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.”

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!

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!

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.

Torrential Tantrum!

Wow!  My 9 year has attitude, but my 4 year old's got voice!  Taming tantrums is definitely a class I must have dropped in college,..... because it's kicking my butt now!  If you've ever been in the throes of a 4 year old fit, you know what I mean.  Maybe this poem will help explain it a little better,......

Dance Of The Furious

Stomping feet,

stubborn with contention

taps to center stage

demanding apt attention.

The lady of the dance

her rituals in rhythm,

screams a new recital

drowns in deep emotion.

Conductor of such drama

orchestrated tears,

finesse of throwing tantrums

Maestro,... not yet five years.

Eyes dripping defiance

hot cheeks painted pink

"Give gasping sobs an encore!"

Her costume is complete.

Lucky you with backstage pass

envious front row seat,

grand performance just begun -

she collapses in a heap.

Acted with such feeling,

"An Oscar to that child!"

in perfect character, a natural pro,

with credits she's compiled.

Aim the spotlight, show goes on

we move onto Part II -

tonight's a Double Feature,

the audience - lucky you.

Relax and take a deep breath,

lights are dimming low

you've heard it said, "this too shall pass,"

sit back, enjoy the show.

Giving up the fight.

Today I ironed. I hauled out the ironing board, cleaned off the semi-calcified burn stains on the face of the iron - and actually ironed. Because I so rarely iron, it is always a learning experience for me all over again. Today was no different. As I fought off my 9 year old - who tormented me with her insistence that she knew how to iron, while at the same time spelled words ever so S L O W L Y for my 4 year old, (she was busy making a father's day card) - I continued my ironing and counted to ten over and over again.

The phone rang. Someone was hungry. "I need toilet paper!" Everything told me I was not supposed to iron. But as gas prices selfishly gauge us, leaving us scarred with injustice, I knew I needed to do my part to save money.

I lived in Taiwan once. There the average family rides around on a mere moped. The father drives. He has a child sitting in front of him, another child (possibly two) standing on the platform between him, (and the sitting child) and the handlebars, and the mother sits leisurely in the rear - holding the bags of groceries on her lap while a baby is strapped to her back. The first time I saw this, I stood with my mouth gaping and watched them go by like a circus freak show. Because there's no speed limit (that I was aware of) in Taiwan, cars literally speed past like the Indy 500. I never got over the frantic feeling of flight as I desperately tried to cross the street. I always felt as if I was dressed in a bright, green frog costume and was starring in the video game Frogger. If and when I did attempt "street crossing" and actually made it, I had to keep myself from bouncing around on the curb like Rocky Balboa when he finally won a fight.

So as I stood ironing, warm and sticky with the heat of the iron (imagining this must be what hot flashes feel like,) I fantasized about buying a moped. I could do it. I only had a 9 year old and a 4 year old to balance! If they could dive and flip and flop and leap from my couch and chairs in the family room like circus clowns, they could surely accomplish this small feat! I had no doubts they could even successfully hold the groceries during the ride home. With my mind spinning into the future, I began designing my moped. We could all have stylish helmets and could even have matching moped outfits and gear! But this of course, would deplete the original idea of trying to save money......

But I could clearly see this happening! Maybe just a small splurge for a bright pink t-shirt with "Moped Mama!" flashed across my chest. I could see it now,.... as we drove down country side roads, my girls' ponytails flying in the wind, our cheeks flushed from the sun and fresh air - children and dogs waving to us as we whizzed by,..........

"Mama! Haven has Mook locked in the bathroom and is trying to dress him in webkinz clothes!"

In a split second, my moped moment burst into a million pieces and fell around my feet. Once again, I was standing in my family room, slaving over a hot iron. As "Master Of All That Is Chaos," I began my new mission of rescuing my cat from the bathroom. I would hide him in my closet where he would be safe from the raging rebels for a half hour. (If he was lucky!)

Oh well,.... maybe someday I will have my zippy moped. One dime at a time. Today - it is ironing.

Pink

My daughter's room is now pink,... well half pink. One side is painted a bright, fresh pink, while the other side hangs in limbo - waiting for the weekend. Last night, I stood in her doorway and stared at the walls. I remembered a time long ago when I was allowed to paint my room any color I wanted. I was so excited. That same excitement has been shining in my daughter's eyes for days. But her pink almost didn't happen. Her pink was almost a raging, pink river staining everything in it's path.

I told her to be patient. I told her to wait until her dad got home. But she just couldn't wait. As I came into the kitchen from watering my garden, I found my daughter rolling her younger sister's scooter across my kitchen floor. With one hand she was holding the wobbling handlebar of the scooter, while her other hand was locked around the thin, metal handle of the huge, teetering paint bucket.

I jumped into action! Grabbing the metal handle of the paint bucket, I swooped the full and very heavy bucket off the scooter. Clutching the pink paint, I staggered out the backdoor and into the garage. Moments before I set the bucket down, the lid slid off and slapped onto the garage floor. Small droplets of pink paint smattered and exploded onto our legs, arms and face. The two of us looked like we had the pink pox. I stared at my daughter, my eyes narrowing and squinting like only a mother can do- and in that moment, my daughter realized that the lid to the paint bucket had never been secure.

I never had to say another word. She knew that look. She knew that a guardian angel had been perched on her shoulder for that very impulsive split second. She knew how our kitchen had just barely escaped a pink, flash flood that would've swept everything away in it's path. She knew. Sometimes you don't need words,.... sometimes you just have to imagine how belligerent the color pink can be.