Every Breath We Take

Geoff is at a funeral right now. One of his friends, (a co-worker) died on Christmas day. This was a man he met just this last year, right after I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Right before my diagnosis, this man was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. When he heard about me - Geoff and he began talking. I remember Geoff coming home so sad about this man's condition. As his condition worsened, Geoff watched him get thinner and thinner. I think seeing this man, and also knowing him - and the fact that he didn't have much time left, made Geoff realize how lucky we really were. And the whole time, this man would ask Geoff how I was doing. He was praying for me! He knew he didn't have much time left, and yet he was thinking of me. This last week, the hospital sent him home. He could barely eat. In fact, I believe Geoff told me that he couldn't eat anymore. I can't imagine being sent home from the hospital basically,... to die.

I don't think I will ever know how truly lucky I was - that my cancer was found so early. I can't imagine being diagnosed with cancer and knowing I only have a little bit of time left before I will die. Life as I know it, simply existing - effortlessly inhaling and exhaling breath,... is something I don't even think about. It is something I take for granted. Even after having a double mastectomy and going through all the recovery - I still can't relate to the fact that I could have so easily died! Never having pain or symptoms, and how I bounced back so easily after my surgeries - my whole cancer experience still seems so surreal.

And this man,... after opening his Christmas presents,..... died. I can't even imagine. As I write this, I have a really bad headache - one that is quickly turning into a migraine. But at least I can feel this pain. I am alive to have this headache. I think of this man, and of my father who passed away two years ago - and I can't imagine not being! All of us who just took a breath of air without thinking, without even realizing it - please know how lucky we are. Say a prayer for someone out there who is not so healthy or so fortunate.

And......

when this brief life

has ended,

.... the angels

shall lift us

on golden wings,

.... into the Light

from which we came.

Hell has GOT to be better than this!

I know I still have to break down and tell the hellacious story of LICE that our family lovingly received from WHO KNOWS WHERE, but it is such an exhausting experience, that I have been procrastinating. Maybe when I'm 90 and after going through hypnosis, I will be able to pull it from the depths of my mind (where I have blissfully hidden it away) and relive it. But anyway,... yesterday I felt I could NOT catch my breath in my insane race of life, merely surviving, the ridiculousness of children, evil errands, being a mom, and did I say life already? After running all over the earth and back doing errands, trying to pacify Hannah with some kind of craft,.... making phone calls and being made to wait for HOURS while customer service reps put me on hold and (I seriously believe) they must lay their heads down and take a nap - and just slaving around the house, I finally took a deep breath and tried to stop my erratic heartbeat and keep myself from having a nervous breakdown.

Of course, I could NOT keep still and simply relax. I needed to vacuum. Had such a deep urge,... an obsession because I was sick and tired of wiping my bare feet onto my pant leg to remove debris that had collected on the bottom of my bare feet simply from walking across my carpet or kitchen floor. I turned on Christmas music, gently stoked the fire and began my new task. Oh! The sheer pleasure of losing myself in vacuuming! I felt my shoulders relax. I felt a smile began to replace the "I'm going to die right NOW!" scowl that lately has branded my face. I was in heaven.

When out of nowhere, my back door burst open and London whirled in from getting off the bus. With her powerful, usual hyperactive energy, she took a moment (just for extra effect...) and just stood there - staring at me. Oh no, I thought. What is it? Surely, even at this time of year - 7 days away from Christmas, there could not be another miracle in history! But by the look on her face, I clearly knew London was pregnant - at 9 without yet ever having her period! But hey,..... a miraculous conception has been known to have happened before, right? I waited for her bomb to hit as she stared me down, and then finally announced that the older sister of the girl across the street had lice. LICE? LICE did you say? I think by this time, I would rather hear that I had breast cancer all over again!! In fact,... I would give anything for London to actually BE pregant - at 9, (without yet having her period) before I wanted lice AGAIN!

And then as I stood in bare feet on my kitchen floor, the vacuum still gracefully held by my beautiful, motherly hand - Haven reached up and took a plastic cup from the counter. NOTE: This plastic cup contained a Christmas ornament London had made the night before by pouring PAINT inside a clear, ROUND, glass ball ornament. The ornament sat IN the cup upside down, to allow the PAINT to run out, thus giving the inside a chance to dry. PAINT had collected in the bottom of the plastic cup and my girls had been fascinated by this paint-dripping procession ever since. Every hour or two, they would run by the counter to peek at the extraordinary sight of this rare, but ever-so-unusual display of gravity. I need you to take extra notes now and let me know if you did listen carefully when I said the word paint... (Now back to our previously scheduled program.)

So, as Haven, with her small, innocent hands - reached up, and took this unusual (and of course, beloved) ornament from the counter, she accidentally squeezed a little too hard and sent the glass ball OVER the edge of its protective plastic cup. And this all happened so fast, almost instantaneously. I don't even remember Haven actually lifting the cup off the counter - it was as if it suddenly and magically just appeared in her hands. And as the glass ball cascaded over the edge of its plastic world, a small bomb suddenly exploded in my house. As the glass ball hit my kitchen floor, it shattered into a million shards of colorful glass and sent gooey blobs of wet paint everywhere.

I just stood there in shock. Paint dripped off the Christmas tree, trickled down my cabinets, ran down Haven's forehead, glistened from the cat's eyeballs and landed in creative drops and streaks across my kitchen floor. Glittering beautifully,..... on TOP of the wet paint blobs, were broken, sharp edges of glass - now stuck ON the paint as if they had been thoughtfully and purposely glued on with special care. I have to admit- as I stood frozen in one spot, not daring to trod into the delicate yet dangerous mine field of bizarre and curious shrapnel,... (remember, I had bare feet) - the thought, (although fleetingly) - suddenly screamed out in my already "fried" mind, "Hell HAS got to be better than this!"

I promise, I will let you know. I have personally called HELL, and after being put on hold for hours - (I am convinced that Satan's best customer service reps don't bother to take sneaky naps, but they actually pack up and go to college for four years and THEN maybe come back to answer your questions!) But I have called. I have seen all the brochures. And I will let you know what Hell is like. Although it cost me an arm, a leg, and one of my new breast implants,..... I have made reservations, and I am GOING! I will talk to you when I return - hopefully with a new outlook on life.

Breast Cancer for Christmas

This week marks the year anniversary of my being diagnosed with breast cancer. After my biopsy, I had to wait about 10 days for my results. In encouragement, my friends and family kept telling me I didn’t know anything until the doctor called – but I knew they were wrong. I can’t explain how sometimes we just seem to know things, but I knew.

The day before my birthday, (Dec. 14th) I was trying to stop thinking about when I would get the call,….. When I did finally get the call. As I stared at the phone ringing for the second time, I just stood there. With my heart hammering double time, I finally picked up the receiver. I didn’t want to hear it - and until I actually heard my doctor’s voice, saying those words to me - there was still a shred of hope. But none of that really mattered,… because I already knew. As my doctor went on about the biopsy, nothing clicked and fully registered until I heard him say, “And yes, I’m sorry to tell you - that you do have Breast Cancer.” As my sweaty hand gripped the phone, my shaky breathing suddenly switched to gasps.

I don’t remember crying hysterically,…. It was just that after that moment tears were always in my eyes. If I wasn’t actually crying, the promise of tears were always hovering or hanging from my eyelashes. I noticed everything I hadn’t noticed before. Devouring my children with my eyes, I suddenly noticed their habits more. I saw how tall they were,…and just how beautiful they were. At night, I’d sneak into their rooms, climb slowly under their blankets and snuggle up close to them. I would lie for hours just holding them and smelling them. As the pillow beneath my head slowly became wetter and wetter with my tears, I would stare out their doorways and watch how the reflections of colored lights from the Christmas tree danced off the walls.

My mind was racing. How many more Christmases would I have with my kids,…. with my husband? Would they know how much I loved them if I died? Who would fix everything up just the way they liked? Could I really give up the sweetness of my children’s kisses and accept that I had cancer? How big was my cancer? Where exactly was it? How fast was it growing? Why didn’t I have any symptoms? Was it possible that a nurse accidentally mixed up some files and I was really okay? During the 10 days prior to Christmas, my brain was a mess. Even though I had immediately made appointments to see specialists, it was the holidays. I was forced to wait until after the New Year to see anyone.

Christmas morning, my eight year old daughter London, wanted me to open her present first. At her school they have a special store planned by the PTA. The kids bring money and pick out whatever they want as gifts for their family. To a child – this is paradise, topped off with a pink pony. Not being able to wait any longer, London eagerly placed her gift in my hands. I peeled the tape away from the bulky, uneven blob of wrapping paper. (I think she used a whole roll of tape and wrapping paper to wrap it.) Inside, I discovered a small, red embroidered box. London had taped a small note on the outside that read, “I love you mom.” - TO: Mom / From: London. I looked up at London’s face. It was glowing with love and anticipation. When I opened the box, I found a small, glass angel with a golden halo. The angel’s small, glass hands were holding a red heart.

“It’s an Angel Worry Box!” London explained with pride, opening the red box a little wider to show me a small parchment glued on the inside. “This angel will take away all your worries, Mom!” I smiled a shaky smile. So bad I wanted this simple, glass angel to take away all my worries - but I knew better. I still had cancer, and I was terrified. And as I stared at this precious gift, I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t see through the wall of tears pouring from my eyes. As my emotions rose up from inside me and ran down my face, I couldn’t do anything but make small choking sounds. I pulled London into my arms. She hugged me back just as fiercely. As the tears slid down my face, I laid my head on her shoulder and sobbed. Reaching up, London gently stroked my hair.

I took that glass angel with me when I had my double mastectomy on Feb. 13. And although I lost my breasts, I received the best presents of all. I received love, comfort, support, a family who will always be there for me (no matter what,) my beautiful angel worry box and Breath. And no matter what anyone says - love and especially breath are the greatest gifts of all!

UPDATE: My Stage 1 Invasive Cancer was caught very early. So early in fact, that doctor’s are in awe of how lucky I am/was. All of the cancer was removed during my mastectomy and nothing reached my lymph nodes. I needed no Chemo and no radiation. My doctor’s tell me I definitely had an angel watching over me. I smile because I know this is true. I did have an angel watching over me,…. a small, glass angel with a golden halo and a red heart. As a matter of fact,… she watches over me still.

“The Angel in this box

Is the guardian of your heart.

Give her your worries

And your fears,

So hope and peace can start.

Keep this box nearby you,

And know how much she cares,

For when you need love and joy,

Your Angel will be there.”

Bedtime Stories of Vicious, Wild Animals, Possible Fainting Spells and Chances of Periods

This morning, during my doctor's appointment - I was answering the nurse's questions about how I was feeling when Haven pulled my shoulder close and brought her lips to my ear. As my conversation with the nurse was put on hold, the nurse waited politely.

"Is this the kind of Doctor's Office that lets you have a sticker when you're done?" My four year old whispered innocently - yet cleverly. I knew exactly where she was going with this. The poor nurse was being ambushed. As Haven went on with her question, the nurse listened curiously.

I jumped in so we could quickly get to the point. "Do you mean,... after my visit is over - are certain little girls allowed to have a sticker," I asked. "Even if "the little girl" was not the patient?" Haven's head bobbed up and down, and a small, "Yeah! Yeah!" squeaked out. I knew that was what Haven had wanted. She even seemed to drool a little,... in anticipation.

"Oh, I bet we can find a sticker for you," the nurse said, cooing at Haven. "You have been very well behaved," she added, winking. Raising my eyebrows, I looked at Haven. The poor nurse never saw it coming. She was cunningly caught in the web of my four year old - as "the student." Haven was clearly "the master."

"What kind of stickers do you like?" The nurse asked, in a pleasant sing-song voice. "Do you like stickers with cars on them? Or maybe you like ones with princesses?" She smiled. "How about Vegie-Tales? Or I think we have some Barbie stickers?"

Haven saw her opening and dove in. "I like stickers with bunnies, squirrels, lambs, dogs, cats, horses,...." She took a deep breath. "Actually, I like any kind of animal," she admitted.

Standing up, the nurse moved as if to leave the room to possibly check for a "better sticker variety." She managed only two steps before Haven continued her explanation.

"But I don't like the scary, mean, wild - kind of animals. Not the bad, angry ones with sharp teeth, mean eyes and huge claws. Not the kind of animals that would attack you, cut you open, kill you and then eat you," she finished innocently.

The nurse tried to keep her laughter in check, but couldn't. And as she openly chuckled, she glanced in my direction - covertly and suspiciously. Her glances told me everything she was thinking. I could hear her mind turning this information over and over again -

"What kind of bedtime stories go on at their house?" Her eyes were loudly saying. "That poor little girl,.... what evil things must her mother say to her?"

Instantly, the scene changed The scene the nurse must have imagined suddenly flashed before me. Me sitting on Haven's bed, with the lights turned down low - way too low,... while dark, moving shadows lurked just inside her closet,..... With an evil smile, I'd begin a bedtime story.

"Once upon a time, Haven,.... There were vicious, wild animals hiding in the forest - outside in our backyard. These wild animals were very hungry and all day long, they would wait for innocent, unsuspecting children to walk by. And when the poor children finally did walk by,.... the evil, horrible animals would jump out from behind the trees, pounce upon the children, rip them open with their razor sharp claws, and then eat them up - piece by piece." At this point I would pause, smile again and lovingly tousle Haven's hair.

"And which teeth did they have, Mama?" Haven would whisper in excitement, pointing to the homemade necklace I proudly wore around my neck. Reaching out her tiny hand, Haven's eyes would be wide in trepidation as she touched each sharp tooth. And there were many teeth. Dangling sinisterly from the dark leather strand around my neck, there were at least 20 "sharp and very scary wild beast teeth."

"Which kind of teeth did the vicious, wild animals have?" Haven would ask again, her eyes bright in the exhilaration of the moment. "Was it that kind?" She'd ask, tracing a stubby finger against one of the longer, discolored fangs. Feeling the sharp edge, she'd quickly pull her small hand back, shocked that she actually touched it.

"No sweetie," I'd tell her, shaking my head. I'd hold her hesitant hand and guide her small fingers to the longer, thicker fang hanging on my necklace. Slowly, I'd sweep her hand along every inch of the the sharp tooth so she wouldn't be afraid. Under my supervision, Haven could feel every angle,... every edge,... every curve,... the very sharpest point of the fang,.... she could even feel the rough texture of the enamel. In awe, she would smile up at me - and I'd smile back a comforting, motherly smile.

"See Haven,... THIS was the tooth from my story," I'd inform her. Then I'd bring the fang closer and closer - and finally, (and very softly...) I'd ever-so gently, use the fang to poke against the soft, fair flesh of Haven's neck. "See how sharp this tooth is, sweetie?" I'd ask, watching her face.

Closing her eyes, Haven would do a little shiver thing, and then a wicked smile would slowly spread up her young face. "Oooooh,... scary," she'd giggle, suddenly understanding the fierce danger involved and yet completely trusting me in the moment. She'd hug me tight - still giggling,.... and then I would giggle too.

Yes. I could see everything the nurse was thinking, just from the looks she was giving me. Haven's comments about vicious, wild animals that rip you open, tear you apart and eat you up- had her seriously wondering about "story time" at our house each night.

An hour later, as I pushed my shopping cart around Target, Haven began going limp over the handles to the cart. With her head hung low, her hair hanging down over her head, the blood began pooling in her head until she had to stop and come up for a break. A glazed look had come into her eyes and small whimpering whines were escaping from the semi-paralyzed cracks in her mouth. She was clearly dying.

"Mama. I'm SO starving......" She kept repeating over and over - and then she'd put a hand to her head and seem to swoon. "I need food,....." she started again. I continued pushing the shopping cart towards the Bakery. A free cookie to each child at Target - completely saves the shopping experience. But after pushing my cart around and around a few times, we finally came to the conclusion that this Target (we were not at my normal one...) did not have a Bakery. A Target with NO Bakery? This sent Haven over the edge. She was surely going to die right here and now in my shopping cart. As we passed each mother (lucky to be blessed without their children...) Haven felt the need to moan and share her misery and near death experience to anyone within hearing distance.

"Mama, what is it called when you can't eat?" She looked up at me with half starved eyes.

"I don't know sweetie, I can't eat when I'm feeling bloated," I offered.

Haven shook her head. "No,..... you know like when your mom never lets you eat anything and your,.... your,...." She shook her head. She couldn't think of the word, but words like dehydrated? Hypoglycemia? Abused? Neglected? were running through my head. Where was all this going anyway? An observer who must have caught an ear full - turned to stare at me a moment. She took her time looking us up and down. I could tell she was seriously wondering if it was true. Was I starving my poor child? At this point, Haven hung like a limp spaghetti noodle over the handlebars of the shopping cart and her tongue was stuck dramatically out of her mouth like a dead person in a cartoon.

"You know Mama," Haven once again tried to think of the word. "Like when you are going to fall down with hunger,...." Another woman was eyeing me cautiously as she walked by. I knew she was thinking of calling social services - I'm sure of it. "FAINT!" Haven suddenly yelled, miraculously sitting up. "That's it! I'm going to faint!" She announced to the store.

"You're not going to faint Haven. It's only just 12:30. Let's go pay for this stuff and then get some pizza over there." Knowing food was within sight, Haven began cheering, "Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!"

Haven helped unload the cart by leaning into it from her upper seat position because this made things faster and the cashier could get all the food bleeped quicker. She passed me the milk just fine. She passed me the kleenex just fine. She past everything to me just fine,... but stopped short when she picked up my small box of Super Maximum OB Tampons. As I was preoccupied getting my credit card out of my wallet,.... I was unsuspecting and unaware of what was about to happen.

"My Mama uses these for when she gets her period," Haven suddenly opened her mouth and offered this little bit of information to the cashier - who was trying to hide her smirk. "She has her period right now, don't you Mama?" Glancing down at Haven, I made an ambiguous "Hmmmm" sound. Pretending to read the box as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, Haven simply stated, "I don't have my period." Looking up again, Haven smiled at the cashier and now all the other woman who had gathered behind us with their shopping carts. "I'm just a little girl," she stated matter of factly. Then slowly she raised her finger and pointed at the cashier. "But YOU get your period," she accused sharply. Glancing up quickly, the cashier looked as if someone had just suddenly poked her in the butt with a sharp pin. "And YOU get your period," Haven informed the woman behind us who was no longer smiling, but had suddenly begun reorganizing her wallet. "And YOU and YOU and YOU and YOU and the lady at the end - in the green sweater- You ALL get your periods too!" Haven was singing loudly now- making up a controversial song that no one seemed to like.

The young cashier next to us was ducking her head and had her back to Haven. Shyly and quickly, she was trying to bleep her line of groceries along- all the while hoping Haven wouldn't notice her. But Haven was mercilessly moving her head around like a tank. Determined not to miss anyone, she spotted the poor girl and pounced. "OH! And YOU get your period too!" Haven yelled, pointing directly at the young cashier who was now trying to disappear behind her long hair.

I was wearing a white sweater, but I suddenly felt like Sissy Spacek in the movie, "Carrie." You know the scene - when she gets set up at the end and a bucket of blood is suddenly dropped over her head at the Prom. As we unfortunate "Scarlet Women" one by one were called out, we merely stood frozen. Although we tried to appear normal we were breaking inside. I know I felt this way! The poor Target cashiers really must have felt like "Carrie," from the movie. In their bright, red Target shirts they all ducked their heads and desperately bleeped groceries in warp speed. When Haven and I finally pushed our shopping cart away, there were no smiles, no waves goodbye,... in fact, our cashier didn't even tell us to have a nice day.

On the way home, Haven's brain was already on the move again - because after only five minutes of silence she launched into a new topic. "Mama? If Lice lay eggs,.... and the eggs hatch,.... and the baby lice grow into mama and dada lices,.... then will those lice lay eggs too?

"Yup," I answered.

"So,... do lice have periods?" she called out innocently.

Smiling, I rolled my eyes. Kids never cease to amaze me. They hear everything and somehow piece it all together. If you just sit and watch a child,..... you can almost hear their minds ticking away as they slowly figure it all out.

"No, sweetie. Lice don't have periods,.... they just lay eggs. And they lay a LOT of eggs!"

"Hmmmmmm," Haven mumbled. Already her mind was rolling out of the station as it set off to another time and place.

The reason for her lice questions? Now that's a story in itself! A horrible, never-ending story that is STILL not over! A story and a dilemma that is going to end up giving me a nervous breakdown! We shall see where the lice story ends,..... perhaps someday I will enlighten you.

To all my good friends: keep a look out for an envelope containing 2 louses in the mail. Imagine teaching your family all about "How Lice Are Born And Raised?" Just like a loving ant farm, your children will learn so much. It could also make a great Christmas gift. Keep checking your mail! "Learning About Lice" is SOON coming to a mailbox near YOU! Compliments of ME!

My Dad

Yesterday was my dad's birthday.  He passed away two years ago in October.  A great man - he is dearly missed.  I especially miss him during holidays when we all get together.  I miss being with him.

My dad would have given me the shirt off his back.  That's easy to say.  Most fathers would do the same for their daughter.  My dad had a very kind heart and an easy smile.  When he laughed, the whole room boomed with his laughter (or possibly the whole movie theatre...)  I remember always trying to get that loud roar of laughter from him.  If you could get my dad that amused, you knew it was funny.  His approval was a slot machine in Vegas finally paying out with the loud ringing of bells and lights.  It was worth that much.

If I think about it, my dad was 100% humor.  His eyes twinkled with the hint and promise of a prank or even (to our chagrin,) a semi-risque joke.  You never knew what to expect with my dad.

But some of my best memories of my dad are when he would go into the living room and play his revered, finely polished records.  He loved everyone from Nat King Cole to Barbra Streisand.  And he always listened to them LOUD.  He'd lay his long, 6 foot frame on the couch and just link his hands behind his head.  Closing his eyes, he'd simply disappear into the music.  This was his way of escaping after a long day, and also after his hellish commutes in traffic.  I have so many memories of the world waxing low into glorious sunsets - while watching my dad.  The music held everything frozen in time.  My father's songs still do that for me.  They still have the power to stop me dead in my tracks as I'm sifting through a clearance aisle, my hand held up while studying that blouse,......  In the background, I am suddenly aware of a distant song.  Tilting my head slightly, a smile spreads slowly across my face.  Instantly I am lost in the memories of that long ago music.  As Perry Como, Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin echoes around the hordes of distracted shoppers, I close my eyes and remember.  The vivid reds, oranges and pinks suddenly wash over me and with damp eyes, I welcome them back.  For that small, brief moment - I allow everything else to disappear.  I am a child again.  My dad is lying with his hands linked behind his head in the living room and dinner is almost ready.  After a very long day, the world in winding down again.  As wave after wave of these glorious, bright colors paint the insides of my tightly closed eyelids - I stand locked alone in time,.... and no one notices the tears escaping down my cheeks.

Ode To My Father

Looking up,
I see the man who made me.
He holds me tightly,
my frail life clutched in his hands
as if he won’t let go.
He raises and feeds me,
bathes and dresses me.
He steadies me so I won’t fall.
I am young,
he’s so full of life
and we have so much time ahead.
Through his tears he watches me.
He knows his journey with me
is about to end.
It is my time to move on,
to leave him alone and missing me.
As I pass through the door into another life,
I cry out, “Goodbye dad,
I love you!”

Looking down,
I see the man who made me.
I hold him tightly,
his frail life clutched in my hands
as if I won’t let go.
I raise and feed him,
bathe and dress him.
I steady him so he won’t fall.
I feel old, he’s so full of pain
and we have no more time ahead.
Through my tears I watch him.
I know his journey with me
is about to end.
It is his turn to move on,
to leave me alone and missing him.
As he passes through the door into another life,
I cry out, “Goodbye dad, I love you!”

Christmas Shopping at Tractor Supply Co.

Well, if there is a definite "sign" that we no longer live in Massachusetts and now live in Texas, this would be the one. Last weekend, when we went to Tractor Supply Co., to buy the monstrous bags of pellets for our goats, both London and Haven almost gave birth to foals the moment they walked into the store upon discovering there was a toy aisle. A toy aisle in Tractor Supply Co., you ask? Yes. A toy aisle amongst an endless sea of John Deere green, cowboy boots, feed and water troughs, dickie coveralls and anything else Cletus the slack jawed yokel could ever hope to imagine.

There were horse, cow, goat, donkey, dog, cat, and chicken calenders, all types of plastic horses in every size, paint by number kits complete with chalky, white ceramic horses, stuffed animals of all the previously above mentioned animals (again in all sizes,),..... and as Haven discovered the "mega-size" purple and white horse on the very, very top shelf, she exploded with high-pitched cries as she leaped and jumped about like a salmon swimming upstream. It's not enough that my children's rooms (and my entire house for that matter) is in a constant state of stuffed animal chaos and confusion,... it's just that London and Haven have so many stuffed animals that I seriously need a backhoe just to clear off their beds each night. But according to them, there is always room for "just one more!"

There were giant, wooden barns in boxes bigger than a 52" TV box lining the floor under Ponyopoly, Farmopoly, Fishin'opoly, dogopoly and London's all-time favorite - Horseopoly. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Geoff cowardly sneak away to "load up the shopping cart" with the bags of pellets we came for, while I was left to monitor my girls as they had continual spasms discovering new and "cooler" things further down the aisle. I take it back,... there was not "a toy aisle," as in singular - there were about six toy aisles total. As my girls shouted out an unorganized and jumbled list of what they wanted Santa to bring them for Christmas, my brain began to hurt. Finally, I borrowed a blank piece of paper and a pen from the cashier with the piece of straw protruding from under her obvious overbite and followed my daughters around like their own personal butler. Anything I could comprehend, I wrote down. All in all, my bill (should I actually buy everything they told me to write down) would have come very close to the amount of the recent Banking Industry Bailout.

There were a few things Geoff was pointing out to me that he would like. Some insulated gloves, a welder and of course the fancy little crop he kept smacking my butt with. (Men!) But when it comes to me, I'll stick with a massage, some new perfume, a gift card to a different, more fabulous type of store or possibly simply a new CD or two. I can tell you one thing,.... there had better not be anything from Tractor Supply Co., under the tree for me! And honey, if you happen to be reading this,.... especially not the fancy, little butt crop!

Ever Faithful Forrest

This blog is dedicated to Forrest, our chow of 14 years.  What a good dog he was.

This morning, my husband took Forrest to the vet.  The appointment was really made knowing it was probably time to put him down - although my husband wanted the Vet's opinion first.  My husband got Forrest when he was a puppy.  Before I came into the picture, it was just Geoff and Forrest.  Someone told us that Chows only live to be about 8 or 9 years old, and if this is true - then I feel good knowing Forrest had a very full life.  To us, it seemed that he just didn't want to let go.  Even a few years ago when Forrest first started showing signs of being sick, he just kept plodding along and never really let it stop him.  The first sign that Forrest was getting old was probably his weakening hind legs.  He didn't seems as strong as he used to be, and sometimes his legs just gave out on him.  When this happened, it looked as though Forrest lost his footing or missed a step, but still - it never held him back.  

Even this last summer when we got three goats to help "mow" the grass, Forrest tried his best to chase after them like a young pup.  Although the goats were fenced up and kept in the back of the property, one day they managed to escape.  We were out running errands when our neighbor called to tell us that Forrest was chasing the goats around and around.  She said we needed to hurry and get home because it looked like Forrest was going to kill himself in the process.  I don't know how long Forrest chased those goats, but by the time we got home Forrest was dragging his back legs along the ground like a leper.  My husband had to scoop him up in his arms and hold him.  Forrest's poor heart was beating so fast and he was panting so hard he could barely catch his breath.  Hannah, Lauren and I just stood helplessly to the side repeating, "Poor Forrest," over and over.

Practically deaf and now getting cataracts, we always made sure to honk the horn before backing our cars up.  We knew we needed to be careful since Forrest always slept in the driveway - basking in the sun.  And if he didn't hear us drive up at all, the slamming of the car doors would startle him so much, we thought he'd have a heart attack.  Poor Forrest.

But I think it was the drooling and the smell that finally convinced my husband it might be time for Forrest to go meet his maker.  Forrest would walk around with a long strand of foamy drool hanging from his mouth, and if you weren't careful,..... he would slime you.  It seemed that he always sought me out.  He would sneak up from behind me real stealth-like and then BAM!  He'd lovingly leave a long strand of drool oozing slowly down my calf.  Imagine Forrest like the shark in the movie, "Jaws."  (If you could please hum along with me....) "Ne na.  Ne na,... ne na,... ne na,... ne na,... ne na,.... (a little faster now....)  Ne na,.. ne na,..ne na,.. ne na,.. ne na,....  I don't know why, but Forrest chose me as the one he continuously slimed. 

And the smell of his slime began getting so bad he smelled like a dog with open sores.  When the stench hit your nostrils you had to turn your head from the smell.  With the stream of drool he left in his wake and the smell - we had to change his routine and Forrest began sleeping in the garage.  He had his bed and his food and water readily available and living in Texas - it wasn't like we were condemning him to an arctic, horrific fate, but we still felt bad.

There was also Forrest's strange habit of eating dirt.  You could always find him outside, pawing the ground with his foot as he religiously broke up dirt.  Leaning into the hole he created, Forrest would lap up the loose dirt with his tongue as if he was merely licking Nestle Quik Chocolate Powder.  Sometimes as he consumed and inhaled his beloved dirt, he'd mow down ant hills and without pause he'd eat the ants too.  It was very disgusting to watch.  But Forrest was a good dog.  He protected us and he loved us.  He danced and skipped in front of our cars whenever we came home - he was always so excited to see us.  So if the dog liked to eat dirt,... then who was I to try and stop him?

When we lived in Massachusetts, Forrest would catch possums and skunks during the night.  Immediately after one of his infamous skunk kills, it seemed as if the whole world reeked of skunk.  Summertime in Massachusetts stirs up memories of the sweet perfume of "eau de putois" as Forrest saved the universe, skunk by skunk. 

Luckily, we have a lifetime of memories with Forrest.  There is "snow-covered" Forrest as he pranced and searched for buried bones in the snow.  The "going postal" Forrest, who as envelopes dropped through our mail slot - would joyfully "pounce and shred" at will.  Even funnier,... was the time Forrest shredded a check we were anxiously waiting for - (of course it was an unusually large amount,) and my husband almost peed his pants as he desperately dried to piece the check back together.  When Forrest was a puppy he fell into a 4 foot hose hole down in our basement.  (We lived in a fire station in Massachusetts.)  It took Geoff searching everywhere with a flashlight before Forrest was eventually found.  I personally reminisce about the two times Forrest bit me - because my husband told me I needed to stand up to him.  Thanks honey!  And then there was the first time we shaved Forrest for the summer (to keep him cooler.)  Unlike his usually aggressive barking self at our fence, he whined and sulked in the yard for days.  A neighbor even noticed how sullen Forrest seemed after the shaving and informed me, "that we had obviously taken away his manhood." 

And although Forrest will not dance and skip in front of our cars anymore,.... and I will not have to worry about disgusting, foamy saliva oozing down my leg anymore - there is one thing for certain.  Forrest will be missed.  In a few days, his ashes will be returned to us and we will reverently scatter his ashes into the Texas soil around our house.  Appropriately, Forrest will finally be "one" with the very dirt he loved to eat so much.  And deep down,.... I know this is exactly where Forrest would want to be.

To Bug Or Not To Bug

Okay,.... this next blog is going to sound really, really strange.  Believe me,... I know it will.  It sounded really strange to me too.  

It was in the middle of the night about a month ago.  All of a sudden, my husband began flipping around like a fish out of water.  Woken from a deep sleep, my first thought was that he was having a spastic seizure or something.  Sitting up, he began slapping himself violently under the blankets.  He now had my full attention.  

Rolling over, I watched him through sleepy eyes.  It seemed he was directing his slapping attack to his legs area.  As if attacked by fire ants, he wiggled around and around convulsively, and if I remember correctly - I seem to recall small whimpering sounds coming from his mouth.  Sitting up, I slowly lifted up the blankets to see what could possibly be attacking my husband.  My husband is not a baby.  My husband normally never complains.  To hear his high pitched, girly moans, I knew something had to be under there.  Suddenly, with a quick flick of his wrist, it looked like my husband scooped something out from under the blankets and sent it flying over me.  The sound of a small tap came from my left side.  

"What did you just do?"  I asked, turning back to my husband.  

Gyrating around, it looked like he was grimacing.  "There was something climbing on me under the blankets!"  He grunted, clenching his teeth together in obvious pain.  

"Did it bite you?"  

"I don't know!  I didn't feel a bite, but something definitely happened!"  He was shaking his head.  "I felt something wet,....  I think that when I was slapping it,...... maybe I injured it and something inside of it leaked a wetness on me."  In the darkness of our bedroom, my husband had had a crazed, confused look in his eyes. "Whatever it was,... it burns like fire! Do you think that's possible?" My husband looked at me. "That a bug could have spit out some kind of fire saliva that is making my skin burn and sting?" 

As I lifted up the blankets again and peered inside, I could see that my husband was rubbing his "dangly."

NOTE:  I know I said in "What I Would Do If I Were President - (Written by a 9 Year Old,") that I didn't think parents should teach their children words like "hoo ha's and danglies," but that's not we're talking about here.  And HELL!  I'm an adult here, and I can do what I want on my blog!  And I don't feel comfortable talking about my husband's penis outright - so I will refer to it here forth as a "dangly".  Any questions?  Any problems?  Good. Then, let's continue.

"A fire saliva?"  I repeated, surely not hearing correctly.  

"Yeah,...." My husband was nodding his head and inspecting his body parts.

"A bug that spits a fire saliva?"  I said again, peering over the edge of the bed and trying to see whatever my husband had flicked on the floor.  I peered into the darkness.  I wanted to know what a bug that spit fire saliva looked like.  "Turn on the light,"  I ordered, afraid to set foot on the floor.

"YOU turn on the light."  My husband growled, grabbing his pillow and laying back down.  "If you want to see it, then you turn on the light.  I've already experienced it!"

For a few minutes I sat there actually fighting with myself about getting up and turning on the light.  I really wanted to see the bug that was capable of spitting "fire saliva" on my husband's dangly.  But laziness got the best of me, and I figured if the bug was real - then it would still be there in the morning.  Right?  I mean,.... surely a bug could not survive all that slapping around as well as an incredible hurl up against the wall?  Tomorrow, I told myself sleepily.  Tomorrow was another day.

The next morning, my husband was up before me (as usual.)  Suddenly remembering the "bug incident" from last night, I sat up in bed.  "So where is this bug that allegedly molested you in the night?"  I called into the bathroom.  

With purpose, my husband strode out of the bathroom and over to my side of the bed.  With a piece of tissue in his hand, he bent down and preceded to pick up a little, black beetle from the carpet.  With great pride, he held the bug out to me.  Victory shone from his face.

"I've seen that kind of bug before,"  I told him.  Bringing my head closer to the tissue, I tried to get a better look.  Yeah,... it was the same type of small, black beetle that I found crawling across our floors quite often lately.  Laying in the tissue with its little legs all shriveled up, I smiled to myself.

"What?"  My husband asked, seeing my amusement.

"It's just that,.... "  I smiled up at my husband now.  "That's a pretty scary looking bug, honey."  I said with sarcasm.

"Whatever."  Trying not to smile himself, my husband marched back into the bathroom.  I could see in his face that he still wasn't sure just what had happened to him during the night.  Could it be?  Could this bug possibly contain some kind of acid juices that stung and burned his dangly?  Can a bug actually be capable of spitting out a fire saliva? "Whatever happened," my husband called out, "this is the bug."  The flushing of the toilet made it final.

For a good week or so afterwards, my husband complained about the sore spot on his dangly.  It burned.  It stung.  Now it felt like the skin was flaking off or peeling where the bug had been.  I went online and looked for anything about fire salivating beetles.  I couldn't find a thing.  I did find a type of beetle that had a bitter taste to them.  This survival mechanism was to help deter birds from eating them.  Could this "bitter" liquid inside the bug possibly burn or sting anything it came in contact with?  I had no clue.  But whatever the reason for my husband's burning dangly,..... it remained a mystery.

Last night, I was cleaning up after dinner when my cat suddenly ran into the kitchen.  Opening his his mouth, he spit out a small, black beetle.  Hey!  I thought..... That bug looks just like my husband's "dangly" bug.  Squatting down, I inspected it closer.  Lying completely still, the bug was obviously dead.  Wait!  I had an idea!  Where had my cat gone?  If I could determine that my cat was acting strangely after having this bug in his mouth, then we would finally know for sure! 

I found my cat sitting on my bathroom floor and doing the strangest thing!  I have raised my cat from a mere kitten, and I have had him 14 years - but I have never ever seen him do this type of behavior before.  Sitting there, he was just shaking his head back and forth.  At the same time, he was sticking out his tongue and moving it around and around like a psycho cat!  It looked as if he had just tasted something horrible!  Over and over again, I watched him stick out his tongue, open his mouth as wide as he could and shake his head around in circles. It was very obvious that something was definitely not right with my cat.  

"Honey!"  I yelled.  "Come here quick!"  

When my husband came into the bathroom,  I explained what had happened.  He listened while watching my cats strange behavior.  Then I led him back to the kitchen to see the bug.

Putting his hands on his hips, my husband shot me a dry look.  "It's nice to know you believe the cat, but not your own husband!"

"Honey!  That's not true," I denied.  "I believed you, but you know as well as I do that something is wrong with Mook!   I pointed my finger.  "Have you ever seen him do this before?" 

At this particular moment, the bug suddenly came to life and darted across the floor.  Obviously we were dealing with an intelligent bug, for he knew when "to get the hell out of Dodge!"  Not only did it seem this bug might be bitter to the taste and could quite possibly have the super ability to spit out fire saliva,..... but he also was able to "scurry" with incredible speed.

"Get him!"  My husband and I both yelled, diving towards the box of tissues.

The bug was caught and immediately dropped into the toilet.  We stood watching him whirl around and around the toilet bowl.  With a swoosh, the bug was gone.  It was at that moment that I suddenly had the hindsight to think that I should've taken a picture of this mysterious bug.  I could've posted the photo with this story.  Because as far as my readers are concerned, I could simply have a very vivid imagination - (like in my other post, "Alien Invasion.")  

Oh well,... perhaps I'll post the fire salivating beetle photo another time.  Hopefully, I will find another one,... before it finds my unfortunate husband or my curious cat.

From the Mouths of Babes.......

Haven after a "sidewalk face plant" this past summer. She is fine now. The sidewalk? Now that's a different story.....

I had some fun,..... (should I say amusing?) moments with my almost 5 year old today. First we went to my Plastic Surgeon - (free plug here.... www.drstrock.com - Dr. Louis Strock. Who is one of the BEST Plastic Surgeons in Fort Worth, TX., if not "THE best!"

Anyways, Haven was playing on the floor in the doctor's office. She usually brings her large, purple bag filled with webkinz and makes up some drama with each animal having very big attitude and very big adventure. I sat in the chair, having just donned the all too familiar cloth gown, and read a magazine with one hand, while trying to keep the top of my gown closed with the other. I don't know why I bother. Dr. Strock has seen me so many times in the last year, he could play "pin the nipple" on my chest in the dark! The fact that I do not have any nipples yet, only means he will be seeing a lot more of me in the future.

Haven is now spinning on the heel of her shoe, her arms wide open and making a loud, "Zhoooom!" sound as she pushes herself into yet another unbalanced turbo twirl. I am the first to admit I am not a very patient person and it takes only about 15 of these "Zhoooooms!" before I slowly bring my hands down and stare blankly at her from over the top of the pages.

"Haven, can you please stop," I ask her softly.

She continues to spin - her "Zhoooom!" a little louder than the last one.

"Haven?" I say,.... my voice hanging like a question.

Another "Zhooooooom!" rips from her mouth.

"Haven?" My voice raises a bit and then trails off threateningly.

"Fine!" Haven freezes mid twirl and shrugs her shoulders.

Resuming my reading, my eyes search for where I left off in the magazine. Behind the pages, I can hear Haven talking.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" She begins. "I'm sorry, but we won't be having any fun tricks today,...."

I lower the magazine to see who she's talking to. She has bowed low and is addressing her webkinz who sit perched on the doctor's rolly stool with the leather circle cushion.

"I have been told there will be no tricks allowed,....." She again bows and then flashes me an angry look. "The mean giant over there has spoken!"

Where she gets these things is beyond me. I admit that I am dramatic (sometimes,... okay a lot!) but I do not walk around the house with a booming voice, "Ladies and gentlemen! It is now time to come to the kitchen table for a meal! The big, mean giant has spoken! Cease with your playing and come now!"

I really need to get her on Barney. She would be perfect. She has just the right amount of drama as well as the perfect amount of flair for Mayberry. She says things to me that sound like Ron Howard himself as he peers up into Andy Griffith's face, freckles innocently dotting his fair features.

"I know I can't have this cookie Mama," Haven will say, coyly ducking her head and batting her eyelashes at me. As her little hand holds out a cookie, she'll add, "but I got it for you because I love you so much."

Nice try kid. Haven knows as well as I do that I would not take that cookie, eat it and let her watch from the sidelines - dejected and cookieless. All I can say is,.... she's really good.

Our next stop of the day was Walmart. As I browsed through the young girl's department, Haven was watching the employees as they redecorated for the holidays. To our left, they were redressing mannequins and Haven was fascinated by the whole process.

"Look Mama!" Haven's voice suddenly broke through the peaceful Christmas music playing around us. "That naked person has no nipples just like you!"

Every head within hearing distance turned to look at us. The grandma looking lady (most likely shopping for grandkids) looked over at us with apprehension. Possibly her hearing aid had failed her? Did that child just say nipples? The man at the end of the hunting aisle had turned and was squinting our way. Using his trained, sniper vision - his piercing glare was attempting to see through my blouse to know whether or not this was true. The Walmart employees just stood there staring. I could almost hear them thinking, "Why would this woman have no nipples? And why would the word nipples even be in this child's vocabulary?"

There are many times when a mother just knows it is time to check out of a store and head home. This was one of those times.

When we got home, Haven wanted to skate. This is one of the many milestones in a child's life. Conquering the monkey bars is another one we have to look forward to. I buckled her safety skates on and brought my laptop outside to watch her. She failed horribly at trying to "skate" up our driveway (which is slightly uphill,) and she finally collapsed on the cement, breathing heavy from exertion.

"Why am I not going anywhere?" She yelled in frustration.

I explained how she first needed to learn how to skate and actually move forward before she tried to skate up a hill. She walked to the end of the driveway on the grass and began gliding down. She was doing pretty good, but I was having problems viewing anything on my screen in the sunlight, so I ducked back inside the house. Next thing I knew, Haven was making that sound where you're not sure if they're laughing or crying. It sounds like crying but has that breathy sound of laughter too.

I ran outside to see her sitting on the driveway, tears running down her face.

"What happened?" I asked her, pulling her to her feet.

"I fell and my knee came up and hit me in the chin!" She stammered. Her chin was pink where I imagined her knee had clunked. "And then my teeth knocked together and bit my tongue!" She wailed, struggling to get her skates off.

That,... I wish I'd seen. Just by her wildly, gesturing reenactment, it looked hilarious. Where is my video camera when I really need it?

"Did I crack open my tongue?" She asked, sticking her tongue out all the way for me to inspect.

"No sweetie, you didn't," I assure her, kissing her cheek. "But let's go inside and have a cookie, okay?"

Forgotten are Haven's recent injuries. Forgotten is the fact that half the shoppers at Walmart now know me as the "the one who has no nipples." Forgotten is how the mean giant had outlawed any fun tricks in the doctor's office. Forgotten is everything but the pure happiness of the promise of a cookie. Cookies are good that way.

What I Would Do If I Were President (written by a 9 year old.)

My daughter London brought home a paper she had written in school. It's was called, "What I Would Do if I Were President." Very interesting perspectives coming from a 9 year old. (Please note that the following opinions do not necessarily reflect my beliefs.)

I know London listens and hears a lot of what I say,.... but she also has her own opinions - (refer to #11.) And admitting that she does overhear a lot of what I say,..... just keep in mind that I also say a lot. We talk about most everything within our family because I believe that my children should be aware of what is going on in the world. I do not believe in sugar-coating, and I feel impressed to allow my children to actually know of real life events and concerns. Why should I bubble-wrap them all up and then one day, simply watch them walk out my door and into a world that they have no concept of?

I don't understand people who call body parts, "hoo-ha's and danglies" just because they feel their kids are too young to know what they are really called. I believe the more knowledge you give a child, the more they are not likely to sneak around and try to learn these things on their own later. Adamantly tell a child they cannot "do this" and are banned from "doing this" - and I believe they are more likely to want to do it because of common curiosity or peer pressure. Talk with them about the why's and the reasons for not doing these things. Explain the consequences and how it will affect them or others around them later in life.

But like I said before,... at our house we talk about most things and even if it's not my opinion, we discuss it. Sooner or later, they will come in contact with someone who does believe these things - and if they're not prepared, they may possibly be influenced by these ideas. I normally like to lay it all out on the table for them and then let them come to their own opinions. But like most parents know, children tend to believe a lot (if not most) of what their parents believe in. Raise a child to eat jellybeans, syrup and kool-aid for breakfast, and they will come to believe that is what you should eat for breakfast.

It's scary knowing our children are blobs of clay in our hands, and we as parents (whether we mean to or not) mold them daily into the people they will someday become. So watch yourselves,.... because your children are definitely watching you! (Just thought this paper was cute and funny and it made me wonder what the other kids in her class wrote!)

London's Paper: "What I Would Do if I Were President."

(Please remember - these are London's thoughts...)

1. I would give toys to poor kids.

2. I would make all wild animals safe.
3. Kids at the day cares would be payed for.
4. The Mexican's could come into the USA and get jobs.
5. I would lower taxes.
6. Make people calm down the war.
7. People with cancer would get the best care.
8. If you are sick you would have it payed for.
9. The schools would get free equipment.
10. Any people who treat animals wrong would get arrested.
11. The fee for speeding near a kid zone would be $1,000.00

Alien Invasion

Having your roof redone while you are in the house is a bit like being invaded by aliens or imagining that the "Big Bad Wolf" is coming down your chimney.

From the past summer hail storms, there have been a few things "redone" around our house. Originally, the roof was overlooked, but when a different Insurance Rep. came out to "inspect" all the renovations,... "Voila!" Suddenly our roof was noticed. (Of course, when we brought it to their attention earlier - along with all the other damage,.... heads shook, casual hands dismissed our concerns....) But it seems a new roof was in the cards,... because today the roofers are here!

I have never been claustrophobic. As a child, I could always bend myself quite easily into tiny hiding places, even holding out for a long time until someone found me. Small, cramped, (even dark spaces) have never bothered me. But this morning, as I listen to the swarm of workers rapidly closing in on me from up above, I find myself strangely anxious.

It's kind of like the movie, "Signs" by M. Night Shyamalan. The first "sign," is the immediate scraping of the shingles coming off. If you close your eyes and just imagine,.... it really sounds like creatures scaling your roof,... their many legs clambering around creepily while searching for a way in.

The second "sign," is the deafening banging. It seems the creatures are now actually "kicking" portions of your roof in - or possibly "stoning" your house from their spaceships above. Of course, the loud shriek from my 4 year old only strengthens my flair for fantasy. As Haven comes barreling into my room,... her eyes are wide with terror. She was sleeping when the roofers arrived, and only now is wondering who and what is going on from the other side of her ceiling. (I guess I should have softly woken her and explained everything before she pictured "A Monster" noisily breaking into her room and coming in after her!)

My whimsical, alien daydream is so real now, that I half expect Mel Gibson to come crashing in through the back patio door, holding a shotgun in his hand. He's discovered "crop circles" outside in our tall, yellow Texas grass and he's sure it means something! To be perfectly honest, Mel Gibson coming in through my back patio door at any time, (shotgun or not) would be a rather titillating surprise!

"Why! Good morning Mel! Have you had your coffee yet? No, NO!..... No bother at all! Cream or sugar?") Okay, Lori - pull yourself together and focus! Let's get back to your story....

As the "spaceship stoning" slowly fades, you wonder what attempt the aliens will use at their invasion next? Your mind is leaping ahead,....

"Should I board up the windows with plywood? Maybe grab the cat, a flashlight, the frantic 4 year old, some snacks,... possibly my laptop and flee to the depths of my closet?" See? The noises are so real and visual to me that I'm actually caught up in this image of a real alien attack! But that's exactly what having your roof redone (while you are inside your house....) feels and sounds like.

'Ring! Ring!' Oh great! The phone! It's probably my mother down the road calling to warn me about the great swarm of spaceships hovering over my house!

"Haven! You stay right here in the closet! Don't come out - no matter what! Mama will be right back! Stay here and protect Mook!" (Mook is the poor cat we've dragged into the closet as well as into our insane imaginative whim.)

"Hello? Yes, I know! We are hiding! Well, I was hiding before you called me! Things are under control! I know,.... it should be all over soon! I don't know how soon,.... but they move really fast and they're already half done! I know amazing, huh? Okay,..... you be careful too. Goodbye!"

Retracing my steps, I can see Mook's eyes glowing yellow from the depths of my closet. Under the far reaches of my clothes rods, he is hunched down and is peeking out from under the protective hemlines of my dresses. Letting out a timid "M e o w," the sound seems somewhat mournful against the creepy sound of wire hangers clanging up against each other.

"Mama,.... It's too dark in here." Haven whimpers, half scooting into my lap. Her urgent little hands are pushing into my armpits, searching for a hiding place. Her breath is warm on my neck. "I'm scared," she admits, trying her best to climb back into my womb.

"I am too honey," I admit, prying her off my lap and feeling around for my flat laptop on the floor. "Here,...." I offer. As I open the lid to my computer, cold, blue light spills around us. "Maybe this will help," I whisper, pulling her close. As we lean over the computer screen, a small smile spreads across her face.

"Oh cool!" She breathes, relaxing a bit. "Let's watch a movie!" Concentrating on the familiar comfort of technology, she is instantly gratified.

"Okay," I agree, clicking on a desktop icon. I will do what I have to do. If I must put on a brave face for the reassurance of my child - than that is what I must do. Even without Mel Gibson, I know that Mook, Haven and I have what it takes to ride out this terrifying alien invasion together - and civilization will live on!

The Color Of Cancer

This is the first poem I've written about having breast cancer since my diagnosis in Dec. 2007. I wanted to write one about cancer, and knew it was inside me (no pun intended....) It just took a while to work its way out. When you find out you have cancer, this complete and utter fear invades every part of you. I just kept wondering, "how big is it?", "where exactly is it?", "what shape is it?", "how fast is it growing?", and also wondered, "what color is cancer?" I feel this poem explains all the images I believed cancer to be.

The Color Of Cancer

If cancer had color,
would it be bright red with horror-
its heartless vines stretching
like fresh blood spatter on a wall?

Or maybe purple-
royally empowered with greed,
plundering poor cells and leaving no survivors?

Do I imagine it yellow-
oozing sickly jaundice,
while weakening the body, turning strength into stench?

Or possibly blue-
frosty and unfeeling,
like a cold I.V. slowly dripping icy fear?

I can picture it green-
sprouting spores of fresh fungus,
rapidly spreading poisonous polyps.

I once thought it black-
casting pure evil, cursing my soul,
a Salem witch hanging heavy on my heart.

But now know it’s white-
cut out with my breasts
cleansed free, I own breath,
my baptism of birth and a gift of my worth.

Laying Low....

I haven't written for awhile,.... kinda been lying around recuperating from my 2nd surgery following a double mastectomy.... but feeling much perkier now! I wanted to share a story that affected me and my youngest daughter a few years ago. Most of the time, I think we believe our children learn from us, as parents,.... but many times, parents can learn so much from our children.
During my experience with breast cancer, my daughters have learned quite a bit. They have not only learned what a woman goes through physically with surgery, but what a woman goes through emotionally as well. Although this came as an unexpected and emotional speed bump in my life- as a family, we have realized there is so much potential for analyzing life in general and to be so thankful for what we still have.
When you are diagnosed with cancer, you have to stop and think- "What is more important? Breasts? Or Breath?" When I was faced with this decision earlier this year in February, I felt very confident about my decision. Scared to death, but confident. And everyday, when I look at myself in the mirror, then look around at my life, and at my children and husband,... I know that I chose breath. Cancer no longer owns me. I faced cancer head on, hauled my foot back and kicked it hard in the butt! And now, I own breath! This concept is something I know I have taught my two daughters,... something they will always remember.
The following post explains how my youngest daughter once taught me. Looking back now, perhaps this is the reason I was able to look cancer in the eye and conquer it so completely,....

Three Year Old Vs. The Ant Hills

I heard her screaming. From somewhere in the backyard, her long, shrill cries blasted my ears like the siren of a distant fire engine interrupting a calm day. I ran. I didn't know where I was going, but I ran in the direction I believed her cries were coming from. Her screams clearly told me something was wrong. Images of broken teeth hanging from a bloody mouth filled my mind. She was a tough three year old, but the sheer panic and pain projecting from her lungs, told me it was much more than just a casual fall, a scraped knee or even the possibility that her 7 year old sister may have clunked her in the head with a baseball bat.
In sheer panic, I raced to find the screams. As I pushed through the screen door, I heard it slam behind me as if in slow motion. I caught sight of my three year old as she turned the corner and came barreling into the garage. With her little legs pumping, she was half running, half stomping towards me. Wildly waving her hands around, she resembled someone mimicking a strange ancestral dance of some sort. Running to her, my confusion was clear on my face. As she got closer, her frantic screams penetrated my fragile eardrums. Once I got a good look at her, I knew at once what was wrong.
A normal warm day in Texas, I had dressed her in shorts, a t-shirt, socks and sneakers. As she squirmed in pain, I could see that her small legs, from her shoes to up past her knees, were swarming with medium sized fire ants. They were everywhere! Screaming myself now, I began stripping her down. Within seconds, in the shelter of the garage, my three year old stood before me in only her underwear.
Ants were inside her shoes. They had made it inside her socks. Small, pink mounds were already visible against her tanned, toddler skin. They were between her toes. There were ants up her thighs. Off came her underwear! Managing to penetrate into her underclothing, the ants had attacked her small, delicate bum where bumps were already looking like a furious, festering diaper rash. A few stubborn ants still clung tightly to her skin, their teeth digging in as their bodies gyrated back and forth in anger. With forceful pinches, I plucked them off her, flicking them away as quickly as I could.
Picking up my baby, I cradled her into the kitchen where I sat her up on the kitchen counter. Closely, I began my inspection. By this time, my daughter had stopped screaming. She was merely moaning now, humming her painful tune over and over again, like a vacant, tedious dial tone. Cooing and comforting her, I moved swiftly and resourcefully, as a mother soon learns to do. Swabbing a cool washcloth over her swollen, heated legs, I pulled her close and hugged her. With smooth, loving fingers, I wiped her dirty, tear streaked face and tried to console her.
The end result? My 3 year old had about 30 fire ant bites dotting each small, chubby leg. There were possibly 60 bites in all. Like I said, she's a tough, little girl. And although I hated that this had happened to her, I was just glad she was tough. After cleaning her up, I applied cream with lots of hugging and kissing in between, and she was fine. She was my little trouper. However, this incident did leave her with a fresh, new fear of playing on the grass.
Running to the edge of the driveway, she'd suddenly stop. I was quickly summoned to fetch her ball, each and every time it rolled off her sanctuary of pavement and drifted into the realm of dark and evil anthills. Every small pain or itch she experienced after this, was screamed out in sheer terror. She believed every small twitch or scratch was a new surprise attack of ants, and she would jerk and cry out in her sleep as if reliving her horror, over and over. Anyone who came to our house was suddenly bombarded with her traumatic tale. They'd listen patiently, their laughter clearly in cheek as her story laborously played out complete with animated gestures and dramatic charades. It was very obvious the whole experience had deeply affected her.
So for a while, my 3 year old daughter became my inside buddy. As I cleaned, cooked, and kept the house in order, she would watch TV or play quietly in her room. She would try on her older sister's outfits (and a natural born shoe lover) she would wear every shoe in the house by days end.
Meanwhile, during this time, my husband and I were trying to get our home business back up and running. We had recently relocated to a different state and our finances were not what they had fortunately been, before the move. With every passing day, we found ourselves stressed. Vividly, we watched our small savings dwindle into nothingness. Daily, I was plagued with headaches, and I'd wake myself in the middle of the night with the continuous clenching of my teeth. As we both became more and more engrossed in our stress, we soon found that our fuses were much too short. Tempers flared and patience was meager.
Adding more to our plate, my ailing father suddenly passed away. After the funeral, the only thing I could feel was "beat up" and "broken." Upon returning home, once again, my husband and I turned our attention to the daunting lack of business and our bleak money situation.
The first weeks following my father's death, found me simply lying awake at night. Racing thoughts bounced and bounded through my head, recalling my many images of childhood. Silently and secretly, I grieved and missed my father terribly. I'd catch myself sobbing four or fives times during the day and soon I stopped applying mascara or make-up at all. After all, I just cried it off anyway. I hardly left the house, and the only time I ventured outside was to aimlessly wander down the driveway to miserably collect more bills. Finally succumbing to the need off having food in the house, I dragged myself into the car and miraculously accomplished the overwhelming task of grocery shopping.
Only after hearing that my older sister, after 20 years of marriage and with four children - was divorcing her husband, did I feel like falling to my knees and giving up. As I trudged across the lawn, returning from a short visit to my husband's backyard studio, I suddenly stopped in my tracks, feeling exhausted and ready to give up. As if attacked by my own personal fire ant hill, I felt the painful sting of stress mixed with the merciless throbbing of my tremendous trials. My faith trampled, my emotions screaming, I overflowed with sorrow and endless dread.
Raising my eyes skyward, I clenched my fists in frustration and cried out angrily. "Please dear Heavenly Father," I shouted in a challenging voice and searched the clouds for a sign - any sign. Frantically, I peered into the heavens, hoping for a miracle.
"Dad?" I begged softly, my voice breaking with emotion; my shoulders sagging, "I miss you so much." Hot tears slid dejected down my cheeks, and I sniffed. "If you can." I pleaded. "Please send some help. We're going to lose our new house," I told him, as if he didn't already know everything as he watched me from his heavenly perch on high. Suddenly, I felt something tugging at my shirt.
"Mama?" A squeaky voice suddenly brought me back to the present. I was still standing in my sunny backyard, halfway to the house on my way back from my husband's studio. With tears running down my face, I looked down to see my three year old daughter. At first, it didn't hit me, but then I realized. Shocked, I stared down at her. My daughter was actually standing on the grass! It had been weeks since she'd left pavement and set foot on the lawn. As understanding slowly sank in, I smiled.
My three year old was standing on the grass in her tall, yellow rain boots. Looking up at me, a victorious smile began to spread across her precious, little face. Tugging at my shirt again, she made an announcement.  "I'm ready to play outside now," She informed me, her voice confident with pride. "The ants can't get me if I wear my boots."
Wiping my eyes, I inhaled a shaky breath and nodded. My three year old had found a way to conquer her ant hills. It had taken about three weeks, but in the end she had come out the winner. Exhaling slowly, I looked up at the sky again and promised myself that I would keep trying.
My husband's business has still not "taken off" to its full potential. We still worry about what we will do and how we will pay the bills, but each day, I get up and wait for opportunity to knock. And when it doesn't, I smile and somehow make it through the day. I still miss my dad and know I will have days when I simply break down and cry. But when I'm done with the tears, I wipe my eyes and turn to find my little example.
She is sitting on a booster chair at the kitchen table with glue, construction paper and safety scissors. She looks at me, and her love and happiness lights up the whole house. She has taught me a lesson. When my daughter was faced with adversity, she took her time in figuring out a way to overcome it.
As I watch her, daily stumbling along after her older sister, I know she has faced her inner demons and won. Dressed humbly in shorts, a t-shirt and her yellow, knee high rain boots, she marches triumphantly across the back lawn. She is a conqueror in her own might. No longer a prisoner of pavement, she is now protected by her ever-faithful, yellow boots. With her own great power, she stomps forward, facing and treading over her enemy.
As she turns to look at me, she smiles and waves. Holding my head up high, I smile and wave back. I find I am not only smiling at my little three year old, but at her prevailing stamina. I also smile at the strength she has unknowingly taught me. It is perhaps the most valuable gift anyone has ever given me.

4th Of July

July 4th - Being done delivering a Bounce House and Slide is a very good feeling.  Until you have set up a 350 lb. Bounce House and a 550 lb. Slide, you have no idea!!  We delivered one for a neighborhood party in Fort Worth for the 4th of July, and as we got close to our location, we were in awe as we entered into such a quaint, little housing area.  Tall, well pruned, older trees cast a cool shade over the already 87 degree morning.  It was only 7:50 am, but it was gonna be a hot one!  An old fashioned, pushcart ice cream wagon rested against the curb, coolers sat nearby overflowing with ice and bottles of water, and a table nearby that was stacked high with about 20 boxes of donuts had my girls scampering about with giddiness.

After setting up the Bounce House and Slide, we locked our car and walked to the corner. Families were already sitting and waiting for their annual neighborhood Fourth of July Parade to begin and we decided to join and watch the parade too.  Laughing, we watched the crowds walk past with their family pets dressed up in red, white and blue on creative, colorful leashes.  We pointed out our favorite pooches to each other and waited with the others for the parade.

Sitting there with my husband and two girls, I felt a strange deja vue.  The park surrounding this neighborhood reminded me of a park in Milford, CT., where my younger sister lives.  I half expected to turn my head to the right and see the all familiar cascading waterfall complete with turning waterwheel.

Later that night, sitting on the steps of our back porch, my husband and I watched the girls write their names in the darkness with gold, sizzling sparklers.  Overhead, fireworks exploded in the distance.  All around us was the sounds of the 4th of July.  Some may say it was nothing too spectacular, yet for us it was true paradise.  Sometimes it's just the little things in life that mean so very much and leave the biggest memories.