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.