No, really it's not spending money, it's saving money.

Going to Walmart is dangerous for me. They have fabric department, and no matter what my best intentions I somehow always wind up back there, leafing through the piles of clearance fabric. It doesn't matter if I have no idea how I'll use it. It's $1/yard! I'll find a way!

Look how cute this print is! And it's a kids' print, too, and you know how hard it is to find things for them that's not priced in the stratosphere, I mean, I really can't pass this up, can I? I could make a shorts outfit next summer for the toddler, or hey, I know! There's about seven yards here, and I could make them some foam rubber playroom furniture. I have a pattern for that at home, the one I bought at the 99 cent patterns sale. Yeah, yeah, that's what I'll do!

And this would be perfect for covering the dining room chairs. Only four yards? Well, I'll piece it together with this cream fabric over here and together I'll have enough. It's only 5 chairs I need to cover, after all.

Oooooh. Oh, this is beautiful. And so soft! Mmmmm. I just can't stop touching it. Such wonderful vivid colors. I have to have it! I'll figure out what to use it on later.

Yesterday, despite all my best intentions I walked out of there with $14 worth of fabric. OK, so we're talking two matching dresses for the girls (I've never done that before, I swear, but I caved. Just this one time, though, I promise! And I also promise I will never make a matching dress for myself. So help me, I will not do that evil thing!), covers for the kitchen table chairs to protect them from sticky fingers, and one yard of fabric just because I liked it and I'll find something to do with it.

So, I saved money, see? And we won't discuss that I currently have more projects in mind and fabric in boxes than I could use up in the next three years. Because the husband thinks I'm impressive.

So there.

A Worthy Cause

I'm subbed onto this recipe list, so I can vouch that I've never had problems with spam from them. The recipes are sometimes so-so, sometimes pretty good. I highly recommend this list, especially for this cause. Try it out, even if only for a little while!

RECIPE E-MAIL FOOD DRIVE

Until the end of October, people from around the world have a unique
opportunity to help out Manitoba Food Banks without spending a cent. For
every person who signs up for Peak of the Market's free recipe e-mail
service at www.PeakMarket.com, Peak of the Market growers will donate 50
pounds of fresh vegetables to Manitoba Food Banks via Winnipeg Harvest. Not
only can you help out those less fortunate than yourself by signing up for
our free recipe e-mail service, you can also help by forwarding this
information to the people in your address book. There are only a few days
left. We've had almost 4,700 people sign up so far this month, which means
235,000 pounds will go to the Food Banks. However, we would like to make
this number a lot higher. With your help, we can send even more vegetables
to those in need.

Take care and please don't forget to eat your veggies!

Larry McIntosh
President & CEO, Peak of the Market
email: larry@PeakMarket.com

Nanowrimo

I did this for the first time a couple of years ago, when all I had was one baby who went to bed early, and the husband was gone for the whole month training for a new job. It was fairly easy to use my evenings alone to get my book done. It was a great experience, because I got my novel done - the first time I'd ever managed to accomplish that.

Soooo, I'm going to do it again this year. I've got a couple of ideas but I think I know which one I'm going to do. It will be considerably more complicated this year, but here's hoping I can pull it off again! I'd love to be able to say I have two books under my belt. Even if they're lousy.

I don't think I'll download any of the icons this year though. I really hate them. Cutesy. Yick. I hope the winner icon is better, but I don't have high hopes.

Christian Dior me from my head to my toes

My birthday is coming up. I sent the husband an email with a list of things I'd like to have. Books, a pedometer, stuff like that. Oh, and a link to my Amazon wishlist, which could backfire. The last time I did that he got me a copy of Sink Reflections, which, yes, I wanted, but maybe not for Christmas? (Although, to give the husband credit, he does give me good presents. It's just that sometimes he also, well, you know. Gives me books on cleaning. Or a hair dryer. Or nothing at all, like my last birthday.)

Anyway. Getting back to the topic at hand, tonight I was watching What Not To Wear and I thought, "I want a makeover."

The woman in the show was a redhead, like me. We didn't have anything else in common. She was short and curvy and just all around really cute. I'm tall and curvy in all the wrong places. I won't comment on my overall looks.

She was real, though, not model-looking, but a real woman, with a few bulges where she doesn't want them, not looking as young as she used to, and of course, the red hair. It was enough to make me identify with her.

They made her look so good. They played up her figure, camouflaged the bulges, put her in shoes and skirts that showed off her fantastic legs. More importantly, she looked so happy. She was having fun and really enjoying herself.

I saw her having so much fun and I wanted that so badly. I want to feel good about the way I look. I want to have clothes that are fun to wear, things that are pretty and make me feel pretty. I want a hairstyle that doesn't scream "Mother of little ones, who has no time to blow dry!" I want someone to take time on me, fuss with my hair, tell me I can look pretty again.

I keep thinking, "When I lose weight," or, "When the girls are older," or, "When the husband isn't working so much and I have more time and we have more money."

But I'm tired of waiting. I don't know how to get out of this hole, but wow, I'm tired of it.

Braced for impact

I used to have this friend who always used to say, "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." That's what I'm feeling like tonight. After everything that happened last school year with the teen how could I have let it happen again?

We finally got the teen's teacher on the phone. The school has a website where you can look up the homework each teacher has assigned for each class. The teen, when we asked him about this homework, has been claiming that he was doing it in class. Well, that was a big fat lie.

He hasn't been doing his homework, he hasn't made up the quizzes he missed from when he was sick, and he's been giving the teacher the run around when she gets on him about it. (He told us that he'd gotten everything made up.)

So. He has a school function tonight, and the husband has some church stuff to do, but when everyone gets home we're going to have a serious talk. Which should get very loud (on the teen's side) and involve much slamming of doors. He's going to be going to school early every day next week to make up some of the missed work, and we're going to have to start aggressively monitoring him.

I feel really bad that it happened again. I feel like I should have been able to keep this from happening. I don't know how I could, but I still feel like I should have. Hopefully I am learning and will be able to keep this from happening again. We'll see.

Off to put in my earplugs!

Must sell, gd. cond., $75 firm

I have become addicted to the classified ads in my new local paper. The Misc. For Sale section is huge, much larger than anything else, even the Sunday want ads, filled with everything you can imagine. And I'm hooked. I read them while I'm eating my breakfast, tantalized by the story fragments behind each ad.

There's a velvet brocade couch that's been listed for the last month. Only $100, a year old, it looks like a great deal. Why hasn't anyone snatched it up? Is it really only a loveseat, masquerading as a couch? I wonder what color it is. Could it be so hideous as to make the couch unsalable? Or maybe it's something more basic. Do the owners have 13 poorly trained tomcats each trying to outdo the other in marking their territory? We could use a new couch, but do I really want to find out why no-one else wants it?

Industrial Forklift, 10 ton, gd. cond. That's a new ad. I'm curious to see how long it stays there. Is there really a market for 10 ton forklifts in the classified ads? Is this a farmer's forklift, or is it being sold by a local business? I imagine a family farm, upgrading their machinery to a bigger and better forklift, with onboard computers and a digital control panel. Or are forklifts something that has stayed basic, electronics-free?

There's a collection of Beanie Babies for sale, 200 of them, asking price $2 each. In the next column over there's another collection of 200, this one of vinegar bottles. The Beanie Babies have been there as long as the velvet couch. I have higher hopes for the couch selling than the Beanie Babies. I don't know anything about the market for vinegar bottle collections, but I'd be willing to bet it'll sell before the Beanie Babies, too.

Like the vinegar bottles, some of the ads offer windows into worlds with which I am completely unfamiliar. What is a plumber's bench? Is it a luxury that it comes w/ access., or is that a basic necessity? Baled orchard grass seems easy enough to understand, until I start thinking about who would buy it. Do horses especially love orchard grass in the middle of the winter? How does it compare to hay, anyway?

And what is it with all the graves for sale? Cemetary lots, mausoleum crypts, 2 lots, 4 burial plots, 4 grave lots, 4 cemetary plots, new section, old section, section B, section G. They're always sold in even numbers by people who say they're leaving the area. I can count nine ads for them today, without even trying. I can't help but wonder if someone is buying up cemetary plots and trying to resell them for a profit. They average about $500 a plot, which adds up to an absolutely ridiculous amount per acre. Or is this the cemetary owners, trying to sell their product without having to use direct sales calls? "Hey, someday you're going to die! Why not be prepared?"

Wedding gown, Lady Eleanor, sz 12, never worn, says one ad. 1/2 carat engagement ring, appraised $1800, says another. But wait! There's another just a few columns along, 3/4 carat, $2500. It seems like it should be bad luck to buy a used ring from a broken romance. Not the most positive symbolism to start your own marriage, is it?

What's a French Open Hole Flute? Would I enjoy learning how to play one? Well, maybe not at $950. I'll stick with humming, I think.

Too bad we don't have any room for that free mahogany grand piano. I'd like the girls to take piano lessons. I did when I was a kid and I'm glad. I wouldn't mind getting back to it in fact. Could we possibly move things around enough to make it work? Don't be silly, Jennifer. What room do you feel like giving up entirely, the living room or your bedroom? Oh, well, I hope whoever gets it has fun. And a very big house.

Something short ...

... since I'm tired tonight.



You appear to be a Knitting Adventurer. You are through those knitting growing pains and feeling more adventurous. You can follow a standard pattern if it's not too complicated and know where to go to get help. Maybe you've started to experiment with different fibers and you might be eyeing a book with a cool technique you've never tried. Perhaps you prefer to stick to other people's patterns but you are trying to challenge yourself more. Regardless of your preference, you are continually trying to grow as a knitter, and as well you should since your non-knitting friends are probably dropping some serious hints, these days.
http://marniemaclean.com

What Kind of Knitter Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

There's only so much.

Several years ago, an older woman with whom I worked turned to me and said, "Have I ever told you my list of people who have wronged me?"

"Uhhh," I said. "Ummm, no?"

"Well, when I was seven," she said, "my twin sister ..."

I tried very hard not to hear the rest of her list. It took a lot of concentration. Since she was in her mid-sixties it was a very long list.

There's something horrifying in that. For nearly sixty years she'd held that grudge. In all those years hadn't she ever looked at a seven year old and thought, "Wow, kids are dumb sometimes! Why am I still mad about something a child did?"

I wonder sometimes about stupid things I've done in my life, about how I might have hurt people and not even known about it. It bothers me to think that there are people out there whom I have injured without realizing. I'm sure there are many, to my shame. I have been known to do some incredibly dumb things.

I wish I knew who they are so I could apologize to them.

Some actions I don't need to wonder about. I remember them all too clearly and I cringe at the memory. There are things that I have done that I was too ashamed of to apologize at the time, things for which I was too dumb to realize I needed to apologize, things that I was too busy being angry about to apologize. I wish I could go back, find those people, and apologize to them, too.

One of the best things my mother ever did for me was to march me over to a friend's house, after I (in company with a group of other girls at church) had made the incredibly bad decision to mock her new shoes. Mom drove me a half hour out to this girl's house and made me apologize to her parents and to her, face to face. It was humiliating. It really affected me. I hadn't thought about her feelings, just my desire to be part of the group. Mom's punishment shocked me out of that, and I'm so grateful to her.

Wanting forgiveness from others, how can I not extend the same? At least, that's what I aspire to. I tend to hang on to my anger way too long sometimes. Learning to forgive hasn't been an easy thing for me. I don't want to wind up in my mid-sixties still counting the offenses, though. What a huge waste of my time and energy, of my life. I don't have enough of any to waste.

Success!

I think we can consider the preschooler officially potty-trained. She has stayed dry while awake for several days in a row now, with only two accidents. She still has to be reminded to go, but she will use the toilet when placed on it.

I am so happy!

The other night we were out of pull-ups. The problem is that I switched her over to the Feel and Learn pull-ups, the ones with Dora on them. I was hoping it would make it more uncomfortable to be wet and she'd stop resisting being trained. No such luck. All that I accomplished was to get her jogged out of her insistence on only wearing Disney Princess pull-ups and get her insisting on only wearing Dora pull-ups.

Soooo, that night I went to the store to get another package of Dora pull-ups. They didn't have any. So I went to a second store. No Dora there, either. I headed to a third store. Finally! I headed home victorious, but unhappy.

I decided then and there that I'd had it. The next day she was going into the Dora underwear I'd been trying to coax her to wear and if she wound up in a psychologist's office at the age of 40 complaining about being prematurely forced to use the toilet, well, that was life. I'd just go ahead and pay for it.

She fought me determinedly the first day. I took her pull-ups off in the morning and refused to let her put another pair on, so she spent several hours in the air. But, we had no accidents, so I felt reasonably successful.

A week later she still needs pull-ups while she's sleeping, but she uses the toilet during the day and doesn't fight having her pull-ups taken off.

Whoo hoo! One down, one to go. Next time has got to be easier. I know what I'm doing now!

Delicate Negotiations

The problem with not blogging for a couple of days is that I wind up with so much to say that I can't figure out what to say first and wind up not saying anything at all. Which is how I'm feeling now. Where to start?

The husband and the teen are off getting haircuts and probably picking up a soda or lunch or something while they're out. We had a big fight with him last night and this is a repair-the-relationship kind of things.

We got a letter from the school. The teen has not been doing his homework or handing in his assignments for one of his classes. He's been doing very well in his other classes, so this was a surprise. Although I suppose it shouldn't have been, since the same thing happened last year with one of those classes.

So, two things to do here. 1) Talk with the teen and get his side of what's happening. 2) Call the teacher and find out what he's missing and what he can make up, if he can make up anything.

The teen, when we broached the subject, blew up all over the place. I suppose it's not strictly accurate to call it a fight. That takes two, right? The teen yelled, stomped around, slammed doors and complained that we weren't fair and that it was all his teacher's fault. We stayed calm, stayed seated, and stuck to our guns. Certain privileges that were contingent on getting at least a C in all classes will not be happening. It's nice that he's getting a couple of A's and a couple of B's. We're proud of him and glad for him. Nevertheless, the F from this one class can't be ignored.

He's very anxious that we not talk to his teacher, which makes me feel fairly certain there's more going on than we realize. We'll have to handle this carefully so that he doesn't just decide to hate his teacher and quit putting any effort at all into the class. It's a pattern he has followed before, when he was living with his mother.

Just a few years ago I was thinking, "Oh, he's growing up so fast!" Now I tend to think to myself, "Oh, please, please hurry up and grow out of this stage!"

I'm married? When did that happen?

The husband's schedule has been so crazy these last few months that I've hit a point where I hardly feel married anymore. We're more like roommates with privileges. The whole "Gosh, you're so much fun to be around and I can't wait 'til you get home!" thing has kind of faded, which has left me feeling sort of disconnected and floating-in-space-y.

But! He has 4 whole days in a row off and I have plans to spend time reconnecting. We might even go on a date if we can work it out. Wow. A date. A real date with my husband. Get the girls put to bed, leave the teen to minimal child-watching responsibilities, and maybe get a late-night meal.

Dreaming ...

Ooh, it gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.

So, if you don't see any new entries here, that's why. I'm trying to feel like a married person again. Wish me luck!

Great News!

The teen has been sick off and on for a couple of weeks, so we took him to the doctor. Of course, while he was there, they weighed him.

He's lost 30 pounds! At least. It might be more, because I'm not sure exactly how much he weight when he got here in April. He was 280 at Christmas time, though and he's now 250. Which is just so utterly fantastic. He shrugs off the weight, but I know he feels bad about it.

So, 30 pounds in 6 months. That's just over a pound a week. Not bad considering we haven't precisely put him on a diet. I've been doing my best to keep sugar out of the house (which led to some real tantrums at first) and give him healthy snack options. Healthy meals, minimizing his opportunities for outside snacking, and then since school started he's chosen to walk home instead of riding the bus (which has probably done more than everything else combined) and that's all.

If only it worked on me! I have NOT lost 30 pounds in six months, but I would love to have!

Oh pot, thou pot, thou ebon pot

The teen made himself some macaroni and cheese for lunch today. In the process he discovered I'd forgotten to put the margarine back in the fridge this morning. It's been a warm day and so the margarine was, not soupy, but definitely too soft. This made it difficult for him to get it into the macaroni, and he very seriously started lecturing me about the inconvenience to him. He even pointed out that the lid wasn't anywhere near the margarine tub, being on the counter while the tub was on the table.

Of course, when I went into the kitchen later, I found the milk and ketchup still on the counter, the empty box and cheese packet, as well as his dirty pan, bowl, spoon and cup.

He did, however, remember to put the margarine away.

I was warned as a child of 13 ...

Things I was told as a teenager about dealing with men:

Always put on a dress and fresh makeup before your husband gets home.
(He might leave you if you look less than perfect, right?)

Eat before going on a dinner date, and only nibble in front of your date.
(You wouldn't want him to think you actually have something as unfeminine as an appetite after all!)

Just accept the fact that men have "needs." All men look at porn and visit prostitutes. You can't do anything about that and he'll leave you if you try to stop him.
(Hmm, let me see. Oh, yes. "Your clothing is on the lawn and the locks have been changed. My lawyer will be contacting you about child support.")

Don't be:
Too strong
Too smart
Too independent
Too assertive
Men don't like women like that and you'll never get a husband that way.
(Thanks for the advice. I think it would be just hunky-dory living my life pretending to be someone I'm not!)

"I can tell you're a strong woman, like me. You need to marry a man you can control, like I did, because you'll never be happy unless you're wearing the pants."
('Cause, y'know, it would be just horrible to have a marriage of equals.)

"No man wants a wife who's fat or a bad housekeeper."
(Unconditional love? Wuzzat?)

Any women reading this who remember getting similarly stupid advice?

Task for Today

So, when we went to the orchard to buy the $7/bushel apples, it turned out they used the honor system. And all we had was a $20 bill and a few coins. The plan was to buy two bushels, but we couldn't make change. So, I, overcome in the enthusiasm of canning and cheap apples and how easy it was to fill up the bushel boxes with great big red Rome apples said to the husband, "Oh, let's just go ahead and get three bushels!"

As my mother would say, I had eyes too big for my stomach.

The first two bushels went easily enough. I got them done that weekend. The last bushel is not going so well. Even the girls have gotten tired of eating apples. They will have a few slices if I peel and slice the apple and beg them to eat it, but not otherwise. ("No tank yoo, Mommy," the preschooler tells me, shaking her head gravely. "No tank you.") I made my spiced apples and another batch of apple butter, but that still leaves me with half a bushel that I am desperately trying to pretend doesn't exist.

My kitchen looks like a cooking store exploded in it. I have cases of jars everywhere, the surfaces are sticky in unexpected places, the pressure canner has taken up roots on my stovetop and the dehydrator is stubbornly refusing to go back to its home under the counter. Not to mention the baby thinks the apples make great balls and, if she can reach them, will throw them vigorously all over the kitchen, trying to make them bounce. Which is why I have apples under the table right now.

Today I clean up and take a breather! I will decide what to do with the rest of the apples later.

Letter to my daughter

I wrote this a year and a half ago, after quite some time agonizing over what to teach the preschooler about her birthmark. After reading AGK's essay about beauty, confidence and her daughter, I decided to share this.

Dear one:

Some day, you are going to come to me, upset over the way you look. It might be because of your birthmark; it might be because of your chest measurements, or your weight, the color of your eyes and hair, or even just the fact that your hair is really fighting you that day. You'll want so desperately to be beautiful, to have people look at you and admire you, to have men want to be with you because of your overwhelming beauty. At least, I'm guessing you will, because that's what I've felt on more than one occasion, and most of my friends have felt that way too.

And when that happens I'll tell you that you are beautiful, that your hair and your eyes, your figure and your complexion are all lovely, even though right at that moment you are only seeing your flaws. And you will then say, "Oh, mom, you have to say that, because you're my mother." Or you'll say, "Of course you think I'm pretty. You love me," as if my love for you annuls my judgment of your appearance. You might think that I am not being honest with you for fear of hurting your feelings because I love you so much.

You know what? That fact that I love you, and therefore see you as beautiful is the whole point, and part of one of the greatest truths I can ever teach you.

You see, the people who love you are always going to see you as beautiful. The people who hate you are always going to see you as ugly. What that leaves is all the people in the middle - the people who don't know you yet, or the people who are too shallow to see past your outer surface to your heart. Those are the people who will judge you by the way you look. As they come to know you, though, they will find their opinion of you changing. Some will like you, even love you, and they will see you as a lovely woman whose company they enjoy very much. Others will dislike you, and nothing will ever convince them to see you as beautiful, even if you were Miss Universe.

The secret to all this is the inner beauty you cultivate. You need to make yourself first and foremost beautiful on the inside. As you choose to act in ways that are true and kind, with virtue, honor and integrity, showing forth kindness and compassion to those you meet, your true nature will shine through, and those who meet you will not be able to help being charmed by you. They will not notice your appearance flaws, might not even be able to give a good physical description of you, except to say that, "Wow - that girl there? Isn't she something else?" And they will smile, because it will give them great joy to have met you.

The exception will be those that are for some reason offended by things of virtue and beauty. There will plenty of those, I'm afraid. There are many people like that in the world, people who prefer the safety of shallow judgment and petty malice, who try to destroy what they can't control. Their rejection and cruel treatment will undoubtedly cause you pain. You might want to change to try to please them, trying to find some way to look or act or be that will win their approval and smiles.

You will never gain that approval. If you try, you will only twist yourself into knots, and eventually they will lead you so far away from your true self that you will wind up not even recognizing who you are anymore. Those people are of a world that uses our human desire for approval and acceptance to destroy us. No matter what, they will always raise the bar. Nothing you do will ever be enough to please them for more than a short time. So don't try. Run away from their snares, and avoid their traps by staying far away from them. Stay close to those who love you already, and you will be happy, because you will be free to be your true self, and will be loved for the beauty of that true self.

It's hard writing this to the woman you will be. I don't know what you'll be like, or what our relationship will be. I probably sound preachy. I hope not - I hate it when people preach at me. If I do sound that way, please forgive me. I was just reading some things tonight written by people with birthmarks about growing up and coping with the mean and dumb things people have said to them, and I was wondering how best to handle these situations when they come up in your life. I thought of what I wrote down, and decided I'd better record it, because I will have forgotten it by the time you're old enough to be worrying about all this.

I worried about my appearance for years, afraid that I was too unattractive for any man to find me desirable or to love me. I thought I'd probably never get married. As I thought about this, though, and worked out over the years how I felt about that and how I wanted to react to it, I came to the conclusion that I didn't want someone to love me because I was beautiful. I didn't want someone to love me in spite of the fact that I wasn't beautiful. I wanted someone to love me, and to see me as beautiful because of his love for me. Not long after I worked that out is when I met your father, who did love me before he ever met me in person, and who still thinks I'm beautiful because of his love for me. I hope you meet someone like your father someday, someone who is good and wise and gentle, capable of seeing the heart like he does, who will love you and see you as beautiful because of that love.

I love you so much. I'm sending you a hug across the years - now go and collect a real one from the current me.

Your loving mom

i miss my mom

I got an unexpected card today from my father. He sent me some photos of the family, taken when my youngest brother was getting ready to leave on a trip. The first picture I saw was my mother, standing next to youngest brother.

She looked so old. I was on the phone with the husband when I opened the card, and I stopped talking, lost track of the thread of our conversation, so shocked by the difference in her that I couldn't think of anything else.

I haven't seen her since my sister got married. Four years now. We talk on the phone all the time, and it's given me an illusion of being there with her, but, no, it's not the same. I remember her with hair dyed a light brown, a youthful face, a brilliant smile. The photo showed a woman who's stopped coloring hair that has gone mostly white. Her smile is a beautiful as ever, but the skin of her face is sagging, hanging a little too loosely over her cheeks and jawline. Deep grooves capture her mouth like parentheses. She looks ... old.

When her father died, I cried and cried, not so much for the loss of my grandfather (although I mourned for him) but for what it meant for the future. It was like the lives of her parents were supports, foundation stones keeping her alive. With Grandpa gone, Mom was somehow more vulnerable to death and that frightened me.

This photo has been a repeat of that realization. Being around my mother is like being around a warm fire on a cold day. I have supported her through her divorce, through the years before that. She has guided me and advised me, calmed me when I couldn't stop crying. She told me once that she can't count how many times I, or one of my sisters, has called her, only to start sobbing as we say, "Mom?"

She's Mom. When I little, it felt like I'd explode I loved her so much. I remember the force of that adoration, like a supernova inside me, streaming love like light from my eyes and mouth, my fingers, my skin. I see that same love now, in my daughters, in the way they follow me from room to room, touching me every so often.

I saw that picture and it brought all that into my mind in one painful flash, and I thought, "What am I doing, so far away from her while she grows old?" I saw a future where I see her only in strobe-like flashes, older and frailer with each blink, with me never getting to experience the times between, confined to slices of her life.

I miss my mother. I miss my sisters. I want to be with my family again, so badly. They're my best friends, and I'm so lonely for them tonight.

Two bushels down, one to go.

Completed:
12 quarts of applesauce
12 half-pints of apple butter
6 half-pints of dutch apple jam
6 half-pints of caramel apple jam
10 quarts of sliced apples

Still to come:
More applesauce
Spiced apple rings
More caramel apple jam
More apple butter
Dried apple rings
Apple jelly

I need to buy more half-pint jars tomorrow, as well as more white sugar, more brown sugar, find a store around here that sells red-hots, and pick up some cheesecloth. Oh, and a stockpot. I just don't have a really big pan and that would have been so useful this weekend.

The girls have been eating apples nonstop for three days now. I haven't been interested in eating any, for some strange reason.

But I will be gone this weekend, as I'm canning a bushel of apples.

Hah!

Betcha thought I was gone for the next few weeks, dintja? Huh, huh, dintja? Well, fat chance!

The husband is off and that makes it hard to find time to get online. Especially right now, we always have so much to catch up on. They've got him working 12 hour shifts right now. Since his commute is an hour and a half each way, that means he is home long enough to sleep and and leave. He doesn't even eat at home the days he's working. It's not fun at all and the overtime and 4 day weekends just don't make up for it.

The good news is, he applied for another job in the same company and it looks like he's going to get it! Not only does it come with a raise, the hours are much saner and honestly, he'll enjoy it more than what he's doing now. This job turned out not to be as advertised. It's really mostly just answering phones. This new one involves doing actual analysis and looking for trends, which is what he really wants to do, so life is looking much better.

I'm very excited about the raise, as our furniture is starting to fall apart. And I mean literally fall apart. The springs are almost all gone from the couch, the kitchen table chairs are dropping pieces and wobble alarmingly when you sit down. You have to sit rather carefully to keep from falling, in fact. Now I can start looking for someone to repair our couch and buy new chairs! Yay!

Controversial? I just think she's patronizing.

Linda wrote a post a few days ago about banned books and censorship. Evidently Judy Blume is number two on the Author Most Likely to Have Would-Be Censors Clamoring for Her Blood list.

What prompts me to blog about this isn't what you'd think. Yeah, my hackles sat straight up and growled when I read her name, but it has nothing to do with censorship. I have no desire to either burn her books or yank them off the fire.

No, it's just that I can't stand her writing.

When I was in junior high school, lo, these many years ago, I had Judy Blume thrust in front of my oblivious nose every time I turned around.

Teacher: "You should read this! She's a great writer. She understands your age group."
Jennifer: Takes book gingerly and reluctantly, holding corner by two fingers. "Oh, wow, thanks."

I know. I am probably the only woman of my generation who doesn't just looooove Judy Blume with great big lavender hearts. Trust me, I feel the isolation.

Give me a break, though. I tried to read her books. It's just that they all seemed be the same story, and not one I found appealing. Angst-ridden teenager in a comfortable situation with a fairly decent family feels misunderstood and neglected, so he/she spends his/her time in whining and self-pity, indulging in sometimes petty, sometimes serious criminal behavior designed to get attention.

This was supposed to be a reflection of my life? This was supposed to be something I could relate to?

Now, I was as self-pitying as any other adolescent. But I just couldn't get into a story about a boy who plays peeping Tom to the poor girl next door (or was she across the street? I can't remember.) I was focused in other directions. Parents don't understand you? That's OK! Save the world and it won't matter!

I read Lord of the Rings three times in the 6th grade. Donny Osmond? Oh, he was cute (I had a poster of him hidden inside my closet door in fact, which I would kiss when I was sure I was alone - ROTFLOL at myself,) but my real love was Frodo. Now there was someone who was misunderstood, a tortured lonely soul who needed me, not Sam, by his side.

I identified with Fiver. I fell in love with the Beast. I plotted ways to escape the Dipple, struggled through the wastes of High Hallack with Gillan, dreamed of going to space with Podkayne. There was no whining in those books, just buckling down and doing what had to be done. That's what I liked about them. They inspired me to take charge of my life. Blume's books didn't inspire me. They were just depressing.

I fervently hope my daughters don't ever turn out to be Judy Blume fans. I won't snatch the books out of their hands, if they are, but I will be very disappointed. Hopefully, if I fill the house with enough fantasy and science fiction, the question will never come up.

And then he decided he didn't want it anyway.

The teen has been sick and successfully begged me to go to the bookstore to pick up a role playing guide for him today. He thinks he's very persuasive. Hah! In actuality, I wanted to pick up Lani's book. I wouldn't have made the time for myself, but given two reasons, it didn't take much to overcome my reluctance to spend money on myself.

Walking into the store I glanced over the books on display, just a quick look. After all, I wasn't in the market for them, I was going to be good and confine myself to only one book. I was jolted to realize one large display was for someone I know online. Then, as I was looking for Time Off for Good Behavior, I spotted a couple of other names I know, all members of various writing groups I belong to.

It's never hit me before, just how broad and welcoming the internet writer's community is, at least the female side of it. (I can't say I know many male writers.) I doubt if any of these women, besides Lani, would recognize my name. I tend to have brief spurts of participation divided by long periods of lurking. But I know them, and if I wrote to them through the list I would probably get a kind response and any assistance I requested. That's just so ... wow.

Hi. My name is Jennifer, and I know many talented people.

P.S. - They didn't have Time Off. The sales clerk told me the computer said it wasn't coming out until mid-October. Um, yeah. I'll just order it from Amazon, then, OK?

Seriously. You have got to read it. It's a great book.

Making Music

Driving along the freeway this morning I heard the toddler singing softly behind me:

(To the tune of Frere Jacques)

Where you sleepin'
Where you sleepin'
All the night?
All the night?
Sa-la-lay-la-tina,
Sa-la-lay-la-tina,
Ding, ding, dong
Ding, ding, dong

Isn't she just too cute for words?

In honor of her recent birthday and the baby's upcoming transition to official toddlerhood, I'm going be changing the toddler's designation to preschooler. Henceforth you will be hearing about the preschooler and the baby (to avoid confusion I won't start calling the baby the toddler for a few months.)

(OK, fine. I just don't want to stop calling her my baby. So there. Pppbbttt.)

Look! Posting three days in a row! Whatever is the world coming to?

Creativity

Years ago a roommate, and my best friend, found a book in the library which contained nothing but various types of personality/intelligence tests. Specifically, it claimed to offer ways for you to measure all the different types of intelligence you had, not just IQ, but things like organizational, mechanical, emotional, or creative intelligence.

C. is an artist. Naturally she took the creativity test first. As I recall, one part of it was that you were supposed to come up with a list of ways to use a pictured item - a pipe or some such thing. C. came up with 98. When I took the same test I came up with something like 5.

C. claimed that it showed that I wasn't creative, and said that she agreed with it. That really upset me. I've always regarded myself as a creative person. I've always wanted to be a writer, loved doing creative things, been praised for being a creative person. That was just who I was. Jennifer the Creative. Jennifer the Writer. Telling me I was the creative equivalent of a concrete wall struck at one of the foundation supports of my identity. We had quite a fight about it.

It was relatively easy to dismiss that test. I mean, really, a test from an old library book? I know how real psychological testing works, and that isn't how you come up with a reliable result. Unfortunately that opinion was echoed by C., my best friend, the person who knew me better than anyone else. So it's been there in the back of my head ever since, a lingering question that I've never been able to resolve.

So that's the background. Lately, I've been thinking that maybe C. was right. I look at myself, at what I've tried to accomplish, and I see ... nothing.

When I little I never could figure out what to do with Legos. My little brother would create these amazing structures, spaceships usually. They were beautiful, expansive, airy - a cross between machine and bird.

I made houses. Small, clunky, square houses.

I'm good at homemaking. I'm really good at it. I sew, bake bread, craft with the toddler, preserve jams, vegetables, fruit and meat. I'm lousy at cleaning, but good at knitting, embroidery and crochet. We've got everything we need to survive a hurricane, blizzard or terrorist attack, and enough to help out our neighbors, too.

I'm good at writing - as long as it's non-fiction. I've won a couple of awards for my essays and editorials, and I can pull together an excellent newspaper or magazine article in no time flat.

Recently, I've been exploring photography, and I like to think I'm rather good at it. A couple of people have said nice things about my photos at any rate.

In other words, all my creativity seems to be based solidly on the concrete. If I can see it, touch it, feel it, I can photograph it or describe it. I can put the concrete together in a pleasing way. But, I can't tell a story to save my life.

I can feel the creativity inside me. It's there, like a banked fire that flares into life every now and then. I've tried to bring it out, but completely without success. It's like it's locked up, just out of reach and I can't find the key.

I can't help but write fiction. What I write is truly lousy, but I can't help it. I have to try. It's a compulsion, something I could no more stop doing than I could stop breathing. I think though, that maybe it's time to give up on the dream of being published. I don't think it's there in me. Hard work may be 90% of the equation, but without that 10% of talent, it just isn't going to happen.

I'll keep trying though. Like I said, I can't seem to stop myself.

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things - -
For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced - - fold, fallow and plow;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise Him.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Cinderella is differently-abled.

The toddler got a Cinderella doll for her birthday. She saw it in the grocery store a week before the big day and immediately glommed onto it. We were in the baby aisle; I was deciding which was cheapest - brand-name diapers with doubled coupon or store-brand diapers with no coupon. Having decided in favor of the store-brand, I turned to see my little one, stacking boxes of Disney princess dolls in the middle of the aisle. (Diabolical store, to place the toys next to the diapers!) It was an impressive stack, almost as tall as her, and she's extremely tall for her age. Unfortunately, although I was pleased with her stacking prowess, I had visions of the pile crashing down and having to pay for every one of the $10 dolls.

I hustled back to her and hurriedly started to put the dolls away. Naturally, she protested. Loudly. Very loudly. We finally compromised by letting her carry a Cinderella doll around the store while I finished our shopping. Then I spent several minutes explaining how Cinderella lived in the store and couldn't possibly go home with us. That's when I made my fatal mistake. I told her if she was very good and left Cinderella there without any tantrums, then maybe Cinderella would come to live with us on the toddler's birthday.

I thought she'd forget about it. She didn't. Every morning she'd wake up talking about Cinderella and birthday presents. She told Daddy, she told big brother, she told her friends at church and the little boy next door. She even told Grandma all about Cinderella and birthdays. What else could I do? I got her Cinderella.

Of course, Cinderella came with various accessories. A bracelet, three charms, removable clothing, long gloves and two clear-with-silver-glitter plastic shoes. Inevitably, the shoes wouldn't stay on. No problem. Neither did anything else. I redressed Cinderella about once every 5 minutes the first day we had her. At least her hair was styled with some kind of plastic substance that made the hair impossible to brush, wash or cut. (Yes, all things I did to my own Barbies at one point or another.)

One day, Cinderella disappeared. The toddler didn't say anything or even seem to notice Cinderella was missing. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved she hadn't made an outcry, or peeved that the doll had gotten old so fast. I decided to be relieved. I had a bad feeling about where that doll might be.

Sure enough, I found Cinderella today, when I was moving the living room furniture to clean out the toys underneath them. The dog had gotten to her. Her face was intact, which was a relief, but alas, she was not unscathed. He'd amputated her left arm, gnawing it off just below the elbow.

I tried to hide it, but the toddler caught a glimpse of that blue dress and got all excited. At first I pretended I didn't know what she was talking about, but in the end, I had to return Cinderella to my darling daughter.

There was a shriek of horror, then ...

Nothing.

I was turned away, too cowardly to face the grief I anticipated, but I turned back around at this. The toddler wasn't standing there in shock, she was heading for her bedroom to play with Cinderella. In no time at all, Cinderella had stripped and was being walked down the hall in all her bizarrely-dimensioned glory.

The toddler knows Cinderella is damaged and she understands that the dog did it. She just doesn't care. The husband wants to get her a new Cinderella; The armless doll creeps him out just a little. Since the dog chewed up the shoes, too, we need to at least get those. I don't know that we need a new doll, though.

The toddler has a port wine stain on her cheek. It covers her ear, down her neck to the top of her shoulder, then up to the middle of her jaw, up to her cheek, and over in a straight line to her ear again. At the best of times it's pale pink; when she's throwing a tantrum or is outside in the cold it turns dark purple. She doesn't know yet that she has it, but she's reached an age now where she soon will start to realize she's different from the other kids. I hope the people she meets won't care anymore than she cares about Cinderella's arm. Since that won't happen, I mostly hope that I can teach her not to care about the cruel words, and to know her own value.

Steadily Losing My Mind

I'm a happy helper
I like helping others
Yes, I'm a happy helper

I couldn't get this Barney song out of my mind this morning, so what did I do to finally exorcise it? I started singing the Dora theme song.

Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer!
Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer!

That's what I get for letting the toddler rot her brain with TV all day while she's been sick.

Some people could make a zucchini feel homicidal.

My little brother is just two years younger than me. When he was little he liked to watch Godzilla movies. He looked just like our cousin and everyone used to think they were twins, two tow-headed little boys watching Godzilla movies and pretending to shoot each other. They watched Emergency and wanted to be firemen when they grew up; then they would watch Adam-12 and decide they wanted to be policemen when they grew up.

(I wanted to be a policeman or a fireman, too, but I was confused by the words. Fireman. Policeman. Obviously not something a girl could grow up to do. It made me sad. I use that as an example of the power of language whenever the husband starts ranting about the awkwardness of gender neutral words. Then I ask him, sweetly, if he really wants his two daughters to grow up feeling disenfranchised? I know. Not fair. But it makes him think.)

Anyway. Getting back on topic. Living here in the East, I haven't seen my brother in years, although we talk on the phone frequently. I got a letter from him the other day, an e-mail. He's been activated and is going to Iraq.

My bipolar brother, my obsessively stubborn brother, my brother who could irritate a saint into wanting to kick him in the head, my paranoid brother who sees insults behind every wisp of wind and thinks he has to immediately confront them, is going to a place where there are many, many people with guns. Oh dear.

I'm not worried about him getting hurt. I'm worried about him getting hurt by a member of his own unit.

My brother has my hands. I noticed that several years ago before either of us was married, when we were both still college students. I looked over at him and realized his hands were just like mine, only the masculine version. Same fingers, same ratio of finger length to palm width, same bone structure.

No-one else in the world has my hands. No-one else knows what it's like to be the child of our parents when they were young. No-one knows the things about me that he does, or can ever really understand some elements of my personality the way he can. Oh, I do hope he can stay out of trouble.

Frying pan or fire? Fire or frying pan?

I've been fighting depression for somewhere around 18 months now. There was a break for a few weeks just before the baby was born, which lasted until she was a few days old.

I keep holding out, waiting for this to reach its natural end. When I was pregnant, it was the end of the pregnancy that was supposed to bring me relief. When I lost the dice roll after she was born and wound up with a second act it was supposed to fade away after a few months, as the pregnancy hormones worked their way out of my system.

If all had gone well, it might have worked out that way. Unfortunately, circumstances haven't been so great, which means that, in addition to the physical factors underlying the depression, there have been more than enough environmental factors to make anyone depressed.

I'm thinking I need to go see someone. I had the opportunity during the pregnancy and then again afterward, but avoided it. I don't really know why I didn't want to go. I didn't know at the time. I just couldn't bring myself to make that appointment, and when they made one for me (after the baby was born,) I called to cancel it.

I can hazard some guesses. After all these months of navel-gazing I should have some idea. For one thing it's never easy to do anything with small children, much less make it to regular doctor appointments. Being depressed, the last thing I was could handle was all the stress of trying to find someone to watch a toddler and a newborn for a couple of hours every week (visit time, travel time, etc.) I didn't think a therapist would be too happy to see me with two active little ones in every session.

I also have that BA in psychology, not to mention a great deal of practical experience in dealing with the psychological community. When you have as many mentally ill family members as I do you pick up a few things. Wanna know a secret? We don't know that much about mental illness. We have drugs that can help, sure, but no-one's really sure exactly how they work and when they're going to work. In other words, there's a remarkable similarity between the modern psychiatrist and the primitive witch doctor.

If I go to a therapist, the first thing any reputable, informed, educated, competent provider is going to want to do is get me a prescription. But wait! We don't know exactly what causes depression. There are no tests that can diagnose depression, no reliable way of knowing what medicine is going to fix the problem. We know more about viruses than we do about brain chemistry and how it effects the way we feel and the way we see the world.

Post-partum depression, situational depression, incipient bipolar disorder - after all these months, who knows how all this is interacting in my head and my body? I don't know if I want to offer myself up for musical chemistry, taking first this and then that for a couple of weeks at a time, enduring various side effects until we find just the right pill or combination of pills to lift me out of this.

And of course, ultimately, I'm scared. I don't want to find out the family illness has finally caught up with me. Denial is so much better than that reality. Being mentally ill means losing your friends, losing your family, losing your ability to support yourself, losing your life. As hard as it is to watch my loved ones going through this, I am selfish enough to prefer watching it to living it.

But I'm so tired right now and I just don't see how I can keep on coping. If only there was some test they could do that would tell them exactly what medication would take care of this, some kind of psychotropic drug that worked like a broad-spectrum antibiotic.

Failing that, I guess I'll just have to wait until the cure doesn't seem like a worse bet than the illness anymore

I'm not answering, so there!

One of the problems that has come along with moving has been getting a new phone number to go with our new address. I called the National Do Not Call Registry right away, but we still have three months that our phone number is legal prey for phone marketers. Which means we've been getting inundated in phone calls to a degree I've never dealt with before. We are getting calls at least every hour, if not more. I'm talking at least 10 calls every day. I can't wait for October.

Telemarketers - it's like trying to sleep with a mosquito whining about your head.

A Guided Tour

We live in a quiet neighborhood, out in the country, off a state highway. On the other side of the highway is a produce stand and a field full of cows (which delights the toddler.) The subdivision is fairly new, with construction still going on up the street, just out of sight over a hill. Directly around us, however, we are the newest house around. Everytime I run into a new person around here, in fact, they all say, "Oh, we were wondering who was moving into that house!" I've never felt so notorious!

We're not far from the entrance to the subdivision, just a couple of blocks up and to the left. As you drive up, you will see a pretty white house, with lots of windows, a scraggly brand-new lawn, and a single car garage (a tad narrow - I have to be careful backing out to keep from scraping off one of my side mirrors.)

Walk up the steps to the porch and in the front door and you'll find yourself on a wood-look floor, with steps on your right leading up and another half-stairway to your left, leading down to the basement. The basement is unfinished, bare concrete floors, shiny silver insulation covering the walls, boxes everywhere, making it hard to find a free place to step. I've created a clear space near one of the windows down there and covered the floor with puzzle-piece matting to soften the impact when the inevitable falls come. Most of the toys are down there.

On the other side of the basement, separated from the girl's play area by the roughed-in stairwell, under the other two windows, the teen has set up an old television and his PS2. He has plans to create a real teen nest down there, with food and soda, cushions, etc. We'll see about that. Privacy is good at that age, but we don't want him completely disappearing.

Upstairs, you walk into the living room straight across from the stairs. The kitchen is to the left, the hall to the bedrooms is to the right. There are three bedrooms, two baths, and a walk-in master closet that is almost big enough to be a fourth bedroom. The master bath has a shower and a garden tub. The kitchen has a dishwasher, a microwave over the stove, and water/ice in the refrigerator door. Every room has at least one window, and the whole house is full of light.

I've never lived anywhere this nice. It's really exciting to be able to clean and not have junk piled in the corners because I have storage space. I've gotten addicted to the water in the fridge door, guzzling icewater all day long, which is probably why I've lost some weight. I love this place.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Numerical license plates I spotted on the drive down and back:

LOWN WLF
2CAPTS
3 TIBET
LVIS4ME

I spotted three of them within a half hour, which kind of tickled me.

Going on a road trip with two little ones was something else. We left later than I wanted, but that was OK, it was only a little bit later, we'd still make it down there by a reasonable time. Of course, we had to stop to pick up a package of diapers first, since we were pretty low. Then everyone had to eat, because we didn't spend time on breakfast at home. Then the toddler spilled her orange juice and we had to pull over, mop up, and clean her up. Back on the road, except the baby started crying, because of course breakfast from McDonald's meant breakfast for me and the toddler. So, pull over to nurse the baby. Take the opportunity to give the toddler some cranberry juice in a spill-proof cup. Get going again. Another spill. Pull over and change the toddler again. Wonder if I'm going to run out of the clean clothes I packed for her before we even get there. Pull over at a gas station to buy Tylenol, because for some strange reason my head is starting to hurt. Back on the road, the cell phone rings. It's the husband. How am I doing? I check the trip odometer. We've gone 90 miles in 3 hours.

Things sped up after that. They had to or I'd still be trying to get down there! Got the stuff, got back up here (the husband flew down to drive the truck back.) Got cable hook-up the day after we got back. Hooray! So everything is going very well and life is settling down finally. Expect to see more of me, here and in comments everywhere.

You should see the smile on my face right now. It's so good to be back!

Of Loos and Drips and Lonely Facts

It's been frustrating not to be able to blog whenever I want. I have ideas for blogs come into my head several times a day, only to lose them because I'm in the middle of something and don't have access to a computer anyway. I know, I know, I could write them down on paper, but now that I'm used to a computer it's hard to go back to longhand writing. I just can't keep up with my thoughts when I'm writing like that. So, here I sit, with the time and opportunity to blog and no idea what to say.

We are going to be gone next week. We'll finally be getting our stuff from the old house and bringing it here. Yippee hooray! We'll have to use dial-up for awhile, but I think I can live with that. As the husband would say, "It beats the alternative."

I've been feeling kind of lonely this last week. I'm surprised it's taken this long to hit me, honestly. Moving is always hard on me. I tend to be really attached to my friends and miss them very much. Since I'm shy I also have a hard time making new friends, which doesn't help. It's easy enough to make casual friends, the sort of people you'd have over for dinner or stop and chat in the store when you see them. Really good friends, the kind you can call when your battery dies in Walmart's parking lot or get an honest opinion about this top, "... does it make me look top-heavy?" - those are harder to find and it takes time. I hate the taking time part. Patience is not one of my strengths, especially not when I'm stranded with a dead battery, two little ones in the car, and the husband a two hour drive away. (That'll teach me to leave the teen in the car while I run into the store with the little ones. He had the radio, air conditioner, fan and inside lights on. No wonder the blasted thing died!) (Though, to give him credit, he went and found a very nice young man who gave us a jump. But I'm still not leaving him in the car alone again. Not for a while anyway. OK, not for two weeks. Definitely. I mean it.)

I just have to hang in hear a little longer though. It'll take about a year, judging from past experiences, and then I'll finally have a small group of friends that I can add to as time goes on. It's good training in patience.

In other news, the toddler finally use the toilet as more than a place to sit and be entertained! Last Saturday night she was in the tub and suddenly grabbed herself and said she was stinky. Now, we'd been through this before and I knew it wasn't going to lead anywhere but a wet/soapy floor and toilet seat. It's great fun to pretend we're going potty, after all. So, I told her no, that it was bath time and not a good time to play on the potty. I know what you're thinking, but please remember, I've been waiting months for this. I wasn't expecting her to nod and then cut loose!

I wisked her out of the tub before more than a small amount of solid stuff had emerged and put her on the toilet. She finished up and flushed with great glee and much pride and then we went and told Daddy. (And then Mommy scrubbed the tub, a suitable punishment for her cynical reaction, and the toddler got to take another bath. Whee!)

I'm Back!

For this post anyway. I'll try to make this work every so often, but it's going to be difficult. You see, we don't have our computer, and we don't have internet access at the moment.

The day we moved was hot and cloudy, a miserable combination. We had nightmare troubles getting the truck rented (we went through FOUR trucks, no kidding), and the people helping us move showed up while the husband was gone getting a hand truck (because the truck rental place didn't give us the one we had reserved, although they did charge us for it.) It was a chaotic and stressful day, which ended with too much stuff and not enough truck. Not to mention the charity that was supposed to come pick up some stuff never showed, and it started to rain on the assorted furniture and clothing that I was giving away.

We wound up driving off the next morning, leaving several important items behind (the computer, the vacuum, clothing - all the stuff we left for last because we wanted it off the truck first - in other words, all the important stuff), planning to come back for it in a couple of weeks. We headed for our new home, a 6 hour trip that wound up taking 10 hours. Luckily, the people in our new church who were waiting to help us unload were nice and don't hate us for that. They all went home and came back when we got here and helped us unload in record time.

The house is perfectly wonderful, the neighbors are friendly and helpful, and our new church is beyond fantastic. The teen went to two sleepovers our first week here and has been just as busy socializing ever since. We keep saying, "When do we meet the jerks?" The only problem is we can't convince the local cable company to come out and hook us up. They keep saying they're going to do it and then not coming. It's been nice being without TV and internet though, very peaceful and fight-free. The teen is actually spending time doing other things than sitting on a chair or a couch while some kind of screen sucks his brains out through his eyes. Yay!

Oh, there is one other problem, but it's work-related. They've got the husband on a incredibly difficult schedule at work, five 10-hour days on and one day off. The overtime is nice, and helps us pay the bills, but we can't get back to our old house to get everything. Which means we're having to keep paying the mortgage. Talk about your expensive and inconvenient storage units! We want to rent it out, but that's not going to happen until we can get back down there. Not to mention the husband is so incredibly brain-dead from this schedule. It's just for a while though, they tell us. It better be. I don't know how long he can keep this up. It's not just the long work day, it's the hour and a half commute that's the problem. 13 hours gone from home each day. Wow, I love that man. He works so hard to take care of us.

In other news, the baby started walking (July 12) and got her first tooth (June 30.) The toddler has grown out of most of her clothes again and has figured out that, "I not a boy, Mommy, I a girl!"

In other words, life goes on. Which is a very nice thing.

I'll get back on as I can. Hopefully a couple of times a week. I have to check the library's schedule.

Wandering about tearing my hair out in large chunks.

It's crunch time. We're clearing out this weekend and I still have too much to do!

I just can't allow myself time to blog this week. I must pack, pack, pack. Work, work, work, pack, pack, pack.

Must. Resist. Temptation.

I'll be back when we're all settled in and back online. Hopefully not too long.

I remember remembering.

You know you're in a rut when you experience double deja vu.

I was at the store with the girls today, getting them out of the car when I had the strongest feeling of deja vu. I get that a lot; I think I must have a lousy memory that only lets me half recall. That, or I'm sleepwalking through life a lot more than I think!

This time, though, what I was experiencing wasn't the feeling that I'd done this before. It was the feeling that I'd had deja vu over this before.

Whereupon I said to myself, "I really have to get out of this town."

I'm excited about moving. I was nervous at first, but then I found out I'll be living only a few blocks from an online acquaintance who is just an amazing woman. It's going to be great, getting to know her in real life. Maybe I can talk her into being friends with me! Yay!

I just have to get packed first. Do you think it would be bad if I started indiscriminately throwing furniture away?

Packing and more packing

I've been busy all day between packing and kids and making moving arrangements and shipping Very Important Stuff to the husband that he left behind, so here's a cop out blog.

These questions are taken from The Conversation Piece: Creative Questions to Tickle the Mind.

In your opinion, what is the best piece of music, pop or classical, ever written?

I don't know about the best, but my favorite piece of music is Pachelbel's Canon. It always strikes me as so joyous. I can't help but feel good after listening to it.

If you could have one superpower, what would you want it to be?

I would like to fly. Or teleport. Traveling in the blink of an eye would be great. I could go all over the world and see whatever I wanted, when I wanted to see it. Flying, though, that would be better, I think. I would love to move through the air as easily as I can move through water.

I want my body back.

I've been needing to get a new dress for several months now. As in, ever since the baby was born and I couldn't get away with wearing my maternity dresses anymore. I kept putting it off (there's always something better to do, after all,) but finally sucked it up, and decided to take advantage of the husband's presence at home to have a safe babysitter for the girls.

As I was heading out the door though, he called out, "Have fun, dear!" and I was so choked with annoyance that I just stared at him. I couldn't think what to say that I wouldn't regret later.

Fun. Oh yes. The thrill of spending a couple of hours actually deliberately looking at myself in full-length mirrors that are unrelenting in stripping away my refusal to acknowledge what I look like right now. The fun of trying on size after progressively larger size. The excitement of realizing full-force just what having two babies in two years has done to what used to be my waistline. The elation of hiking up my bra and wondering to myself, "Are these supposed to line up with my armpits or my elbows?"

Not to mention that I had two impossible dreams. Is it so much, in the South in the summer, to want to find a dress with some kind of sleeve? And to want it to button up the front so that I can nurse? Apparently, yes. At least, if you want something in pretty colors and fabrics. If you are an 80 year old woman who loves dark houndstooth, however, you've got it made.

I finally came home with a light blue flowered polyester thing. It could be worse. It ain't gonna be better though until this baby is weaned, or I haul out my sewing machine again.

The husband, of course, had the nerve when he saw it to say, "Well, that's pretty. What a beautiful color on you!"

I let him live. His children are fond of him.

WE GOT THE HOUSE!

WE GOT IT!

WE GOT IT!

WE GOT IT!

We are moving in just a couple of weeks! Excuse me while I go jump up and down and scream for a while!

Later ...

Ahem. Yes, well, now that I've calmed down a little. Whew. That was exciting.

You should see the grin on my face right now!

The husband went out to pick up some prescription refills this morning. Not long after he left the phone rang. It was him.

"I got a call about the house," he said.

I held my breath a little. "What did they say?"

There was some interference on the line just then, but through the disruptions I heard, "They said no."

I felt sick. "No?"

"We got the house!" he told me.

"What? But you just said, they said no!"

"No I didn't!"

"Yes, you did," I said, forcefully, starting to feel very annoyed at his idea of a joke.

"No," he said, in very patient tones. "I said, are you sitting down?"

"Oh."

I don't know how I got a "no" out of "are you sitting down." I guess I was just so braced for bad news that was what I heard. But I was wrong, and I'm so happy to be wrong!

So, we should be moving in a couple of weeks. I am so happy. Our very own house. Just ours. Wow. This is going to be awesome.

In which I drag on for a very long time.

A comment was made recently that really got me going. Not that I have a problem with the commenter, it's the situation she is dealing with that has me upset.

When the husband and I realized we were getting serious one of the things I did was start researching step-parenting. I read books, I joined newsgroups, and I went back to the boyfriend-soon-to-be-husband with everything I'd learned for us to talk over during one of our endless phone conversations. And, as I got to know other stepparents (usually stepmothers) I began to see a pattern.

We're all familiar with the picture of the "ideal" family. There's Mom, Dad, kids, pets, grandparents, the whole kit and kaboodle. It's certainly a good thing to have, if possible. I would whole-heartedly agree that it's the absolute ideal, the way to go if it's at all possible. It's certainly what we've been taught to aspire to. There aren't many kids out there, after all, saying to themselves, "Gee, I want to be a stepparent when I grow up!"

Blended families are hard. Two people, who couldn't get along well enough to keep their marriage/relationship together, now have to get along in raising children when all sorts of other complications have entered the picture. Coming into a divided family as a stepparent isn't any easier.

Let's look at the experience of a new stepmother. To my husband I'm the woman of his dreams, but to his ex I'm just a stranger who's suddenly been handed the keys to her child's life. She doesn't get along with her ex to begin with, and now she's expected to trust his choice of a stepmother to her child?

The stepchildren, meanwhile, are having to cope with some very painful truths. Mom and Dad aren't getting back together again, because I'm in the way. Again, Dad likes me, but they haven't had a choice in the matter. They have to learn to live with me, no matter what they think.

Meanwhile, I might have had some dreams of my own, that aren't going to be happening now. If this is my first marriage, then I have to cope with the fact that my firsts are all "been there, done that" for my husband. We may or may not have gotten much of a honeymoon, depending on his visitation/custodial situation. If he's paying child support, our financial situation might be severely compromised. If they want to, it's very easy for the kids and ex to make my new married life a waking nightmare. And if this is my second marriage, maybe with my own ex and children added to the mix, the logistical and financial complications can get really crazy.

The craziness is the problem. When life gets complicated, it's only natural to want it to be simpler. Unfortunately, it's so easy when you're in a blended family to dream about the simplicity of being a traditional family. If you're honest with yourself, it's not too much of a problem. You recognize your feelings, let yourself feel wistful or wallow in self-pity a little, then move on. If you don't realize what you're going through, though, you can walk right into a big 'ol pit. If you still don't recognize or acknowledge what's happening, it's going to get ugly.

A friend of mine is divorced. She and her ex have both remarried. My friend has taught their daughter to call her new husband, "Daddy." The ex's new wife sent my friend a package of old pictures. She'd cut my friend out of every single one. Kira's ex's girlfriend won't let the ex have anything to do with his children. Boil these two situations down to their essentials and you've got the same thing happening. Everyone's trying to force their blended family into a traditional family mold.

That's what I saw in the stepparenting support groups I participated in, and I got so disgusted after a while I finally quit them all. I saw the group members using one of three ways of dealing with this life. Group A tried to create a traditional family by trying to get custody of the child, by attacking the bioparent, ignoring the bioparent and trying to cut the bioparent out of the child's life. They wanted to pretend this was their child.

Group B tended more toward the traditional wicked stepparent model, ignoring the child, attacking the child in discussions with their spouse and in the worst cases, actively trying to eliminate the child in one way or another. They wanted to pretend the child never existed.

If you'd told them this was what they were doing, they would have been very angry and indignant. They didn't realize what they were doing - which is why they were in a position where they were doing those things. They saw themselves as good people, dealing with an impossibly difficult situation, trying all alone to make things work. They saw themselves as victims.

To a certain extent, they're right. But, in focusing on how hard their situation was, they were forgetting to look closely at how hard it was for the other people there, too. And that's the only way to survive this, in my opinion. Everytime I start feeling sorry for myself, thinking too much about how complicated and blasted difficult everything is, I start losing my perspective and I get off-balance. Off-balance, I start a pretty quick drift toward Group A or B. It's a constant struggle to keep out of those camps, to hold fast to my ideals. I want to be in Group C, the very small group of miniscule membership, whose members cope with the sorrows of a blended family while recognizing the special joys that are part of it, who concentrate on making it work instead of wishing it away.

I'm a long way from perfect. I've had way too many times of fantasizing about getting a phone call that the teen's mother has been in a tragic car accident. Then there are those days that I try to figure out exactly how much longer we have until he goes off to college. I fight those feelings by putting myself into their shoes, mother and son, reminding myself that this is just as hard for them.

It drives me crazy when I run across committed members of Groups A and B. I understand where they're coming from. I think this essay makes that pretty clear. It's just so irresponsible. I made a choice to marry a man with a past. The husband and his ex made choices that led to their break-up. The teen, and all the kids in these families, haven't had any choice at all. The teen doesn't even get to choose where he lives.

In the end, it doesn't matter what I or the teen's parents feel. If we are to do any kind of good job, be any kind of responsible parents at all, we have to put our feelings and desires on the back burner and do what's best for him. I couldn't live with myself any other way.

Defining Art

Today is a "seriously get down to work" day. I'm all dressed in comfy clothes that let me move freely, I have the baby down for a nap, and the toddler is watching Dora. I'm going to get a lot done today.

Just as soon as I stop procrastinating.

I had a funny conversation with the teen last night. Some ad came on tv talking about art. I wasn't paying attention, so when the teen snorted in disgust I had to ask him what he was annoyed about.

"That!" he said, gesturing toward the tv. "That's not art."

"Huh? What isn't, and why isn't it?" I knew he wasn't talking about the television. The teen and the husband are both like this. They'll comment on something they've just seen or heard, and get annoyed if you don't immediately understand them. They claim I'm scattered-brained. I think I have better things to do that give the tv the rapt attention it claims from them.

"On the ad. They were showing something they said was art, and it isn't."

"And why wasn't it art?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "It doesn't mean anything."

Up to this point I hadn't been paying much attention, but now I put down my newspaper. "Art has to mean something? Then what about Boy Blue by Gainesborough?"

Now it was his turn to say, "Huh?"

"It's a portrait," I explained. "A boy dressed in blue. No meaning, just a picture."

"Well," he conceded in a gesture of generosity to those poor benighted previous generations, "they didn't have cameras back then."

After further debate I finally managed to convince him that art wasn't so cut and dried as he thought. It was a pretty funny conversation, though.

I finally came up with what I think is a pretty definition of art. "Something created for the joy of creating it."

I ran away.

Well, it took nagging, ordering, reminding and enduring all sorts of resentment and sulking, but the teen's room is a little bit cleaner. He's done a load of laundry at least and claims to have picked up. I can't see anything done, but I was tired and let it go.

One of the problems of being a stepmother (and forgive me if I've gone off about this before) is that I just don't have any authority, and no strong foundation of love and trust to cushion the teen and I against the normal friction of life. I have to be so cautious in how I handle and discipline him. A certain amount of resentment and anger is acceptable. We can fight every so often and not have the world cave in. But, there are very definite limits and I'm scared of crossing them. Add to that that I'm not really his mother, which he is very much aware compromises my authority, and the situation gets incredibly dicy.

In the end the atmosphere in the house was so stretched that I took the girls and left for the afternoon. We went to a fast food place and I let the toddler play while I felt sorry for myself. We came home too late to fix dinner and I didn't even try. The teen didn't ask about it. Maybe he was aware he'd pushed me a little too hard. Maybe he was just really happy to have the house and computer to himself for so long.

I'm going to hire a friend's teenage daughter to help me out with the girls so I can get busy packing and cleaning. The teen won't do it without a lot of struggle and I just don't have the energy. Hopefully I'll start making some real progress on packing up. She's a nice girl and she'll be very helpful if I can talk her into it.

The problem is, if you see three, there are billions more hiding in your walls.

I may have to hurt the teen.

He told me last week that he'd found a cockroach in his room. That was not good. I immediately started worrying. Sure enough, a couple of days later he came in and told me he'd found another one. And just now, one ran across the floor.

I am so going to kill him.

Let me point out that this problem is not in the kitchen, the logical place to find roaches. No, it's in his bedroom and around the computer.

Last summer, after he went back to his mom's, I went in to clean his room and took out two full garbage bags of candy wrappers and soda bottles. I've been working so hard to maintain some control over what comes into this house, but I'm guessing right now that he's somehow smuggled stuff in.

The computer is another problem area because he keeps eating over here, and if I don't catch him and get after him, he'll leave the dishes here overnight instead of putting them in the dishwasher.

He is so cleaning his room first thing in the morning.

Harry Potter

Dana asked about Harry Potter a couple of days ago (I told you I was behind on my reading!) and I just felt like I had to respond, since I blogged about the teen going to the movie. (Which he told me was "OK" but no surprises if you've read the book already. Um, yeah, and you expected what? A major plot change or something? He cracks me up.)

Personally, I just don't have a problem with Harry. I've read the books, and I think they're fun. (I wouldn't call them great literature, but then there are a lot of things I read that aren't great literature!) I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with reading stories about magic. It depends on the child, I think. If you think your child would have a problem keeping it clear in their mind that this is only make-believe, then by all means keep it away from them. Otherwise, I think Harry Potter is fine.

I do understand the feeling that anything to do with magic is dangerous and wrong. I respect that opinion/decision and I fully support those parents that make that decision for their families. I just don't see it that way. And I wish I could explain better exactly how I do see it. It's one of those things that simply isn't easy for me to put into words.

I guess, to me, these books are just so obviously fantasy that they're no more dangerous than when my brother and I played make believe when we were little and pretended we were drowning, or flying like Superman, or shooting each other. I might have pretended to fly, but I was very clear that actually jumping off a high spot would be a very bad idea.

Now, having said that, there are books that I consider to be dangerous and bad and don't want my children reading. The His Dark Materials Trilogy by Phillip Pullman for instance. The teen's mom bought him those last year and he brought them to our place for the summer. Being an insatiable reader who loves fantasy, naturally I picked them up and read them.

At first I enjoyed them. The first book impressed me with how well it was written and with his insight into things like having a mentally ill parent. The second book had me raising my eyebrows, and the third book I really hated. I have a passionate dislike of that sort of story. Yes, I can see making good, evil and evil, good as a literary device, but no. Not for me and not in my home. Everyone has their boundaries and those books crossed mine. He took things I consider sacred and turned them on their head. He has the right to do that and I'll defend that right - but I won't ever read those books again and I won't let my children read them. (Once the kids are 18 they can make their own decisions on it.)

I didn't take the books away from the teen (one of those, "Hmm, I'm a stepmother with no real authority" moments,) but I did make a point of talking with him and making sure that he understood what was going on. I didn't want him to be unwittingly influenced. If he understood what was going on then he'd be able to spot the misleading bits, I felt. After all, he was still fairly young then, and didn't really understand a good part of what he was reading. Right now I wouldn't be so worried (although I still would discuss it with him.) He's grown greatly in his sophistication and ability to analyze what he hears and reads.

I don't know if he ever finished the books. I kind of hope not, actually.

Thoughts on some boys I thought I knew, once.

A few years ago the husband and I woke up on Thanksgiving morning to a news story on the radio about two local boys being arrested for armed robbery. We didn't quite catch the names, though, or at least we couldn't really believe what we heard. So we laid in bed for another hour (yes, this was very much pre-children) until the local news was replayed.

We'd heard correctly. It was them. Two boys from our church, from the Sunday School class I was teaching in fact. One of them used to babysit the teen every so often.

It was the most amazing shock. These were the two last boys I would have thought would pull something like this. Oh, they'd gotten a little off the rails in the last year and we were all concerned for them, but there was nothing to indicate they were capable of armed robbery.

The one boy (let's call him Pete,) the teen's sitter when the teen was a grade-schooler, had always had such a sweetness to him. He'd gotten kind of angry lately, and taken to doing weird things with his hair and clothing, and his friends were a source of concern to his grandmother who was raising him, but, well, what's so unusual about that when you're dealing with a teenager?

The other boy (call him Sam) was smart and personable, talented and capable, a good-looking boy who was perhaps a little too aware of hus advantages in life and maybe a tad arrogant about it sometimes. But really a good kid otherwise, a nice boy. He'd been caught experimenting with marijuana, but that was the only time he'd gotten in trouble. He was a tad rebellious, but no more than you'd expect at that age. The marijuana had his mother pretty upset (understandably,) but it's a far cry fronm that to threatening to kill someone if they don't hand over their money to you.

They both went to jail. We've written to them as we could, which hasn't been easy because they both got shuffled around the system, getting moved from jail to jail as population pressures demanded. It's been hard to keep up with where they were.

Sam finished his sentence last month and is currently living with his mother and trying to get a life going again. Pete got a longer sentence and still has a couple of years to go.

I was talking with Sam's mother the other day and learned some things I didn't know at the time. It turns out she was very unsympathetic to him after he was home on bail before his trial. He started crying about how he'd messed up his life so badly, and she reacted with, "Well you should have thought about that before, shouldn't you?" Then she read him the riot act and talked him into admitting his wrong and accepting whatever punishment he was given.

I found that very interesting in light of how he turned out. He's really changed and grown up. He's very humble now and regretful of his actions back then. He's already started working toward a career as a plumber and was praised by the halfway program he was put in for how well he is doing in adjusting to real life.

Pete, on the other hand, isn't doing well at all. He's continuing to make bad decisions about his life, getting in trouble in jail and heading further down this self-destructive path.

When the boys were arrested, Pete fought from the first, insisting that it wasn't his fault, that he was led astray by Sam, and that he shouldn't have gotten in trouble. His grandmother was very angry with Sam and Sam's mother, to the point that she stopped coming to church and now refuses to have anything to do with any of us, even friends, because she feels we should have kept Sam and his mom out of our church. When Sam got a lighter sentence because of pleading guilty she was even angrier.

Now, there's a lot there in both boy's backgrounds. Sam and his mom were abandoned by Sam's father the year before all this happened, which wasn't all bad as his dad was abusive to them. Pete was raised by his grandmother from birth because neither of his parents could be bothered with him.

But, I couldn't help being struck by the obvious. The boy who 'fessed up and whose mother didn't allow self-pity is the one who's moving on to a good future. The boy whose grandmother encouraged self-pity and who still doesn't acknowledge his fault is the one who's falling deeper into a very unhappy life.

Not the whole story, but I would bet it's an important part of it. Something to remember in raising my kids. Sympathy is good; enabling is bad. Find the line and stay on the right side of it.

Good things are right around the corner.

I woke up to photos in my email of the house the husband looked last night.

Wow oh wow. It is so nice.

I'm not talking marble and cathredal ceilings. I don't like those sorts of things anyway. No, this place has a basement and a garage. It has a kitchen with a dishwasher and built in microwave. It has closets and storage space. It has 2,000 SQUARE FEET!

It's in a nice, pretty neighborhood, with playing children and bicycles lying on the side of the road. There are parks and ponds not far away, and a big yard. There are even stairs for the toddler to play with. She so adores going up and down stairs right now.

It's funny the effect these photos have had on me. Looking at those pictures, imagining walking through the rooms they show, I can feel something inside me relaxing. I never realized before just how thoroughly uncomfortable I felt in this house.

I suddenly feel like I've been wearing clothes that don't fit and itch, too. Now I'm looking at new clothes, wonderful, luxurious, soft clothing, tailored just for me, and it's so enticing that I can't wait to switch over.

Oh, I hope we get this house.

So, So Busy

I haven't had a chance to catch up on my blog reading in days, which is very depressing. I had to laugh earlier today, though, as I was feeding the baby and wishing for something good to read - and I realized I wanted to have a book that was composed of all y'alls blog entries!

We may have a place to live. The husband found a really great rental this evening. 2,000 square feet with a half basement. Brand new. We'd be the first people to live there. There isn't even any sod laid yet. Best of all it's a couple hundred dollars less than our budgeted housing costs. Of course, it'll mean an hour and a half drive to work for the husband, but he insists he doesn't mind. I sure hope not, because it's looking like we'll try to get this place.

I have a new piece up at Yet Another Jennifer and a new look too.

The teen wants to go to the opening of the new Harry Potter movie. He even has a costume he made, months ago, for it. I told him I'd make it happen. I'm going to regret this I know. Getting two sleepy little ones in and out of the car at hours past midnight. Yeek. Oh well. I can't be totally evil stepmother all the time, can I?

Family Secrets

The husband's first wife called tonight and we had a nice chat. Have I mentioned before that I'm the husband's third wife? The first was a teenage elopement that fell apart almost as fast as it happened; they're still friends and she was friendly to me from the beginning.

His second marriage was the one to the teen's mom. That lasted a decade and a half only to fall apart after he retired. He was gone so much that the problems they had never had a chance to come to the surface. A couple of years of being home full time had them barely speaking to each other. By the time the divorce was finalized they were so entrenched in their anger that it's only in the last couple of years they've been able to work together for the teen without any discussion degenerating into shouting and slammed phones.

I like to tease the husband that I'm his midlife crisis wife. It's only funny because I'm a long way from blonde and skinny. We met online, through a penpal service. I'd wanted a penpal ever since I was a kid, but never knew how to go about getting one. When I finally got online it was for the express purpose of getting penpals. We knew each other for a year before we met, but we were in love for months prior to our first face to face.

The husband doesn't like people to know he was divorced twice. He feels badly about it, and if you just hear the bald facts, yeah, it does sound bad. But once you know the details it's no big deal.

Of course, I say that, but I still haven't ever told my family I'm a third wife ...