keeping it clean is not on the top of my priority list most days, and so I am not as good as I should be when it comes to letting them have friends over. What will they think about Mrs. Hilbrecht? What will their parents think after they have dropped off/picked up their kids?

"That Sharron Hilbrecht...she's nice enough, but man, she keeps a lousy house!"

I know I shouldn't obsess about it, but I do. I didn't care what my friends' houses looked like when I was a kid. Everybody's families had different standards, and we all just accepted what was what.

My two best friends, Susan and Jill, for example, had wildly different houses, and it didn't matter a single bit to our friendships. Susan's house was built in the 50s during the baby boom. It was your typical 3 bedroom ranch with a living room, kitchen, and while I only remember one bathroom, there must have been more, because she was one of 5 girls, and I can't imagine 5 girls and one bathroom.

Susan's dad had died when she was little. She and I became best friends by the time we were five, and he does not exist in my memory, so he must have passed away before then. Her mom worked in the cafeteria in our school, and her four older sisters mostly told us what to do. Her house was always busy with sisters and friends. I remember the kitchen table piled high with homework, laundry, groceries, whatever. The counter may or may not have had dishes on it depending on the time of day, but they didn't have a dishwasher (her mom said she had five built-in dishwashers already, so why did she need to buy one?), so there were usually dishes in the sink either waiting to be washed or waiting to be put away.

The one car garage was detatched, and sometimes held their station wagon, and sometimes not depending on the amount of stuff being stored in it. There was a deck off the back, and we used to hang out on it with her sisters, if they were in a tolerant mood. Otherwise, we'd head to the basement to watch tv.

Susan shared a room with her sister, and I don't remember it being especially decorated or clean. We'd go in and plop on her bed and listen to records, do homework, or both. Her house was a second home to me, and I loved going there.

Jill's house, on the other hand, was built in the late 70s. Her parents had moved out of a teeny tiny slab house when we were early in our grade school years, and into this brand new tri-level, three bedroom, two bath, beauty. It had a living room, dining room, kitchen, family room, and two baths. It was always spotless. Jill's dad worked at Ford, and her mom was a nurse. They had eloped, eloped, when they were eighteen, and then had her brother and her. They were so young in my mind, maybe in their late 20s, maybe 30, and so hip compared to my other friends' parents. Their truck and her mom's car were always parked in the two car garage along with bikes, tools, and sports equipment all organized neatly to create enough room for everything.

We had to take our shoes off when we went into Jill's house, and mostly had to try and walk on the plastic carpet runners throughout her house. Her living room was free of furniture for the first few years, and we liked to do gymnastics in there whenever we could. The family room had the coolest phone. It was one of those from the bicentennial that was like the old fashioned kind where you speak into the base and hold the ear piece to your head to hear. It was red, white, and blue, and just so magnificent. I wanted a phone like that and tried to call home every time I went to Jill's just so I could use it.

It was at Jill's house that I met my first microwave. We heated water in it to make hot chocolate. To make it go, you had to turn the dial past "2 minutes" and then back to whatever time you needed. It was loud, and I remember being afraid that it would do something to the water that would cause cancer or something later. We put popcorn in a paper bag and popped it in the microwave, being careful to turn down the opening just right so the popcorn wouldn't spill out into the microwave. It wasn't great, but it was novel and new, and made me think Jill's mom and dad just had it going on.

Jill had her own bedroom with a brass bed and pretty furniture. We couldn't play in it, but we could sit quietly on the bed, and sometimes we were allowed a game of Connect 4. There was wall-to-wall carpet on the floor and those plastic runners. At the time, I shared a room with my sister, and I was so jealous of Jill's room that I could spit.

Susan and Jill were my best friends for the entire 8 years of grade school. We did everything together. We had different rules, different family situations, different houses, and that was never a problem. It just was. I loved going to both of their houses and hanging out with them and making excellent memories wherever we were.

I am going to try to keep that in mind the next time one of the kids wants a friend over and the house is trashed. They are really not coming over to check out my housekeeping skills. They are coming to play with my children and make their own memories.

p.s. Jill and Susan, I love you both! We need a Charlie's Angels reunion real soon...

Conversations on the Telephone

One of the hardest things I've had to learn to do since Mom died is how to talk to my dad. We had come to a place in our relationship where we didn't say much to one another. Nothing had happened, but Mom and I had so much to say, and Dad just didn't like to talk on the phone. However, I talked to Mom three or four times a day. Sometimes when I'd call, he'd answer.

"Hi Dad. What's up?"
"Not much. Do you want to talk to your mother?"
"Yeah, is she home?"
"Yes. Hold on. Wanda! Phone! Here she is."
"Bye, Dad. Love you."
"Love you too."

And that was about it. I loved Dad. He loved me. Not much else to say.

I tried a few times to ask about his childhood or early memories of me, but Dad's not a real reflective, sentimental type, and I don't think his childhood held very many happy memories. Those conversations would last a little longer than the ones over the phone, but not by much.

We would talk politics whenever something interesting would happen, but since we are both of the same liberal bent, it would end up with us agreeing with each other about whatever the issue was, and then the dialogue would dry up.

Dad just isn't a conversationalist.

I could call Mom to tell her something funny I saw or a cute thing one of my kids said. I'd call to ask how to boil eggs or what gets grass stain out of pink pants or how to make self-rising flour out of regular. She'd call me with the latest updates on her sisters and brothers or my cousins. She'd have stories about my nephews or the neighbors or friends from church. Mom was a wealth of information about everything, and once she got a cordless phone, she usually didn't mind chatting anytime of day except between 4 and 5 when her soap was on. If I had a quick question, I could catch her during the long 4:30 commercials but other than that, that hour was a dead zone, and God forbid you interrupt it.

Once Mom was gone, I still had the need to talk. I missed our several times a day chats more than I thought humanly possible. I can still hear her on the other end of the line when, if I hadn't called her by 10 a.m., she'd call me to make sure we were all okay. I can hear the edge in her voice when I'd maybe called one too many times that day. And if I ever, EVER went a day without calling, I caught heck. I just can't begin to describe how much I miss talking to my mom.

So once she died, I tried calling Dad. Both of my sisters did too. We'd call him each once a day to say hello and check on him. The conversations were much like always.

"Hi Dad. What's going on?"
"Not much. How are things your way?"
"Fine."
"That's good."
"Well, I'm just calling to check on you. You doing okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Okay, well, I'll let you go. Love you."
"Love you too."

He even "complained" to his sister that we were "always calling" to check up on him. She gently scolded him, saying, "John, at least you have three daughters who care enough to call you."

Mom had her killing surgery four years ago. She lived for five months after, and during that time, I only got to talk to her twice on the phone. She was too sick to talk, but she was still here. I think it was a good transition for me. I didn't lose her all at once.

But I miss talking to her on the phone. I need that connection to my parents. To that older generation who knows more than I do. To someone who loves me best.

I try to call Dad every day. Most days I do, but if I don't, he doesn't seem to mind. I still have a hard time just picking up the phone to chat. It's getting better, but it's just not the same.

Sons and Guns

My son loves guns. He always has ever since he was a little bitty guy. His dad, who is an officer in the United States military, and me...not so much. My husband had enough gun time in the army. Me...they just scare the hell out of me. I don't want one, never fired one, never really even held one. Minus a toy rifle I had when I was a kid that shot dirt clods out the end, guns have never held any fascination for me.

But my son...that's another story. Squirt guns, Lego guns, cowboy guns, death ray guns, pretzel guns, peanut butter and jelly sandwich guns...You name it. If it even resembled something with a barrel and a trigger, it had his name all over it.

We tried. My lord, we tried. We removed any realistic guns from the Batman action figure package. Swords? No problem. Ninja stars? Let's get two. Compound bows? You betcha. Guns? No way! Didn't matter. He made them out of whatever he could find. Finally we gave up and let the guns stay in the package thinking they were 1/2 inch big. They'd get lost, get frustrating, get forgotten. Wrong. We should have learned then, but we didn't.

When he was about 4, he developed a love for all things army. I know this will sound ridiculous, but for Christmas that year, we got him his own little camouflage army uniform exactly like his dad's. We even sewed rank on and a name tape and U.S.Army across the pocket. Still didn't get him a gun.

His little buddies in the neighborhood would play soldier and cops and robbers in the back yard, and they all had "cowboy" pistols. My sister had that kind when we were little. You know what I'm talking about: silver with white "ivory" handles, and you could shoot caps off with them. My son's best friend had that kind of gun. He would come down and give Kyle a roll of caps. TJ would shoot the caps with his gun, and Kyle would pop his with a rock. Not quite the same thing, but I tried to talk it up. Then the boys would go into the back yard, Kyle would wear his uniform, and they would play army or something similar. TJ would use the cap gun, and Kyle would find a stick that acceptably resembled a gun, and they'd proceed to shoot each other in an all out war.

It got to be pretty pathetic. My mom gave me a lot of grief about the gun ban in my house, reminding me that I played with guns as a kid and turned out just fine. So I gave in and got Kyle a neon green plastic squirt gun. He was thrilled...until it cracked. I learned to keep a stock pile of squirt guns in the house for emergencies. It worked for awhile.

Then Kyle began to love anything and everything about the American Revolution. He worshiped the movie "The Crossing" about Washington crossing the Delaware. We read every book about George Washington and Sam the Minuteman, and Kyle learned to love history. I was THRILLED because I love history, and I found it charming that he was into the past at his young age. We went to reenactments and learned about the Colonial period and spent time at historic homes and met the soldiers who brought the past to life. I took up sewing so I could make him costumes. We took a trip to Williamsburg early that fall. I had made him brown breeches, a green wesket, a white shirt and found some buckle shoes. He wore them every day. He drilled with the militia every day. They got to know him so well, that when they'd see him coming, they'd say, "Everyone, line up behind Private Kyle. He'll show you what to do." By the end of the week, he'd been promoted to Corporal. It was at Williamsburg that we finally broke down and got Kyle his first gun. He was 4 1/2. He carried it with him for the entire week. I rationalized it by telling myself it was an "historic" gun. Whatever.

I remember one day at an event, we were wandering through an encampment. Kyle was about 5. There were several men in period costume sitting around a fire, and one of them was making musket balls out of lead. Kyle wandered up to them, invited himself into their circle, pulled up a log and sat down. I tried to shew him away, but the men were getting a kick out of him and engaged him in conversation. The bullet maker showed Kyle what he was doing and how the lead melted and called him over to watch it pour into the mold. After they had cooled, he handed one to Kyle to put in his own bullet pouch, which until then held rock bullets, and Kyle was in history heaven. Another guy gave him a carved horn powder measure, and they all filled his head with visions of guns to come.

In second grade, he met a boy who had an imitation long rifle. I had to admit, it was really cool, and it added a huge amount of authenticity to his costume. Breeches, vest, tricorn hat, long rifle...He looked just like a colonial boy. Kyle wanted that gun. He begged for it. I'm sure he prayed for it. I said no way, but in my heart, I thought it would be pretty cool to have to take to reenactments. I got a catalog on reproduction weapons. Kyle found it. Like a dog with a bone, that boy would not let go of the idea of owning his own long rifle. Finally, and I know this will sound sick, I told him that if he could save up enough money, he could buy it for himself. It cost $75. Where, I wondered, would an 8 year old come up with $75? I forgot about First Communion. Yes, after his party, Kyle had finally saved the $75 plus shipping and handling to buy his long rifle. My son used his First Communion money to buy a gun. Sick, I know.

It's been all downhill from there. In the past couple of years, the new thing is "Air Soft" guns. They are heavy plastic guns that shoot plastic b.b.'s. The thing is, they LOOK real. Except for the orange tips on the end of the barrels, you could mistake them for real guns. Of course, Kyle wanted one. Of course, I said, "Are you out of your mind?" Of course, he now has three.

Tonight, he is at an "Air Soft" birthday party in which all the boys bring their guns, ammo, camo, eye protection, you name it, and choose teams and have a war. It will last all night. He had the same kind of party last week for his own birthday. The boys were one motley collection of racquet ball goggles, ski goggles, Air Soft masks, sun glasses, and swimming goggles, with all kinds of guns and outfits too. They set off across my yard for the woods, good buddies all, and started playing. They stayed outside until dark then went to Kirk's work for more indoor fun (Air Soft guns stayed home.)

And I know this will sound sick too, but it was really rather heart-warming to see my son and his friends playing like 12 and 13 year old boys should instead of texting girls and acting cool. There was still some texting going on to be sure, but there was absolutely no cool to be found. Just don't tell them that because in their get-ups, they thought they were da bomb!

I am happy that Kyle wants to P-L-A-Y, even if it is Air Soft war. Who knows how long this phase will last. Probably not long. Life is short, and kids grow up so fast now. If he's holding an Air Soft gun, that means his hands are too busy to be texting girls, and I am just so fine with that!

Letting Go

I'm letting Kyle go skiing today without me or Kirk being there. Scary.

There is an annual, unofficial ski trip to Paoli Peaks today. The kids were supposed to be off but had to go to school until 1 for a make-up day from the ice storm. We went last year on this same trip. Loads of people from school are there, and it is really fun. This year, Kirk couldn't take off, and I didn't want to go with all 3 kids alone. By the time we'd get to Paoli, get skis, and get on the slopes, it would be about 3 o'clock. Then we'd only have a couple of hours of daylight, and I didn't want to be there in the dark with the 3 kids, especially the girls. Last year about 5, the teens and snow boarders began showing up and it started to get icy and fast, and I just couldn't do it, so I initially said no to any of us going.

Then all of Kyle's friends were going, and he really wanted to go, so we found a ride with a friend of mine who is taking 4 other boys. She skis and is staying the whole time. I know he will be fine, but it's scary to let him go into a potentially dangerous situation without a parent nearby. I know it's good to trust him and he needs to know that I have confidence in his decision making, but he's my boy and I'm a worry wort!

He will be 13 tomorrow. I can't believe it. This time 13 years ago, Kirk and I were at the beach. It was windy and chilly, and the sand was stinging my legs because it was blowing so hard. The ocean at Sandy Beach Park was rough that day. Kirk went body-surfing, and I sat watching, getting my toes wet because I was so awkward that I didn't trust myself in the water. Early the next morning, we headed to the hospital (for the second time), and Kyle was born 16 hours later. Seems like yesterday...

So I'm letting him go bit by bit. I began to panic last night thinking that next year he will be 14! Thirteen still seems young by comparison. He has one more year of grade school, then it's off to St. X, and he's not mine anymore after that. I think being a mother is the saddest, most joyful job in the world, often at the same time.

Becoming My Father's Mother

I am becoming my father's mother. I don't like that role.

Yesterday, I went to Dad's house for a visit and to get the ball rolling to get him an appointment with a new doctor at the Movement Disorder Clinic. There are several pieces of information needed, and I wanted to call his current doctor from his house in case they needed to talk to him instead of me.

So I called the current doctor and asked for Dad's records, tests, and the referral to be faxed over to the new doctor. They were very nice and said they'd be happy to send them. He also needed to get copies of his insurance cards, so we headed to the copy store and then out to lunch at Tumbleweed. That's when my parenting odyssey started, and it didn't hit me until today that so much of what I did for Dad yesterday is so much what I did, and still do, for my own kids today.

As we left his house, I held the door for him while he locked the deadbolt. Then I opened the door for him to get in the front seat of the van and closed it for him once he was in. He has trouble getting the seat belt latched, so after I got in, I helped him get his seat belt on.

I went in and got the copies made and then headed to Tumbleweed. I helped him out of the van and walked with him, slowly, to the restaurant. His nose was runny yesterday, and a clear drop of mucous would hang off the end of it. It liked to gross me out, looking at it. Either he didn't know it was there or didn't have a hankie, but I had to offer him a tissue to get him to wipe his nose. Once our meal arrived and he started eating, he got a big string of cheese hanging off his lip. I kept waiting for him to wipe his mouth, but he didn't, so I had to tell him, "Dad, you have a piece of cheese hanging from your lip."

During our meal, he began to sweat, which is one of the issue with Parkinson's. He had sweat rolling off his cheeks and onto the table. His glasses had drops of sweat on them. I offered him a napkin to wipe his face with, and when he did, his razor stubble from not shaving for two or three days, caught the napkin and little balls of tissue clung to his cheeks. I had to mirror him to get him to wipe his face clean.

Finally watching him trying to cut up his burrito was excruciating. It took every ounce in me NOT to offer to cut it up for him.

He was s-l-o-w yesterday. I told Colleen that it was like he was moving underwater. Everything was delayed. He was coherent, but he took a long time answering questions, walking, eating, and moving in general. It was near impossible to have a conversation with him yesterday.

I kept looking for my dad, and he was nowhere to be found.

A "Tall" Small? Give Me a Break!

I wasn't feeling particularly nice this afternoon when I pulled into the drive-thru at the national neighborhood coffee chain. I hadn't had my full second cup of coffee because Kirk drained the pot before he left, so I was a little grumpy.

"May I help you?" came the voice over the speaker.

I replied, "I'd like a small coffee, please. Non-fat milk and one sugar."

"Do you mean a 'Tall'?" said the voice.

"No, I mean a 'small'," I answered back, fully understanding that to this particular chain, "Tall" and 'small' are the same thing.

"Well," said the voice, "a 'Tall' is the same as a 'small.' So would you like a Tall?"

"No," I replied, "Tall and small are not the same things. Tall is TALL, and small is what I want."

"Well, ma'am," said the voice which was now becoming irritated with me, "at our coffee shop, small is 'Tall', medium is 'Grande', and large is Venti.' So what size coffee do you want?"

I sat there in my van, just shaking my head at our culture, where everything has to be bigger, larger, better, and nothing can truly be what it is.

I said, "So you're saying that 'Tall' is your smallest coffee, right?"

"Yes," came the reply.

"Then I'll take your smallest size, please," I grinned. I was determined not to ask for a 'Tall' small.

"That will be $1.80, please," said the voice, clearly irritated with me now. "Please drive through."

Well, okay, I didn't really have this conversation, I'm to nice or too chicken or something. But I wanted to! Maybe someday...

Razors and Shaving Cream

I bought Kyle a razor today and a can of shaving cream. It was a weird experience. My not-so-little boy is shaving now. He has been for a couple of months or so with Kirk's razor. He had this dark fuzz on his upper lip, and it was bothering him, making him feel embarrassed. I swore to myself when I was a kid that if one of my own children ever wanted to shave, I would let them.

I remember being twelve and having legs so hairy that I wore tube socks so people wouldn't see them. Thankfully, tube socks were still in style, and I had some to go with every outfit. One pair had yellow stripes, one had red, one had both blue and red. I was set. But then my friends started wearing crew socks rolled down, and I was in trouble. They saw my legs and laughed. I cried.

I told my mom about it, but she said I was too young to shave. She said I had to be 13. That was a whole summer away. It was early June. Field Day. My birthday wasn't until August, so I kept wearing the tube socks. I was either going to be uncool because of the socks or the hair. I chose the socks.

When I finally did get my hands on a razor, my mom told me I could shave only to my knees. What was that about? My legs were equally hairy all the way up, and I was supposed to stop at my knees? Was she kidding? But I complied and only shaved my calves, at least for awhile. There I was, 13 years old, awkward enough in my braces and glasses, and now I had half-shaved legs on top of that. I was a walking case of nerdness.

I broke down before summer was over and shaved my thighs too. My mom found out. Not sure how, but she did, and she came into my room and confronted me with a disappointed, "You'll regret it" speech and shook her head and sighed. I didn't regret it. Ever.

And I made up my mind then and there that if I ever had kids who wanted to shave, they could. I never wanted them to feel the shame and embarrassment I felt as a kid over something that could have been so easily remedied.

When Kyle came to me complaining about his lip hair, I asked him if he wanted to take it off. He did. So I let him. He used Kirk's razor the first few times, and today he asked for his own. I got him one at Kroger along with a can of Edge. I know he'll never look back.

I am SO my mother's daughter

It's pathetic, really how like her I am. Mom cried at everything...commercials, kids singing in church, Christmas carols, the Crusade for Children, firemen, soldiers, ends, beginnings...We would always know when Mom was going to get teary-eyed over something. When we'd steal a glance at her, she'd hiss at us, "Don't stare at me!" and we'd look away. But out of the corner of our eyes, we could see her dabbing at her tears with a tissue because, if she caught them before they rolled down her cheeks, it wasn't technically "crying" in her book.

I'm pretty much the same way, and lately whenever I've seen all of the power workers in town, I get choked up. Can't explain it at all. I see these guys (mostly) up from Carolina and Tennessee and Georgia out working on our power in this weather for hours on end, and it gets to me. I know they are getting overtime, etc. but there is something about the way they put themselves on the line, literally, to help us out that just moves me.

Every time I see some utility workers, I roll down my window and holler a big, "Thank you!" to them. They all wave and smile and hopefully know some of us appreciate all of their hard work.

Tonight, I was taking Kyle to basketball practice when I saw this long line of utility trucks at an intersection. The yellow lights at the top of their trucks were blinking on and off while they waited for the stoplight to turn green. As I drove past them, I flashed my brights off and on, hoping that they would see my little shout out. Some of them flashed back at me, and I smiled to myself, a lump in my throat.

I mumbled to Kyle, "I am so my mother's daughter!" and he asked what I meant. I couldn't answer. My throat had closed, and I needed to catch the tears before they rolled down my cheeks.

Confused

Dad called me this afternoon. We had talked last night about the hole in his roof, and he told me that there was a tarp on it. Then this morning when we talked, he told me there was now a tarp on his roof. I responded that I was glad to know that and reminded him that we had talked last night about it. I thought maybe he had been drinking last night or maybe he had told so many people and didn't remember telling me. Whatever.

So when he called this afternoon, he said, "You know that hole you saw in the roof? It isn't a hole."

I said, "What?"

He replied, "That hole you saw yesterday with the water dripping down the wall. It isn't a hole."

I said, "Yeah, Dad, there's a hole there. I saw the sky from your living room."

He said, "No, it's not a hole. Its got that, what do you call it, that blue thing. It's not a hole."

Finally getting what he was trying to say, but shaken up by his inability to say it, I said, "Do you mean a tarp is on it?"

"Yeah," he answered. "The roof man came yesterday and put a tarp on it. It's not a hole anymore."

I said, "Dad, you've told me this twice already. Remember, we talked last night about it and again this morning. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

We talked for a minute more and then hung up.

After yesterday, and all that I did and all that is left (see "And So It Goes...), I am just really overwhelmed with my dad's needs.

I don't know what to do. I guess we are both confused...

And so it goes...

I'm sitting with a cup of hot coffee looking out my kitchen window and watching yet more snow fall on the broken branches that litter my back yard. Billy Joel is playing on Rhapsody, his music a perfect match for my melancholy mood.

Yesterday was a challenging day. Dad had been without power until Saturday night and had been staying at Colleen's, so I volunteered to take him home. I picked him up at 10, and we cruised by my house so he could see all the damage done to the trees in my yard and all the work still yet to do cleaning up the mess.

I had forgotten that since he lives way out in the county, his street is never plowed. It was still ice-covered when we turned down toward his house. I had thought my neighborhood looked bad, but his was much worse. Each and every house had branches down, gutters pulled away, trees broken in half. His house was no exception.

When my brother-in-law picked Dad up last week, he took some pictures and emailed them to me, so I knew there was considerable damage to Dad's trees. The pictures pale in comparison to the real thing. The tree on the corner that I climbed as a kid had one huge branch at the first fork that had simply split down the middle. Since it was on the corner, branches had fallen onto both roads. Neighbors had cut enough to allow one car to pass through, but that's all. There was not a bare spot of ground in the yard. Branches lay on his roof, across the sidewalk, on other branches. His flag pole had been ripped off the house, and his flag was lying in the snow covered in ice.

I carefully pulled into the ice-covered driveway and helped Dad out. With his Parkinson's, I was worried he'd lose his balance and slip on the ice, and I made a mental note to shovel the driveway later. We got inside okay, and Dad set out to look around and open the blinds and get settled. I brought his stuff in and put it on the couch and then started cleaning out the refrigerator.

This was a particularly irritating job for me yesterday. Back in September when Dad lost power due to Ike, he had let all of his food spoil and hadn't bothered to throw anything away, so after a week without power, it was gross. I don't know why I expected it to be different this time, but I did. I should have known better. I opened the fridge to find a gallon and a half of spoiled milk, eggs, cheese, lunch meat, molded vegetables, salsa, salad dressing...The only saving grace was that after just being cleaned out four months ago, there was not a lot of that accumulated food that multiplies in the doors and in the back of the shelves this time.

So I got a big, black garbage bag and began tossing stuff out. Same with the freezer. My younger sister had made Dad some "TV dinners" for Christmas, and he had thankfully taken them in a cooler when he left, so they were okay. But he didn't bother to take two boxes of mini pizzas, shrimp, popsicles, waffles...I tossed them all. Then I got hot, soapy water and scrubbed the shelves and drawers and ice tray out and restocked the frozen food. The only things that thawed out from the cooler were some sausage links. They were still really cold, so I put them in a skillet to cook up and then refreeze.

Dad was standing around looking like a lost kid. He kept asking what he could do. I looked around at the mess and thought, "Just pick something and start!" but I didn't say that. I had him break down boxes for recycling and put his suitcase away and check his furnace. He was obviously so overwhelmed and wanted to feel like he was helping that I finally told him he should go to the grocery and restock his perishables. That way he was accomplishing something and getting out of my way.

As he was getting ready to leave, I wandered into the living room. For what, I can't remember, but it was then that I noticed that I could see the sky when I looked at the ceiling. I yelled, "Dad, did you know you have a hole in your ceiling?" He came rushing into the living room. Drywall was all over the furniture and carpet. Water was dripping down the wall and onto the floor. It wasn't a big hole, but it was big enough to cause a fair amount of damage in short order if the snow and ice melted any faster. So I put the kitchen on hold and got busy cleaning up the mess in the living room. Dad got on the phone to the insurance agent and a roofer and tried to make arrangements for a temporary fix for his roof. After wiping, vacuuming, and blotting, I got a bucket to put under the drip. Dad got someone to come out that afternoon, and with nothing else he could do, he headed to Meijer's. He backed out of the driveway and immediately got stuck. A neighbor and I had to push him until he got traction enough to go.

I reran the dishwasher, swept the floor, and threw away the fruit rotting in the fruit bowl. I just shook my head at the kitchen. My mother is rolling in her grave at the state it is in. On the counter by the back door were three empty jars, two empty boxes, old mail, a box of kitchen garbage bags, and a can of Johnson's paste wax. There was no rhyme or reason for any of it. From another counter, I tossed a plate of Christmas cookies and a bag of Chinese noodles and put three plastic containers away.

After filling up two black garbage bags with food and other trash, I headed out to throw them away. The patio and driveway hadn't been touched, and the snow/ice had melted enough to refreeze into solid ice. I was terrified of Dad trying to take something out to the trash or slipping on the way to his car, so I got out my snow shovel and began chipping away at the ice. I was able to get a path up the driveway and to the house so could get in and out safely. I also shoveled a path to the trash cans so he wouldn't fall if he took any garbage out.

I was coming in to start on Dad's dirty laundry when the phone rang. It was school. They had tried me on my cell, which I didn't hear, then called Kirk who gave them Dad's number. Emily was sick with a headache, stomach ache, and fever of 100.5. Dad was still gone, but I was thinking he should be back pretty soon, so I told the school nurse that it would maybe be an hour before I could get there to pick up Emily.

I got the sausages on a tray and put them in the freezer, put the jars and boxes in the recycling, and wrote a note to Dad letting him know I had leave to get a sick kid. I headed to school and got Emily, stopped by the grocery for soup and popsicles, and came home and got her settled. She was pretty puny, but I put Nick Jr. on, and she was content.

It was getting onto 1:30, and I knew today would be cold, so I fired up the chainsaw and started working in my yard. It was pretty fun chopping things up. I made quick work of the branches we had left out front and got a stack of reasonably sized firewood going. I am not going to split logs ever again as long as I can help it!

By 3, the kids came home from school, and I had to take Kyle to guitar lessons. It was the first time I'd sat down all day, and it was good. After lessons, I worked in the yard a bit more, threw in some laundry, and started dinner.

I called Dad to see if the roof man had come (he had) and what was done. The branches are still on the roof, but there is a tarp over the hole. I told Dad he would have to call the insurance man to get the name of some tree guys to come get the branches down off the roof. I reinforced that insurance will only cover the removal of the tree from the house, so he might want to get other estimates for removing the rest of the debris, etc. Dad said, "Wait a minute, I had a thought." He was quiet for a second and then said, "Now who do I have to call tomorrow?" I almost cried.

Kirk got home from guard duty and I handed him the reins. He took Kyle to basketball practice from 7:30-9, and I sat on the couch and watched basketball on TV. My team lost. The perfect end to the kind of day I had.

I took Emily to the doctor this morning, and she has strep throat. She'll be off tomorrow too. Someone came to my door wanting "$400 cash money" to clean up my yard, but I was too cheap to pay for something I can do myself. I have a couch full of clothes to fold and more laundry to do. Kyle has to be at the science fair at school by 5:15 and then the first game of the city basketball tournament is at 8 at another school's gym. Kirk will be on duty in Frankfort until ?, and I have one kid with strep and only one of me, so I guess she'll have to go and sit on my lap and not breathe on anyone. The snow keeps falling, and I am cold, and I hate being cold.

And so it goes...

Too Much Ice for Sleep

There will be no sleeping tonight. As I sit here in the dark at 12:37 in the morning, I can hear my trees outside dropping branches one after the other as the weight of hours of ice becomes too much to bear. When we bought this house 7 years ago, it was surrounded by beautiful, big trees that shaded our house from summer sun and winter wind. So far, we've lost two---one to disease and one to Ike---and I fear we will have to take down two more once this storm is over.

The day Ike came through, Kirk was at drill in Frankfort, getting soldiers off to the Gulf Coast to help the folks down there. When our pine tree started pulling up from the ground, all I could do was stand there and watch as each gust lifted it further and further out of the dirt until it finally fell over with a quiet "woosh." Tonight, Kirk is gone again, this time on business, and I have watched helplessly all afternoon as the freezing rain fell onto the trees and coated them with, so far, a half inch of ice. Now, as the branches break off one by one, all I can do is sit here and pray that one of them doesn't land on my house or my neighbors'. So far, we've lost about 6 or 7 BIG branches. Both pine trees have lost 2 or 3 and the maple has lost at least one that I can see. It's a mess out there.

I'm also concerned that the electricity will be going out. About an hour ago, my son and I were outside listening to the breaking trees when we saw the green flashing lightning that was a transformer blowing. THAT was wild. It was just like lightning, but it was really green! It turned the sky color and made a buzzing sound. I've never seen that in real life before.

And so, I can't sleep. My kids are worried the trees will crash into the house. I'm worried the trees will crash into the house. My son is so concerned, he's sleeping on the couch in the family room! I wish I could rest, but I will probably sit here in the blue chair, watching CNN, waiting for the lights to go out, and listening for the telltale crackling sound as yet another branch crashes to the ground. With freezing rain predicted for another couple of hours and then 3 to 5 inches of snow on top of that, it's going to be a long night!