The Brady Bunch...plus one

Christmas Crazy Mom Mode

2011-12-07T08:12:00.000-05:00

From today's column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/, December 7, 2011

The holiday hustle and bustle can leave you exhausted. This year columnist Lynn Nankervis is concentrating on making memories.

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s here - the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. And even though it is absolutely my favorite time of the year, it can also be the most stressful time of the year.

Every year around now, with Christmas just a few short weeks away, I go into what I consider my “crazy mom” mode. There’s so much to be done and so little time to do it in. The dishes are piled high in the sink, the laundry on the floor, the dusting and mopping and picking up are left undone because I’m doing everything else – like wrapping and decorating and shopping, not to mention the parties and get-togethers and, for some reason beyond reasonable explanation, my son’s football coach decided that December would be a good month to have the annual football end-of-the-year banquet. Hello? Don’t we already have enough crammed into this month?

To top it all off, the boys have known about the banquet for several weeks now, but “forgot” to say anything to me or their dad about it. While at the high school last week waiting for AAA to retrieve my oldest son, Sam’s, keys out of his car (a whole other column), I ran into the coach who said, “I’ll see you Tuesday night, right?”

Huh?

So he mentioned the banquet and instead of throwing my two football player sons under the bus, as I probably should have, I pretended to know what he was talking about and said, “oh yeah, we’ll be there,” because heaven help me if anyone think my kids are typical kids who don’t tell their parents anything, right?

Speaking of shopping (I mentioned something about it a few paragraphs ago), I have a friend I somehow manage to admire and loathe at the same time. Her entire Christmas shopping list was completed by October 1st. Her gifts are all wrapped, labeled and alphabetically stored in a guest bedroom closet. For 2012. She is, in my opinion, the 8th world wonder! She probably even knew about the football banquet.

I will admit that I’ve gotten pretty good about getting my shopping done ahead of schedule, and by that I mean by Christmas Eve. What I’m not so good at is remembering to pick up all the paraphernalia needed for the gifts. You know, things like batteries for toys and scotch tape for wrapping.

Inevitably this results in a mad dash to find an open store at 10 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

There was one Christmas Eve late night run to three different Walgreens in search of scotch tape and stick on bows. I have always loved beautiful gift wrapped packages but given my typical marathon wrapping sessions in the wee hours of Christmas morning, I now go with the gift bags.

So much to do, so much to do! Is it any wonder that the holidays are so crazy?

This year, though, I have decided to let go of the stress. I am determined to make memories instead of to-do lists. I am spending the next couple weeks before Christmas not berating myself because my laundry still sits on the floor and the ever growing pile of dishes remains, but rather taking a walk around the block with my youngest to look at the Christmas lights in our neighborhood, or making a reservation for Christmas tea with my daughter at The Tea Cup Tea Room (1107 Lithia Pinecrest Rd. in Brandon).

This year I choose to enjoy the people in my life rather than impress the people in my life. A beautifully decorated home is just that-a beautifully decorated home but a lived in and loved in home is where Christmas memories are made.

Prolonging Thanksgiving and Promoting Thanks-Living

2011-12-07T08:06:00.000-05:00

From my column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/ dated November 30th, 2011.

I was spending a few last treasured moments with my 22-year-old daughter yesterday before she began the drive back to the University of Central Florida after a long, happy Thanksgiving week together. We were reminiscing about how much fun it was to have rare time together to enjoy each other’s company and, as we often do, we began a running tally of our many blessings. It’s a game we began when she was a little girl (or gorilla, as Rachel used to say, because she couldn't pronounce girl) and continue to this day.

Rachel was thankful for homework, a functioning, operative car, an understanding employer and her hair straightener.

She explained.

Homework keeps her grounded, focused on her studies, on the path to her desired destination to become a teacher.

A running car allows her to get back and forth to her job (and home to her family occasionally).

An empathetic boss works with her so that she has the opportunity to work and attend school.

And the hair straightener, well, born with thick, curly hair, Rachel spends hours each day in a relationship with her beloved Chi. Without that hair straightener she would be one miserable, curly-haired young woman.

In an attempt to share the art of counting blessings, and prolong the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am jumping on the “thanks-living” bandwagon.

Thanks-living acknowledges the sun when it rises and the stars above as they twinkle in the night-time sky … and shows appreciation. Thanks-living

recognizes the roof overhead, the food on the table, the warm bed in which to sleep … and is grateful. Thanks-living sees a smile, accepts a hug and hears the laughter of friends … and feels blessed.

And so I ask, what brought you joy today? What evoked laughter? Whose presence are you thankful for today? What beauty did you notice and take delight in? What touched your heart and soul?

Throughout November, I have been finding my friends daily posts on Facebook of things for which they are thankful. I enjoy and appreciate this focus on thankfulness, especially during the month we celebrate Thanksgiving.

November is naturally the month we choose to give thanks, but it’s really about celebrating Thanksgiving, and thanks-living, every day.

Today is Nov. 30, the last day of November, and ironically, I have read that it takes 30 days to form a new habit. Is it possible that everyone who documented daily what made them thankful will continue the practice throughout the coming weeks and months?

What a wonderful habit to pick up! Keep on Facebooking, friends!

How we choose to record our blessings, though, is not nearly as important as actually recognizing them.

So today, the last day of November, I challenge you to not only find the blessings in today, but in every day throughout the coming year.

Even if your thankfulness is for something as simple as a hair straightener, just take time to ponder all the good stuff in your life and say thank you.

Today, tomorrow and every day.

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

In Everything Give Thanks

2011-11-23T00:31:00.001-05:00

Today's column, 11/23/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

Thanksgiving week and we’re all a bit stressed. The house needs cleaning before family shows up and money’s tight (my pants are too) after expensive trips to the grocery store to purchase everything needed for the big feast. Hubby is grumbling because he finally has a few days off work and I’m expecting him to help with all the necessary preparations before the guests descend upon us. To top it all off, while out running errands I ran into a friend I haven’t seen in several years. She looks fabulous and we spent several minutes catching up, only for me to realize later that I had bright pink lipstick smeared across my teeth during our entire conversation.

That, my dear friends, is life.

Of this I am confident: if you are alive and breathing, your life isn’t perfect. Some days you dance in the rain, other days you drown in the puddles. Your marriage, your children, your career, your house, your car, your body - none of it is perfect. It is an admirable quality to work hard to improve these things. Just don’t waste your time waiting for perfection. It won’t happen.

I have made the decision to live my life recognizing that in spite of troubles, I always have choices. I choose to believe that my life has purpose and meaning. I choose to take the opportunity to laugh and sing and dance. I choose to stop and give thanks - even when I’m not feeling very thankful. Every day, not just Thanksgiving day, I choose to give thanks for what I have had, what I have now, and what is to come.

This year I am thankful:

* for the challenges I have faced. They remind me I still have so much to learn, and so much life to live. They build strength and character. I celebrate my challenges-whatever (or whoever) they might be.

* for exhaustion at the end of the day because it means I have been given a day filled with opportunities and that I have put forth an effort to take advantage of them.

* for determination and for refusing to allow my past failures to define my future pursuits. I treasure the ability to recognize I should not ever give up on my dreams.

* for the mundane – the dirty laundry that needs to be washed, the house that needs to be cleaned, the dishes that need to be washed, the weeds that need to be pulled. I am even thankful for traffic jams. No doubt, it’s often the things we grumble about that really ought to serve as reminders of what we have to be thankful for. Dirty laundry means I have enough clothes to wear, cleaning the house reminds me I have a roof over my head, dirty dishes tell me we have enough to eat, pulling weeds means I have a lovely garden to care for, and getting stuck in traffic means I have a car to take me where I need to go.

* for motherhood and the twenty-two years it has been my main focus. For the enlightening, exasperating, exciting, challenging, beautiful, frightening, hilarious, heart-wrenching and joyful - sometimes all at once – moments it has given me.

* for the food that we will prepare on Thanksgiving day, and for the many hands which will labor to bring it forth from grocery store to table.

* for the sunshine and the soil and the divine bounty that came together to produce every sweet potato and butter bean and ear of corn.

* for the companionship of family and friends and all others who enrich our world, for our home, for our nourishment and provisions on every level of being.

No, life isn’t perfect, but it can be pretty darn good if we remember to give thanks in everything. So often our troubles seem urgent and pressing and too often we procrastinate our joy because we are waiting for our “to do’s” to be done or for this or that crisis to pass before we can really find happiness. After this crisis passes, trust me, another one will be right on its tail.

I have made the choice to refuse to allow my circumstances to dictate my joy, and my disappointments, impediments, stumbling blocks or defeats to prevent me from giving thanks.

Instead I think we should all make the choice to live life as a boomerang. What we send out is what we get back. The gratefulness and thankfulness and blessings we send out will be returned to us, multiplied.

May your Thanksgiving be filled with gratitude and love, warmth and family, blessings and peace.

Embracing The Mess Of A Creative Home

2011-11-23T00:22:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 11/16/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

A new friend called the other day to say she was on my side of town and ask if she could stop by for a few minutes.

My eyes darted around my messy house in panic, but I didn't have a clear enough head to come up with a worthwhile excuse, so I agreed to the visit, then frantically ran around in a mad dash to shove abandoned Legos, dirty clothes awaiting their turn in the washing machine, a pair of cleats from last Friday night's football game and a Rubbermaid bin holding papers and files without a home into the closet under the stairs.

I threw bowls of soggy cereal directly into the dishwasher and ran a lint roller over the upholstered furniture to pick up the stray pet hair. I aimed a Windex bottle like I was Clint Eastwood in a gun fight and fired blue droplets randomly across the room, hoping they would somehow miraculously clean whatever surface they happened to land upon, and I likewise showered a stream of Febreeze in all directions in an attempt to mask the stale air.

As she was leaving, my guest remarked she didn't know how I managed to keep such a clean home with seven children. Good thing she didn't open the closet door or go upstairs. Or sit anywhere other than the chair I politely directed her to, for that matter.

Before I had kids, back when I knew everything there was to know about raising them, I always imagined I would be the mom that did it all. I would easily handle a multitude of tasks without blinking an eye. My kids would be perfect angels, my house would be spotless and I would stand in the doorway looking like June Cleaver.

Yeah, I was doing some serious dreaming!

My mother, a stay-at-home mom — with a housekeeper, mind you — raised me to believe in the old adage, "Cleanliness is next to godliness." Our house looked like it came straight from the glossy magazine pages of Better Homes and Gardens. It naturally became a way of life to quickly and easily judge people based on how clean they kept their homes.

It took me all of about, oh, two weeks, to stop mentally criticizing others after my first child was born and I realized that I was struggling just to get myself showered every day, let alone clean the house.

As anyone who has ever raised kids will tell you, real life is messy! And sometimes "cleanliness" isn't good, it's sterile and lifeless.

I would much rather enjoy an afternoon of baking cookies, a game of Bananagrams, a coloring contest or a swim in the pool than clean my house.

Cleaning can wait. Creativity happens now.

Creativity is unstructured. Creativity calls for seizing the spontaneous. Creativity is messy. To create is to invite chaos into your life.

Without a doubt, my home is a very creative space.

I do find, though, that my quality of life is greatly improved when I can move through my house without having to dip and weave and sidestep and hop through a maze of backpacks and discarded shoes and poster board projects and stuffed animals hanging from ceiling fans.

I reach the point when I am no longer enjoying the contentment and repose of my home because I've let it get so disheveled and unkempt that I am barely able to function.

And so I clean, I purge, I organize and I simplify, and in doing so I am cleaning the cobwebs not only from my home, but from my mind.

My stress and frustration are relieved, my brain is de-cluttered, and I am ready to enjoy the serenity of a beautiful home, for a short time anyway.

Creativity is always ready to be pursued.

The sad thing is, no one ever drops by unexpectedly when my house is clean!

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

Problems And Inconveniences

2011-11-23T00:18:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 11/10/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

For the past several weeks, the St. Andrew's United Methodist Church's drama team, of which I am a member, has been in rehearsal for "All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten."

The performances, free of charge, will be held at 7 p.m. Nov. 17-19 in the sanctuary of the church, located at 3315 Bryan Rd. in Brandon. The play, which features a cast of nine, is a series of heartwarming and comedic essays and stories based on the novels by best-selling author Robert Fulghum.

One piece, titled "Problems and Inconveniences," tells of the author's own experience fresh out of college and working as the night desk clerk and horse wrangler at the Feather River Inn Resort in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern California. The resort, owned and managed by a middle-aged Swiss/Italian man with antiquated notions about conditions of employment, still exists today, but the year the story took place was 1959.

The young Fulghum, fed up with what he perceived as a poor work environment, was particularly annoyed after having been served the same thing for lunch every single day all week: two wieners, a mound of sauerkraut, and a stale roll. He was even more angry that the cost of the food was being deducted from his paycheck.

On Friday night of that miserable week, around 11 p.m. and just as the night auditor came on duty, Fulghum writes that he went to the kitchen to get a snack and saw a note to the chef that the employees were to eat wieners and sauerkraut for two more days.

"That does it. I quit."

For lack of a better audience, Fulghum unloaded on the night auditor, Sigmund Wollman. He declared that he had it up to here and that he was going to throw the wieners and the sauerkraut right in the face of the owner. In his own words, he said, "I am sick and tired of this treatment, and nobody is going to make me eat wieners and sauerkraut for a whole week and make me pay for it, and who does he think he is anyhow? This is un-American, and I don't like wieners and sauerkraut enough to eat it for one day, for God's sake! And the horses are nags and the guests are idiots, and I'm packing my bags and heading for Montana, where they have never even heard of wieners and sauerkraut and wouldn't feed it to pigs."

He went on this way for 20 minutes or so and delivered the entire address at the top of his lungs. As he ranted and raved, Sigmund Wollman sat quietly at his desk, listening intently and watching him with sorrowful eyes. Wollman was a German Jew, and a survivor of three years in Auschwitz. Pale and thin, he liked being alone at the night job. It gave him peace and quiet and time to read occasionally, and even more, he could go into the kitchen and have a snack anytime he wanted — all the wieners and sauerkraut he could eat. To Wollman, it was a feast. More than that, at night there was nobody around to tell him what to do. At Auschwitz he had dreamed of such a time.

When Fulghum finally finished pitching his fit, Wollman spoke. "Listen to me," he said. "You know what's wrong with you? It's not the wieners and sauerkraut and it's not the boss and it's not the chef and it's not the job.

"You think you know everything, but you don't know the difference between an inconvenience and a problem. If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you have a problem. Everything else is an inconvenience. Life is an inconvenience. Learn to separate the inconveniences from the real problems. You will live longer."

And then he finished with this: "Life is lumpy, but a lump in your oatmeal, a lump in your throat, and a lump in your breast are three very different things. We should learn to know the difference."

Gets me every time, that story does. I think I am so fascinated by it because it illustrates so very clearly how one can be shaken into re-examining his or her own behavior, attitudes and expectations.

For me it was one of those life-changing experiences when, upon hearing it for the first time, I realized that from that moment on I would view the world in a whole new way.

For instance, my 22-year-old daughter called me a couple weeks ago to tell me that she had been running late for an afternoon college class and had not stopped to put gas in her car. As luck would have it, she ran out of gas on the way to campus. Exhausted and frustrated she called me and announced, “I have a problem.”

And just a couple days ago my 15-year-old daughter bounded down the stairs announcing, "we have a problem," because her ride to a friend’s house fell through.

I should probably add here that the girls have definitely inherited this flair for the dramatic from me. I am the queen of "I have a problem" and repeatedly label hassles and issues as problems.

But over the past few weeks I have been re-evaluating and trying very hard to recognize the difference between a problem and an inconvenience, thanks to Mr. Robert Fulghum, and probably most importantly, to Mr. Sigmund Wollman. In examining my life I am discovering a lot of inconveniences, but no real problems. It seems that in the past I have been calling most everything in my life that does not flow smoothly, or go my way or doesn’t unfold in the way I envisioned a problem.

I am now making the choice to study the situations and events in my life that are causing me stress or unhappiness and determine if they are problems are simply inconveniences. I am asking myself if what I am experiencing will still matter in eight hours, eight days, eight months or eight years.

If I do discover a problem, I will devote my attention to it and solve it, but if it is merely an inconvenience, I will treat it as such and not give it undue emphasis.

No longer will I allow forgotten grocery items to be a problem. My kids might beg to differ, but I’m quite sure that while cheese-less tacos might be less desirable, they are certainly not a problem.

And recent minor medical issues forcing me to go to the clinic for injections three times a week. Well, inconvenient for sure. But definitely not a problem.

Sudden changes in plans leaving teenagers without a ride are inopportune, but not a problem, and running out of gas, while distressing and upsetting, is surely preventable and thus, should not be considered a problem.

Yes, we should all learn the difference between a problem and an inconvenience.

How about you? Are you labeling what should be inconveniences as problems? Share with us here.

And don’t forget to come see a performance of “All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten,” Nov. 17-19 at St. Andrew’s United Methodist Church, 3315 Bryan Rd., Brandon.

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

Christmas Decorating...Already???

2011-11-23T00:13:00.003-05:00

From my column dated 11/2/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

Farewell Halloween. While I absolutely love October and all of its sweet autumn goodness, the minute the ghosts and goblins have retired for the night, their trick-or-treat bags weighed down with several pounds of candy, I’m pulling out containers of ornaments and setting up the Christmas trees.

My own kids roll their eyes and grumble under their breath as I interrupt them from popping fun-size Snickers bars and candy corn into their mouths to carry another Christmas-filled box down from the attic.

At least I’m restraining myself. There was one year I passed out candy canes to trick-or-treaters and decked the halls in between doorbell rings.

I promised my husband I wouldn’t do that anymore. I think I freaked out some of our neighbors.

In case you’re wondering, I absolutely adore the holidays, and I include Thanksgiving in that category. I decorate so early because, once complete, my house looks something akin to the Griswalds', and trust me, that kind of overabundance takes time.

I usually have the house completely festooned in tinsel and ribbon by the time Thanksgiving rolls around. In other words, I spend all of November preparing for Christmas, and every day in December celebrating it.

Tom is not enamored with all my excessive Christmas hoopla, at least not this early. He is befuddled by my giddiness when I discover each year that the regular radio station has transformed into the “all Christmas, all the time” station, which I blast continuously. While he loves the season as much as anyone else he prefers, like most (normal) people, to hold off with the decorating and the caroling until after Thanksgiving.

But I never claimed to be normal!

For both our sakes, we learned to compromise years ago. I don’t hang the mistletoe until the day after Halloween, and he doesn’t complain that I’m rockin’ around the Christmas tree before the jack-o-lanterns have morphed into shrunken heads.

While I readily admit to needing time to decorate (I have several Christmas trees), I recognize that my love of the holiday is my main motivation in wanting to surround myself with Christmas for so long.

For as long as I can remember I have had this Currier and Ives portrait in my mind of what I think Christmas should look like.

In my mind’s eye is a portrait right out of a fairy tale, all quaint and charming and completely devoid of reality. There’s even ice skates in my vision, and I do not, by any means, ice skate. Yes, it’s really quite absurd.

Even realizing how laughable it is, there was a time I used to rush around trying to create something reasonably close to the reflection.

Somewhere in my head was the notion that Christmas needed to be filled with images right out of Julie Andrews' “My Favorite Things” song.

Reality and imagination are very, very different, and over the years and through life’s experiences, I have learned to blend what is real and what is imaginary into something quite tangible and beautiful. Something that I want to surround myself with for longer than the few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

No, there are no ice skates, no brown paper packages tied up with strings, and living in Florida, we don’t even have snowflakes that stick to our noses and eyelashes.

But we do have Rubbermaid containers and cardboard boxes filled with what makes our Christmas beautiful. And even better than what's in those boxes are the memories we have tucked away in our minds. The memories we get to enjoy year round; the stuff in the boxes we enjoy for only a few weeks, and so I, wanting to get every last second of enjoyment I can, begin opening those boxes the day after Halloween.

Is that silly?

Maybe! But I'm OK with that.

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

Making An Impact

2011-11-23T00:10:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 10/26/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

My family has been volunteering for the past couple weeks at our church's pumpkin patch. It has become an annual tradition to get a little dirt under our fingernails as we attempt to master the trade of pumpkin sales at St. Andrew's United Methodist Church. The proceeds from the sale go to benefit the youth program and its many activities and missions.

There are many volunteer opportunities at St. Andrew's, but my favorite, by far, is the pumpkin patch, perhaps because it gives me prime seating for the best reality show there is — humankind.

I am a self-purported people watcher. I have always been drawn to people, and to watching them, and I think it's absolutely amazing that there are stories happening around us all the time, each one unique to its owner. Like snowflakes, no two are the same. Curious by nature, I delight in hearing the stories all around me.

A few days ago while working a shift at the patch I met a young, single mom, just 22 years old and already the mother of two small children, the youngest sleeping contentedly in a stroller as the older, almost 3 years old, ran between pallets of pumpkins searching for the "one with the most bumps."

A day or two later there was the missionary couple and their three small children home from the far reaches of the world for a visit with local family. It was their childrens’ first visit to a pumpkin patch, and I found it endearing to watch them take joy in this new experience.

I talked to couples married more than 50 years selecting a pumpkin to carve with their grandchildren, newlyweds choosing fall decorations for their first home, awkward teenagers forced by parents to pose with younger siblings for photographs amidst the sea of orange.

Most memorable was an elderly man who seemed almost comically out of place as he ventured into the chaos of the patch during a particularly busy time. He had entered a setting where he clearly did not seem to belong, dressed in his black cuffed trousers and white buttoned down shirt with bowtie.

Carefully he made his way through the patch, slightly hunched over and moving ever so slowly. People were rushing all around him and though he must have at one time been a tall, probably muscular man, I now worried the teenagers running around would knock him over. Still, although slow, he moved with purpose. Every now and then he would lift his eyes for a view of this new world around him in which he seemed to be more observer than participant. He shook his head at an offer of assistance and finally, after a deliberate search, found what it was he was looking for, one small, round pumpkin. His purchase complete, he was met at the gate by an equally elderly man, perhaps a brother or a friend, who guided him to a waiting car, and they drove away.

In the days since I have thought quite often about the man and what must be his huge collection of stories.

I believe the people we encounter and our experiences with them greatly shape the stories of our lives. Furthermore, I believe each of us has the power to choose our story and, in choosing, we determine the quality and direction of our lives.

We all know it is quite easy to judge people at face value, and while I won't discredit the truth that people sometimes are exactly as they seem, there are times when I am actually jarred by the realization of just how inaccurate my first impression can be.

Saturday night I was working a shift at the pumpkin patch. At the close of the evening my sole accompaniment was my young son as the other adults working that night had left moments prior to drive our tired teenage volunteers home for the night.

Just as I was getting ready to unplug the lights, allowing darkness to encompass the pumpkin patch, a very large, very loud F-150 Ford pick-up truck with off-road tires pulled into the parking lot and four large, burly, tattooed men entered the patch. I admit that the only reason I know what type of truck they were driving is the driver somewhat boastfully informed me when I, in an attempt to begin a conversation thinking to myself that these men would never rob someone that could identify them, sweetly remarked, "nice truck."

From the time they pulled up in their mammoth vehicle, the boom-boom-boom of the bass causing the ground beneath my feet to vibrate, I nervously wondered if they had been casing the joint (clearly I have seen way too many crime dramas). I kicked at my purse on the ground beside my feet in an attempt to conceal it under the table and I silently cursed the sudden lull of traffic on Bloomingdale Avenue.

Why in the world would these four, very large, very scary looking men want pumpkins?

To carve, of course, or at least that's what I discovered as they purchased four of our biggest pumpkins, proving my "sizing up" skills need serious work when they told me to keep the change, a substansial amount, to add to the youth fund. And as they exited the patch the driver turned back to me, and said, "Make an impact."

"Huh," I responded, confused.

He lifted the sleeve of his "Sweet Home Alabama" T-shirt and pointed to a large tattoo extending from his shoulder to his elbow that read, "Make an impact."

To clarify, he grinned and said, "Live your life so you make an impact."

Isn't it ironic that sometimes we learn the most powerful lessons from those we don't expect to have anything worthwhile to add to our story?

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

Making Room For Memories

2011-11-23T00:07:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 10/19/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

I dabble a bit with interior decorating, but only in my own home. I pretend to know what I’m doing, even if I really don’t, and what might appear cluttered and visually amplified to some is serene and comforting to me.

My home is my place of peace — although I recognize and accept that my definition of peace is probably quite different than what you would find in the dictionary. Mr. Webster most likely would not look at my abode, with its “who-did-it-and-ran” veneer and the comings and goings of nine people, and find anything peaceful about it.

But for me, well, I can be having the worst day — a day so crummy I just want to slip into pajamas (the oversized kind that make me look like I’m carrying an extra 20 pounds) and eat chocolate and pizza, in that order, and watch TV reruns until I’m so sick of sitcom world that my own life looks charmed again.

Usually, though, thank goodness for my waistline, I find the minute I enter my house I am immediately calmed and I don’t need to go to such lengths.

My home is a very eclectic space. As I said, I dabble. In other words, I wade in many different puddles when it comes to design. I don't have a particular style. No one would enter my house and announce it as shabby chic or modern contemporary or traditional.

No, my home is just a hodgepodge of stuff.

Stuff I love.

I am a collector — of people, of things, of memories. My home is a work in progress and it is forever changing, but mainly it is a place where I surround myself with who and what inspires me to live a magical life.

If it has been honored with an appointed spot in my home, it is something I cherish.

Whether a family heirloom, a vintage treasure from an antique shop or a trendy little gadget, if it speaks to my heart, I can find a place for it in my environment. My rooms are punctuated with beautiful pieces from my grandmother's hand-painted china to the blue delft that was purchased when we lived in the Netherlands, to something as simple as a cute little doo-dad I found at Kirklands.

After a shopping trip, my husband will inevitably catch my eye as I walk through the door, prizes in hand, and ask good naturedly, "What did you buy this time?”

And when I show him the newfound item, he inevitably questions, "And where are you going to put that?” because he knows all too well that our walls and shelves and cabinets are already overflowing.

"Oh, I'll toss something out to find a place for this," I'll say, but we both know I am fibbing because there's nothing with which I am willing to part.

Instead I squeeze and scrunch and accommodate to make room for one more keepsake.

Some of my favorite finds are the ones that evoke childhood memories, and last week I found one that made me giggle out loud.

I was browsing through Greg's Hallmark Shoppe in the Bloomingdale Plaza searching for a get-well card for a friend who was having a surgical procedure, and suddenly I saw it.

“I had this clock! I had this clock!” I was immediately 5 years old again when I spotted the cute little gem of a Christmas ornament. A tiny Fisher-Price Music Box Teaching Clock, with all the working features of the full-size clock introduced in 1968.

Oh, I was waxing nostalgic big time!

As a child I relished this toy clock and would dig it out from my toy box, a mountain of Raggedy Ann dolls and Lincoln Logs and plastic linking blocks and beads quickly discarded on the floor, and wind the yellow knob on the back to play the tune of “Grandfather's Clock.”

I would study with wide-eyed curiosity the images on the face of the clock, and I vividly remember hoping desperately that my first school teacher would resemble the teacher depicted greeting her students on the front of the clock. Unfortunately, my kindergarten teacher, a few years later, was an elderly woman who smelled like a combination of Elmer’s school glue and Bengay.

Later, when I became obsessed with Barbie dolls, my clock would sit prominently beside Barbie's Dream House as a kind of "Big Ben" of Barbie land.

As I grew, my clock — now in a place of honor on my dresser because, as a 12-year-old, I felt much too mature to play with such baby toys — was reinvented as the perfect weapon with which to threaten and terrorize my little brother. "I'll bash this clock over your head if you don't get out of my room,” I’d yell while wielding the clock over my head all Dukes of Hazard-style.

I don’t recall the fate of my Fisher-Price clock, but imagine that during one of our many moves as a military family, it was given away in an attempt to lighten the load.

But now I stood in the Hallmark store holding a tiny whimsical version of the same clock, and knew without a doubt I would be taking it home, not to display, as it was meant, on my Christmas tree, but to find a year-round special place of honor.

I can always make room for more treasures.

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

Happily Ever After

2011-11-22T23:59:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 10/12/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

My husband recently informed me that he knew the day he met me that he was going to eventually marry me. You might appreciate my surprise at that statement if you realize that the day we met was not exactly my most shining moment.

The fifth anniversary of that "moment" is this Friday, Oct. 14. On that early autumn Saturday half a decade ago I had no reason whatsoever to suspect I was destined to meet my soul mate.

With errands to run and missions to accomplish, I was dashing around the house, a gaggle of noisy children following my every move, as I threw on yesterday's jeans, powdered my nose and swiped lip gloss over chapped lips rather than carefully painting them into a perfect pink pout — as I would have had I known I was about to meet the man of my dreams.

Isn't that the way it goes, though? If I had anticipated Prince Charming was waiting, I would have acted accordingly, but having no knowledge I was stepping right into a fairy tale, I resembled a rotten pumpkin more than I did Cinderella.

So there I was, looking nothing like I would have had I known the magnitude of the event, and there he was, graciously pretending not to notice my awkward attempt to remove a 6-year-old-son's bestowed magic marker tattoo from the back of my hand using spit and Kleenex.

It was at that moment my fairy godmother saw fit to wave her wand and set in action a most enchanted love.

Magic happened.

Followed by mayhem, otherwise known as seven children, two houses, two households full of "stuff" and a lot of sorting out to do.

The fairy tales always end with "And they lived happily ever after," but fail to mention the kids and the mortgage and the orthodontic bills and the overflowing toilets.

And I never saw a Brady Bunch episode where Bobby or Cindy screamed, "You're not my mom/dad and I don't have to listen to you," or Marcia whined, "Life was better before you came along."

We enter marriage with the expectation that it will last forever — that love will endure — and when it does, it's wonderful. But sometimes divorce happens, or death steals away a young parent, and we're forced to face the consequences.

Our family has come face to face with the aftermath of death and divorce, and we've loved each other through it all — through every hurtful comment, every pointed finger, every slammed door.

Step by step, we have become a real family. And a happy family.

This week Prince Charming and I will attempt to steal away for a couple hours amid the parent/teacher conferences and the football practices and the chauffeuring to this event or that event, to celebrate the day that the planets aligned so perfectly and our love was ignited. While we both feel incredibly blessed to have found each other, we recognize that we both work very hard to make our marriage so successful.

There are times we forget to communicate or we get snippy with each other. My spending habits surely aggravate him, and I alternate between admiring and being annoyed by his dislike of small talk.

Sometimes we disagree, but we apologize to each other and try to do better. We work hard at our marriage, and in doing so, we are building a relationship that grows stronger and more beautiful every day.

I only hope someday, way in the future, someone remembers our family with the words, "And they lived happily ever after."

Autum Makes A Subtle Appearance

2011-11-22T23:56:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 10/5/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

"Hello, October," I whispered to myself last Saturday night as I stood outside in my yard and looked up to a brilliant sky of stars. In the distance, the distinct spicy scent of a wood fire filled the air and autumn enveloped me like a warm blanket.

Oh how I love fall!

Florida summers are arduously long. Month after month, the intense heat and humidity exhausts us and wears us down. Autumn, by contrast, slips in silently. It's a subtle season, without the spectacle and grandeur of New England, but inspiring none the less, and more and more appreciated the older I get.

Autumn reminds me of a younger me, newly graduated from college, working in public relations and writing press releases day after day, just barely scraping by financially. I was fiercely independent, determined and often bit off way more than I could chew, which, come to think of it, I still do.

I thought I had all the answers.

I didn't.

If only I knew then what mattered and what didn't, but like most young adults, I hadn’t a clue. It makes me giggle to think of how astounded I would have been if I could have seen into the future - you know - those seven kids.

Oh I could fill volumes in a letter to my younger self.

There’s something about autumn that motivates me. It awakens my creativity, piques my imagination, and persuades me to change what needs to be changed.

It did then.

Years later it still does.

Now settled in Florida with my family, I'm far removed from those younger days where I was so unsure of my path. Autumn winds carried me to new destinations and forever imprinted my love of this season on my heart.

As for those that argue that Florida doesn't have a fall season, I disagree. It's here - just softer, a bit more difficult to identify, but if you look for it, you'll find it.

You'll find autumn at the Friday night football games, the farmer’s markets with hot apple cider and kettle corn, and at the pumpkin patches popping up along the roadside (St. Andrew's United Methodist Church's student-sponsored pumpkin patch opens this Sunday, Oct. 9 at 3315 Bryan Road in Brandon).

You'll see autumn in the sunsets exploding in a kaleidoscope of spectacular colors and in the sky that turns an intense shade of blue - and sometimes a magnificently malevolent gray just in time for Halloween. Autumn is in the golden sunlight dancing through windows opened in the evenings to enjoy the cool breeze and in the children rushing home at the quick approach of twilight as darkness saturates the landscape.

Autumn gives me hope. It’s the way that the trees, even as they shed their leaves and die back for the winter, still have so much left to give. That last amazing triumph. It makes me realize precisely that getting older isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and that change is often required, desired and welcomed with open arms.

Hello, October.

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

Capturing Connections

2011-11-22T23:52:00.001-05:00

From my column dated 9/28/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

When Tom and I were engaged and planning our wedding, I remember thinking how blissful our life together was going to be. We would have the perfect blended family. Any trials or tribulations we faced would be easily resolved because our love for each other could get us through anything.

It didn’t take long for me to realize I was being naïve. Within a few days of returning home from our honeymoon, we had seven children hell-bent on causing anarchy.

It was a bit overwhelming and took a lot of effort, adjustment and give-and-take (and even a bottle or two of wine--for me, at least), before we were able to achieve a semblance of balance in our home life.

It’s not that we keep a running tally of the good and the bad or the naughty and the nice, but we have discovered the need to measure our responses to the conflicts in our lives in a way that creates harmony in our family.

When difficulties arise, we accept them, learn from them and transform sour lemons into sweet lemonade. Likewise, when life is completely pleasant and agreeable, we drink it in heavy gulps knowing that, like adversity, it won’t last forever.

Tom and I have become quite adept at parenting our brood and these days the positive far outweighs the negative and our family bond is firmly cemented. Surprisingly, a photograph made that clearly evident to me.

Sometimes a picture can capture a moment in time that is so tangible you feel like you could just be sucked right into it. A viewfinder circumspectly crops out the peripheral clutter, and in the quick click
of the shutter the moment is magnified, intermingling a range of emotions into one beautiful freeze-frame of magic.

That captured moment occurred for me a couple of weeks ago at a Riverview High School football game where I snapped a shot of our sons, Sam and Thomas, both varsity players.

The boys like to feign half amusement, half embarrassment at my obvious lack of knowledge of football. I know only enough about the sport to understand that when you're surrounded by cheering, school color-wearing, face-painted fans clasping cowbells and bullhorns in the high school stadium, and your team scores a touchdown, you jump up and down and holler like it's nobody's business.

With all the frolic surrounding me, I did my best to keep my eye on my boys' jerseys, so as not to lose sight of them on the field, and spotted them together on the sidelines in conversation.

I had no idea what they were discussing, no clue as to if it was something as deep as, “I love you, man,” as relevent as discussing a play or as shallow as, “Hey, see that hot cheerleader over there,” but I quickly focused my camera on the pair and clicked away, scoring the prized photograph.

I’m sure to anyone else that snapshot is just another picture of two sidelined boys in discussion during a football game. Nothing more than that. Some might argue that in the same photograph there are other boys also standing around talking and why would I put any more emphasis on my sons than on anyone else.

But a mother knows. And to me it is Kodak proof of the cohesiveness of my family.

In the four years since they became brothers, Sam and Thomas have had their share of teenage squabbles just like any siblings, including their five other brothers and sisters, but as they have gotten older the bickerings are short-lived and they are finding more and more connections, like their love of football.

As a family we have found the absolute best thing about those weekly football games is the coming together of people to celebrate. There's an infectious energy that breathes through the bleachers as parents and grandparents and teachers and classmates overindulge on chili dogs and cheese fries and cheer madly. I have always been one to adore occasions that bring people together for a common cause, especially a celebration.

I was concerned the hoopla and hullabaloo, so easy to get caught up in, played a part in my emotional response to the snapshot, and that once removed from the situation I would see it with a more critical eye. But in the days since, I have discovered that I am even more in awe of that simple photograph. An instant where time stood still and the image of two brothers sharing a moment was forever captured.

A picture that proves to me that we are no longer a blended, but a bonded family.

Happiness Is A Choice

2011-11-22T23:48:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 9/21/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

I was running on adrenaline this morning.

Thomas forgot a school assignment at home, causing me to try to squeeze an extra 20 minutes into an already-tight schedule so I could take his work to the high school, followed by errands to pick up the dry cleaning, fill the car up with gas, attend a conference with Matthew’s middle school teacher, and a way overdue appointment with my doctor to refill a prescription that had run out.

To top it all off, a trip to the grocery store, not just for a couple items, but one of those irrationally expensive, two-shopping-carts-piled-as-high-as-the-Alps tasks to completely restock the pantry.

These kind of days generally leave me hurried and harried, feeling one step short of sanity as I race non-stop through the hours, constantly monitoring the time to ensure I get everything done.

My next-to-last stop of the day was at the medical clinic, and I wearily toppled into the chair in the lobby as I waited my turn with the doctor.

A robust woman entered the office, clearly intent on making everyone in the room aware of her presence. She announced her arrival at the reception counter and found an available chair directly across from me, where she immediately began to complain how she hoped the wait “this time” wouldn’t be as long as the last time she was here. She had a very busy schedule and didn’t have all day to wait around for a doctor who assumed his time was more valuable than hers.

“All doctors do this, you know” she proclaimed with an air of clout. “It makes them feel powerful.”

I nodded, not out of agreement but as an attempt to placate her obviously sour attitude, then picked up a magazine on the table next to me and flipped through the pages.

Her cell phone rang and she fumbled inside her purse. She retrieved it and began to speak belligerently to an unfortunate soul on the other end who was, quite frankly, taking some heat. She continued her tirade as she slowly moved to the main door and exited the building. From my vantage point in the waiting room I could see her pacing back and forth in front of the office, her mouth moving in angry formations, and I couldn’t help but feel bad for the recipient of her fury. But I had to chuckle as I imagined perhaps she was here to discuss anger issues with her physician.

A few minutes later she re-entered the office, an audible sigh emanating from the vinyl cushioned chair as she plopped into it, beads of perspiration evident on her forehead. "I hate Florida," she moaned, as she wiped the back of her hand across her face.

Now, I'm no Pollyanna. I've certainly been known to gripe about lines and long waits and busy schedules and even the Florida heat, but I was disenchanted with this woman's attitude. Could she really find nothing nice to say about anything?

It's fairly easy to see how it happens, though. We live in a world that is constantly bombarded with negative and pessimistic perspectives, but here's the thing — we have the opportunity to live our lives with the idea that every day is to be celebrated, that our very existence is a wonder to be experienced with a happy heart.

Shouldn't we choose to practice happiness as a discipline rather than an occasional perk of life? Shouldn't we approach life with the attitude that our own personal happiness is our own personal responsibility and not the job of the world to provide?

Considering my own day started off a bit grumpy (because errand running days are not always my favorite), it was a good reminder for me to choose happiness.

I owe that ill-tempered woman a thank you, because as I pulled away from the medical office and drove down the street, I became aware of what a gorgeous day it was, how beautiful the clouds were above me, how promising the horizon before me and how fortunate I am to live in the Sunshine State.

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

Affected By Life

2011-11-22T23:44:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 9/14/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

The other day I was, for about the millionth time, compared with Lucy (Lucille Ball) from her famous 1950’s TV show, I Love Lucy. It’s a frequent juxtaposition and one that I readily admit is accurate.

Over the years I have also reminded people of Chrissy Snow, Suzanne

Somers' bubble-headed character on the '70s sitcom, Three’s Company, and I imagine one day when I’m older I might even be likened to scatterbrained Rose Nylund, Betty White’s character on The Golden Girls.

Ditzy? Sure! Doesn’t bother me a bit. But I prefer to say I am the carrier of an insatiable appetite for finding happiness in the small things, the silly things, the frivolous things. Perhaps many of us have forgotten how to enjoy wonderment over the simplest things in life. Looking at the world in a wide-eyed way and appreciating the pure and unadorned is to find joy. And to find pleasure in something whimsical and entertaining is to never be short on laughter.

My oldest daughter recently taught me, the most technically inept person in the world, how to install an application on my iPhone that would customize a ring tone using a song from iTunes. It allows me to play any song from my playlist as my ring tone when a call comes in. Some might call my reaction to this new discovery ditzy. I call it enthusiasm.

Receiving a phone call now is like my own little dance party no matter where I happen to be. I realize, of course, that I can listen to whatever song I want whenever I want just by pressing play, but the monotony that is inevitably broken by a sudden blast of dance music makes my day.

I think the lady standing behind me in line at Walmart today wasn’t wowed by my accompaniment to “Play that funky music” and was probably more than relieved that she only had to endure 30 seconds
of my obnoxious sing-along/disco party before the call went to voicemail.

So delighted was I with this clever new find that I mentioned it to a friend and suggested she download the application on her own phone. She replied, “You know, it's kind of hard for me to accept recommendations from you because you describe absolutely everything you encounter as being amazing, as if you are completely confounded and astonished by it. There's never a gray area, a middle ground, never a point of reference."

And I realized she’s right. I do it all the time. I don't believe it’s a bad thing, though, because, quite honestly, when I find a great product, or enjoy a great experience, or am entertained by great music or visit a great place, I am amazed and blown completely away by how the world and humanity has this infinite ability to endlessly provide me with new and wonderful and creative and fascinating exposures and experiences.

There are so many marvelous little things, all sorts of monumental grandiose things, an abundance of inspiring imaginative things that astound and impress me. And the fact that I've somehow been fortunate enough to find yet another of these wonderful little treasures, be it an iPhone application or the Hope diamond, flabbergasts me.

So yes, I admit it, when I see something, and I like it, or it moves me, or makes me think, or makes me feel challenged, chances are, when I tell you about it, I'll say it was amazing. I will be wide-eyed with wonderment. I will ooze joy.

Albert Einstein once said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."

I want to live my life like the latter. And not just live it; I want to breathe it, to feel it, to think it, to be it. I want to be affected by life. I want to be amazed and astonished, always, by as many things possible. Even iPhone applications.

Does that make me ditzy? Perhaps. And that’s OK with me.

Attitude Adjustment

2011-11-22T23:41:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 9/7/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

I was standing in line at Publix this wet, rainy morning, an overflowing shopping cart before me, a Charmin 12-pack precariously perched on the mountain of groceries that I inched closer and closer to the one cashier on duty as customers moved slowly toward the door, locating umbrellas or surreptitiously nabbing a plastic grocery bag to cover their heads as they struggled with carts, purses and small children, all while attempting to stay dry. It felt like I’d been waiting in line an hour and my exasperation was heightened.

Lately the weather has been less than cheerful and, consequently, our skies have been colored a constant state of dreary gray. Typically I love the summer rains, the thickness of the clouds, the pitter-patter of rain on the rooftop but the monotony of this weather pattern is wearing on me and greatly affecting my mood.

The gloominess, combined with half the morning spent in the rearranged grocery store, was the catalyst for this morning's frustration.

Why, why, why do grocery store managers like to reorganize their stores?

Perhaps there has there been a study that determines customers purchase more peanut butter if it's placed midway down aisle #7 directly above eye level, but if I am used to finding it on the bottom shelf of aisle #3, I don’t appreciate having to form a search party to locate the Peter Pan.

And all the foods I don't need are right in my line of sight. I know the economy is floundering right now but I am not going to buy those Oreo cookies just because you've placed them where they are impossible to miss.

OK, OK, I'm not going to buy them again next time.

Now, will someone please explain orange juice to me? You know, there was a time when a customer could walk into the grocery store, approach the refrigerated section, grab a bottle of orange juice and leave. Nowadays it’s a decision-making process that rivals choosing your first child’s name.

With pulp or without? With calcium or without? Extra vitamins? From concentrate or fresh squeezed? A blend with other fruit juices?

There are so many different brands to choose from, each with its own version of choices in all sorts of combinations which, theoretically, could add up to about 16,000 varieties of orange juice. It's downright staggering and stressful, and almost two hours into my grocery shopping trip I was ready for a tranquilizer and a nap.

So there I waited in the checkout lane, frustrated, tired, second-guessing my choice of orange juice and checking my phone every two minutes to see if one of the schools had called.

In the last two weeks since school began I have received three pick-me-up-from-school-because-I’m-sick calls (due to a nasty virus going around), one pick-me-up-from-school-because-I-have-a-toothache call (which resulted in a full day of dental/endodontic care and a bill that ensures my son can thank Santa Claus for his root canal). There has also been one “I am too sick to even attempt going to school," one early-release day (because school every Monday is now released an hour early), one holiday (Labor Day), and one doctor appointment for a medication refill resulting in a full day of school missed due to an overbooked schedule on the doctor's part.

Was it really me that got all teary-eyed a couple of weeks ago as I sent my kids back to school? Heck, it’s like they’re not gone at all.

I'm sure the frazzled look on my face was obvious to all as I stood waiting to purchase my groceries, and I made no attempt to mask it, that is, until I heard the woman in line ahead of me griping at the cashier.

She had the distinct frown of a perpetually unhappy person, a gruff, demanding voice and she relied on a motorized scooter to get around. With every grocery item she placed on the belt, another complaint spewed from her mouth. And with every grievance she voiced, I became more and more aware of my own unpleasant demeanor.

Do I sound like that? Oh, heavens, I hope not.

I wondered about her circumstances, and felt bad for her, but it was a clear reminder that we all have the power within ourselves to be happy. There are some things we can change and some things we cannot change, but happiness is a choice.

With each grumble ("The price of this ground beef is astronomical,"..."There’s a dent in this can and I want a discount,"..."I don’t like this brand of potato chips but since you don’t have the one I do like, I’m forced to get it"), I could feel myself slowly adjusting my own attitude.

By the time she turned to look at me and waved her 2-inch stack of coupons my way saying, “You’ll be standing there for a while; I have coupons,” I just smiled and replied, “Don't worry. Take your time. I’m not in any hurry at all.”

After all, it was still raining.

I found myself counting my own blessings, and hoping that this unsmiling, seemingly bitter woman was just having a bad day and isn't usually as curmudgeonly as she appeared today. Both the cashier and I said good-bye to her, but she only huffed as she directed her scooter in the direction of the door.

When it was my turn at the cash register the sales clerk asked me if I’d found everything I needed and, rather than complaining that I had to hunt for the peanut butter, I returned her smile and told her yes, I did find everything I needed, thank you very much.

It was so much more enjoyable than complaining.

And as I stepped outside after paying for my groceries, including my pulp-free orange juice, the rain had cleared and the sun shone brightly on my face. I was thankful…for the sunshine, for a body that is still able, for an awakened sense of awareness, for the smile from a stranger, for the ability to write and communicate and for the opportunity to contribute to the world in some small way, even if only with my words.

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

Too Many Birthdays

2011-11-22T23:37:00.001-05:00

From my column dated 8/31/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

The last week of August is typically one of the craziest weeks of the year for our family.

My birthday is Aug. 29, and in August 1993 I was nine months pregnant with my second baby. While a part of me thought it would be bonding to share a birthday with my soon-to-be-born child, another part wanted each of us to have our own day.

Ultimately, Sam made the decision for himself and waited to be born until Sept. 1, three days following my birthday.

During those early years of new mommy-hood, I always enjoyed the relaxing night out to celebrate my birthday before the chaos and confusion of hosting a balloon-popping, wrapping-paper-ripping, cake-throwing, temper-tantrum-filled little one’s birthday party just a couple days later.

The years flew by as they so often do, and in August 1999 I found myself again nine months pregnant. Clearly there was a pattern here. I wondered if the new little one would arrive on my birthday or Sam’s birthday or choose a day of his own. Michael made his debut on Aug. 28, and we now had three birthdays in a five-day period.

Because of the six-year age difference between Sam and Michael, I couldn’t really have them share a birthday. Granted, I did try one year, and the half Barney the dinosaur, half Spider-Man cake did not go over well with either child. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t have the cake decorated in thirds to commemorate my birthday too.

The next year we went back to individual birthday parties.

It's tough with several birthdays so close together; there's no recovery time between them in terms of resources — both financial and in regard to personal time and energy.

Along came 2006 and I, a recent widow, was on my first date with Tom. Both in our early 40s with families, we spent a good part of the evening discussing our children. First he told me about his oldest, Sarah, whose birthday falls on Sept. 18, just a couple weeks after Sam’s Sept. 1 birthday.

Then he mentioned Thomas' birthday.

Aug. 27.

"You've got to be kidding," I thought. But it was only our first date and even though I found Tom to possess a lot of admirable qualities, I wasn't exactly thinking marriage at that point. Still, something inside me said, “Hey, don’t get serious with this guy if you can’t handle adding another birthday to the August craziness.' ”

Well, you know the rest of the story. I married him. Best decision I've ever made in my life. But for a few days in late August we live on the brink of insanity.

I always enjoy the look of surprise when I tell people how close our birthdays are. Inevitably they mention the expense of having so many birthdays so close together, and they’re right. It’s definitely expensive!

No longer content with Chuck-E-Cheese parties, the kids want iPhones (Sam), iPod touch systems (Thomas), bicycles and ripsticks (Michael), and then there's me — and I've never been known to say no to jewelry.

We don’t always get everything we want, but we do know how to celebrate.

As the boys have gotten older, they enjoy having one birthday celebration that the four of us share. This past weekend we cooked out on the grill, opened presents, ate birthday cake and laughed a lot.

This Birthday Week was Crazier Than Ever

Even with just the one celebration, I’m sure you’ll recognize that our birthday week is generally the same week that school starts back, which, as any parent knows, carries its own burden of activities and expenses. This particular week has been hectic with getting the kids back to school and Sam and Thomas, both varsity football players at Riverview High School, having their first game of the season.

And to add to the confusion of birthdays and school supply shopping and getting the kids back to school, the floor decided to give out in my upstairs master bathroom. Well, almost! The workers that showed up at 7 a.m. yesterday (without calling first as they had promised) and found me still in my pajamas, no make-up and bleary-eyed from my birthday night out with Tom, invaded my home with their noisy tools and proceeded to demolish my bathroom while searching for the cause of my “spongy” floor, a condition that resulted from the ill repair job completed last year following a plumbing issue.

Thankfully, joyfully, there was no leak. Just rotting wood that had not been discovered and corrected in last year’s repairs and it was promptly pulled out, replaced and new floorboards were installed over the huge hole that was now where my floor once was. After several hours of labor, the construction workers departed telling me they would be back tomorrow morning to install the ceramic tile over the floorboard.

It was then I noticed my cat was missing. Panicked, (I’m rather attached to my cat) and thinking she must have gotten out the front door when workers were entering and exiting multiple times, I put together a search party and began sing-songing, “here kitty, kitty kitty” as I knelt on my hands and knees and looked under furniture.

Tom sent me straight into hysteria when he declared quite matter-of-factly, “Maybe the workers sealed her up in the floor.”

“WHAT???”

With an insistence I rarely demonstrate I demanded he tear up the floor. Now!

“Let’s just wait a bit. I’m sure she’ll come out when things calm down. She’s probably just hiding.”

Yeah, the minute I started demanding floors be pulled up he was sure she was “hiding.” Hiding ... or buried in the walls of my house?

With the children to back me up, we appealed to Tom’s softer side, and when that didn’t make him move quickly enough, we commanded that he pull up the floors at any cost to save our beloved cat.

Our chorus of pleas must have melted his heart, because he headed for the garage to collect tools to demolish the floor and just as he was about to begin, lady luck smiled on us. There was our kitty, stretching her back and meowing loudly at the door of the bedroom.

Where that dang cat could have been is beyond me. I searched up and down for her for well over an hour, but regardless, there she was, safe and sound.

I’m happy to report that the children and I are safe and sound too, since Tom didn’t have to worry about calling the repair team to inform them he had been forced to deconstruct what they had spent all day constructing.

I guess that means we will live to see our next birthdays.

The cat, I’m not so sure ...

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

The End Of Summer

2011-11-22T23:29:00.001-05:00

From my column dated 8/24/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

I think it was, oh, about 73 days ago that my kids got out of school for summer vacation. Because I am a work-at-home mom and laughably attempt to lead a coordinated and organized life, I knew that the summer months could easily end up being chaotic and confusing. Realizing all this beforehand, I made up my mind to strive to have our days somewhat structured.

Yeah, I said it. Structured. What was I thinking? If there is anything that summer is not, it’s structured. I learned that fact soon enough.

In my mind I envisioned getting my writing done before lunch while the kids slept late and enjoyed the freedom from their early morning get-ready-for-school routines. We would spend sunny summer afternoons making homemade lemonade, enjoying picnics in the park, relaxing away the lazy hours floating on rafts in the pool and maybe even have an opportunity to finally create the garden stepping stone that my two youngest boys received as a Christmas gift three years ago.

Fast forward 11 weeks. The kids returned to school yesterday and as I waved goodbye to them and watched them board their respective school buses, I was overcome by sadness. My attempts at structure were abolished the first week and so we spent a summer flying by the seat of our pants, riding the breeze, and pretty much living a structureless existence. As I returned to my empty house after seeing them off at the bus stop, I realized I didn’t remember just how quiet quiet could be. The silence was deafening. I walked aimlessly around my kitchen, the counters clear of cereal boxes, empty milk cartons, bowls and spoons that so loudly proclaim the presence of children.

As I paced the floor my shoe adhered to a sticky spot, the residue of spilled pre-packaged Minutemaid lemonade that one of the kids dripped, a blatant reminder of my failure to make homemade lemonade.

No, we didn't make lemonade and we didn’t go on any picnics. Well, I didn’t. I think 17 year old Sam and his girlfriend Jenna might have enjoyed a picnic or two, but I imagine I would have been an annoying interloper had I accompanied them.

There were lazy days spent floating in the pool, but always with the awareness that at any moment you might find yourself jumped on, pushed under, or otherwise terrorized by an overheated youngster intent on creating the largest splash possible.

And that garden stone kit? Well, somewhere over the last weeks one of the kids-no one will admit to it-decided to take all the decorative emblems meant to adorn the stone and scatter them all over the house. I’m still finding beads and baubles under various pieces of furniture.

Then there was the chauffeuring? I have spent the past weeks often feeling more like a chauffeur than a mom. Drive me here. Drive me there. Pick me up now. Drop me off later. Can you give Ashley a ride home? Can Tyler hitch a ride to the game?

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids, and I even care a great deal for their friends, but I am exhausted from all the driving. Summer time gives my kids free reign to ask for rides all day, and instead of just after school activities, it's pool parties, play dates, sleepovers and rides to Busch Gardens and Adventure Island.

No where in my dreams did I see hours and hours of driving all over Tampa. I accept responsibility for wanting my kids to have well-rounded lives but seriously, there is a permanent indent shaped like my behind in the driver's seat of my car.

While we may not have had the summer I originally envisioned-we didn’t walk through fields gathering wildflowers or spend evenings clasping mason jars as we chased fireflies around the backyard, we did have fun. Lots of it.

And it occurred to me that my kids don’t want to recreate my memories; they want to make their own. Thankfully, I really feel they did a lot of memory making this summer.

That’s why yesterday morning was so bittersweet. I not only said goodbye to my children as they left for the first day of school, I said goodbye to my summer dreams. As much as I may have griped and complained about the chaos of the summer, the truth is that I loved every minute of it. It was hard to believe my children were leaving for another year of growing and learning, where their teachers and classmates see them more than I do and any time I do get to spend with them is usually after 4pm.

The past 11 weeks were certainly chaotic, but they were also memorable, in a way I didn't expect them to be, and as I said goodbye I realized that the chaos and noise and the fact that I find it almost impossible to write (or even think) when they are popping their heads into my office every two minutes is part of what makes us who we are — our crazy, lovable family.

Now for the first time since June I will have easy access to my iPhone because the 11 year old hasn't sneaked off with it to play Angry Birds. I'll be able to pick up a room and know it will stay that way longer than fifteen minutes. I’ll be able to make a phone call without first having to shush everyone and I’ll be able to open the refrigerator door without multiple children thinking I’ve rung the dinner bell.

But I’ll miss them. And if I could, I'd make summer last a lot longer.

But they go, as they must, and so I tell them ... go ahead and get on that school bus, kids, just know that you are not riding off into the sunset, just into the schoolyard. I won’t be far behind. You will always be in my heart, and that’s a promise.

Moments And Milestones

2011-11-22T23:25:00.001-05:00

From my column dated 8/17/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

I married a very logical man. While he loves our seven children with all his heart, he realizes that as parents, our job is to raise our children to be the best they can be, and then release them into the world to soar. Me, well, I just want to keep them safe and warm under my wings forever.

I tease Tom that he has a mental checklist prepared with dates each child will "leave the nest." After all, he is looking forward to that day in the future when we can sit down to a meal without hearing, "Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news first?"

Because we are a blended family, we didn't have that "just the two of us" time before children. We entered the marriage as two families that joined together as one. For us, our "before kids" will come after the kids are grown, and Tom, bless his heart, is really looking forward to it.

He jokes that we'll be able to have an uninterrupted conversation, enjoy a moment or two of peace and quiet and, Lord have mercy, take out the ice cream without having to prepare seven extra bowls because the kids heard the freezer door opening.

While I do look forward to those midnight ice cream raids, I don't want to rush my senior years. I'm certainly not ready for gardening and grandchildren and early-bird specials. And truthfully, with all the kids I still have at home, I'm far from it, but as each child gets a little closer to college age, I obsess.

So while Tom is creating bucket lists and travel itineraries and dreaming of the day we have time (and money) to do such things, I'm obsessing over "the lasts" of each of our children in much the same way I obsessed over "the firsts."

Those first steps are long gone, so now I weep over what will be the last first day of school for my senior son next week. And because there are no more first words to rejoice over, I mentally fixate on all the lasts he will experience this year: Last homecoming, last prom, last football game.

It's silly, I know, to be so sentimental. Why should I be sad for Sam? He is living a wonderful life and headed in a fine direction. And it's even more silly to be sad for me. My goodness, I still have a houseful of Sam's younger siblings and without a doubt I will obsess over their lasts as well.

Crazy as it seems, I find myself growing more and more emotional the older my kids become. I feel that as each child attempts to spread his or her wings and fly, I'm frantically grasping for them to pull them back into the safety of the nest.

Yes indeed, it looks like I'm facing a serious case of Empty Nest Syndrome. The first episode occurred when my oldest, Rachel, was finishing high school and preparing to head off for college and now the aches and pains of the latest flare up are kicking in as Sam enters his senior year in high school.

Sam had an appointment today for his senior pictures at Riverview High School, and I bawled like a baby as I hovered over him, making a nuisance of myself as I got in the way of the photographer. The photographer's assistant suggested poses for some of the casual shots, and I had an almost irresistible urge to stand behind Sam to protect him in case he fell over, like when he nearly toppled off the table during his 6-month baby pictures.

And when they dressed him in the fake tuxedo for the traditional senior yearbook photo, my mind raced ahead to his wedding day, and I had to rein myself back in before the tears started to flow again.

"Don't get carried away," I reminded myself, a little late.

Thankfully I was able to focus on his bottom half, dressed in jeans and flip flops, which greatly took away from the significance of his tuxedoed top half.

Other mothers around me appeared to be having similar reactions — a mix of pride, tears and frustration as we coaxed smiles out of our high school seniors with thumbs up signs and, to many a rolled eye, a hand blown kiss. I stood back for a moment and watched all the activity and realized it wasn't all that different from the scene played out years ago when I made silly faces and wagged stuffed animals and light-up toys in front of my children's faces in an attempt to capture that perfect baby smile.

I wondered if the photographer, while looking through his camera lens, could see fat baby Sam, a ridiculous bow-tie wedged tightly under his chubby neck and drool and spit up staining the front of his tiny sweater vest? Poor little guy was so roly-poly he had to be propped up on a pillow. Or did he see 2-year-old Sam, fresh from his first haircut and sitting on a little foot stool holding a miniature football?

I really did want to ask him, "Do you see him? Do you see my baby? And if so, can you package him up in a nice little album that I'll pick up the day I pick up the photographs you're taking of this ... this almost 18-year-old, confident, deep-voiced, ready-to-face-the-future young man?"

Seniors in and out of the auditorium, it was like a revolving door. The photographers seemed no less stressed than if they were working with babies, and I found myself questioning if I should have fed Sam before his 8:30 a.m. appointment, as I would have if he was 3 years old once again and I needed him fed and content to keep him happy and "smiley" for pictures. Then I remembered that he would have had time to eat had he not overslept and only had five minutes to get out the door for his appointment.

I bounced back and forth between the years. Little Sam, big Sam, and the years, as they often do, flooded over me and I found myself feeling that all too familiar tug at my heart, an actual physical ache. I was overwhelmed by emotion as I realized that change was once again happening in my life. Sure it is a blessed change, because, as my logical husband has forced me to acknowledge, we DO want our children to grow up to be the wonderful people they are turning into, but, like my son with autism, change is something I don't always welcome wholeheartedly.

All around me life is constantly changing and even when it's a positive and desired change, it still takes some getting used to.

I'm discovering that growing older, for my children and for me, means exploring territory where the milestones aren't so clearly marked. There will be many more firsts, and a lot more lasts, and every one of them will be a blessing, a path leading to something more.

We are each discovering new roads, finding new directions, and I'm realizing that soon enough (but not too soon) Tom and I will see each other without the prism of children to refract the issues and throw tiny rainbows over our world.

But there will still be rainbows. Plenty of them!

This Chick's Perspective On Flying The Coop

2011-11-22T23:17:00.000-05:00

From my column dated 8/10/2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/
By Rachel Parejko-Nankervis (Guest Columnist)

Each year, as autumn approaches, incoming college freshmen everywhere experience the restlessness that comes with the pre-move in day jitters. Excitement somehow outweighs panic as the first day of class approaches and young adults are filled with the urge to get as far away from home as humanly possible, spurred on by the little voice that constantly whispers, “freedom!”

For some, college proves to be a haven - an escape from the rules and pressures of home and (finally!) a taste of adult life. For these students, the weekly call home to remind mom that, “Yes, I’m eating” and “No, I’m not in jail” becomes a dreaded chore. For others, homesickness quickly sets in and the panicky call home to beg mom to “PLEASE come get me!” becomes an hourly occurrence.

And then there’s me. Three years ago I was one of the many teenage know-it-alls who thought that, as far as family was concerned, the farther I could get from them the better off I’d be. I started my first year at the University of Central Florida believing that the next time I’d see my family would be at graduation. Maybe.

At first, I was so caught up in the excitement of meeting my new roommates and finding my way around campus that I hardly had time to think about my parents and siblings back in Tampa. But as the semester wore on and my daily schedule became routine, I began to realize that I wanted to call my mom more and more often. And as much as my six siblings drove me crazy growing up, part of me missed the constant noise and chaos of home.

Before moving to school, I pictured college life as being a relaxing, quiet reprieve from my crazy life at home (except when I wanted to have wild parties that would carry on long into the night, of course). There would be no sisters to steal my favorite clothes, no brothers to embarrass me in front of my friends and no parents to tell me to turn down my music or go to bed.

I could stay out all night if I wanted to!

But after a few weeks filled with all-nighters, coffee and Froot Loops, I was worn out. I had to worry about turning in assignments by Monday morning and paying rent by the first of the month.

I was in over my head.

Suddenly being an adult wasn’t all fun and games. I realized why my parents always looked so stressed and went to bed so early and all I wanted was to call my mommy and cry about how hard it is to be a grown-up.

So I did.

I started to call my mom every five minutes, and when I wasn't talking to her on the phone, I was texting her.

I held her hostage as I described every mundane detail of my days. She listened to my stories good-naturedly and advised me as she saw fit, assuring me that I could handle whatever life threw at me. Slowly I started to get used to the idea of being more or less on my own. I adjusted under the weight of the new responsibility that had been placed on my shoulders, and became more confident in my own abilities.

I grew up.

And as I did, my relationship with my mother changed. We became friends. My mother has always been my role model and my confidante, but she is now also my best friend and my most trusted adviser. I still call her at least once a day, if only just to catch up and find out how the rest of the family is doing.

In a few weeks I’ll start my fourth year at UCF. I’m proud of the life that I’ve created for myself in Orlando. I have wonderful friends and a job that pays the bills, and I’m looking forward to finishing my degree. But every single day that I’m at school, I miss the wonderful family that I have waiting for me back home. I try to make the two hour drive at least once a month so that I can spend time with them.

My siblings are growing up now…my oldest “baby brother” will soon be leaving home to start his own life and experience homesickness firsthand. And if I could give him one piece of sisterly advice (that he would actually listen to), I would tell him to cherish this last year at home.

Teenagers hear it every day- “enjoy being a kid while you still can," but it doesn’t truly sink in until you’ve actually flown the coop. So as school starts this year I’ll look at the incoming freshmen with a knowing smile.

And then I’ll call my mom.

About this column: Trials and tribulations of a blended family

"That's Not My Job"

2011-08-03T10:55:00.000-04:00

From my http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/ column dated August 3, 2011

A few days ago I was browsing through Target looking for new soap dispensers for my bathroom because I was bored with the ones I already have. As I turned the corner on the aisle with bathroom accessories, I noticed broken glass all over the floor, the obvious result of a mishap.

I looked around in search of a red-shirted Target employee and was pleasantly surprised to encounter one just an aisle or two over. I politely informed her of the potential hazard a couple of aisles away and fully expected her to immediately finish what she was doing (replacing what must have been a returned bed comforter to its designated place) and assist with a cleanup. Instead, she looked at me blankly and said, "That's not my job," and walked away.

Obviously it wasn't my job either, by any stretch of the imagination, but hoping to avert an accident, I walked over to the aisle with brooms and mops, selected a Libman angle broom/dust pan set, pulled the plastic wrap off and cleaned up the broken glass.

Target girl's attitude really made an impact on me, and I immediately knew it would be the focus of this week's column. Last week I wrote on "It's not fair." This week I'm discussing her twin siblings, "It wasn't me" and "That's not my job."

While naturally appalled by the employee's behavior, when I consider it, I realize "That's not my job" and "It wasn't me" are frequent, though uninvited, visitors in my own home. Their visits are not one I look forward to at all, as they tend to create a lot of chaos whenever they make an appearance.

"Who left these towels on the floor?"

"It wasn't me."

"Who's going to load the dirty dishes in the dishwasher?"

"That's not my job."

"It wasn't me" and "That's not my job" have become quite the scapegoats in our house; they get the blame for everything, from messy rooms to unfinished chores.

Of course, they only appear in instances of wrongdoing, never when something good has been noticed.

"Who took the towels out of the dryer and folded them?"

"Me," "Me," "Me," echoed over and over as all the kids try to take credit for a good deed.

"It wasn't me" and "That's not my job" are nowhere to be seen.

That day I went to Target and bought new soap dispensers — well, I bought a lot of other things, too. I was in a real shopping mood and loaded my cart with all sorts of things, not even considering the consequences.

As my mother would say, I had money to burn, or at least I thought I did.

As I drove home I realized that my husband, who works in finances and knows every transaction on our bank account as quickly as I swipe the card through the magnetic credit/debit card reader, would surely question me (good naturedly, of course) about such a large transaction at Target, and there's no way I could pass it off as groceries, as I had just completed that errand the day before.

For a brief moment I half-heartedly considered blaming it on "It wasn't me," but realized quite quickly that would be a silly idea.

So I decided to do what my kids have so much trouble doing.

Take responsibility. So simple!

All of us make mistakes. The question is, how do we respond to them? If we try to weasel out of trouble, point the finger at others and deny responsibility, all we do is make ourselves look bad and lose the respect of those around us.

If you make a mistake, have the courage to say, “I messed up, and I’m sorry. How can I fix it?"

Then follow through. People are ready to forgive but only if you’re ready to take responsibility and accept consequences.

Apologize, fix it and move on. That kind of response will earn admiration and respect.

A couple days after the Target incident, I suddenly remembered the broom/dustpan set that I left opened and propped against a shelf in the middle of the bathroom accessories aisle in Target. I imagined a store manager coming across the broom and the dustpan heavy with broken glass and calling out, "Hey, who made this mess?," and numerous employees HONESTLY responding, "It wasn't me."

It's Not Fair

2011-07-27T08:36:00.000-04:00

Apparently life isn't fair to my kids.

My 11-year-old has an annual pass to Busch Gardens, but not to Adventure Island, and that's not fair. His friend's family was spending the day recently at the water park and invited Michael along. "Sure," I told him, "you can go, but the pass will come out of your allowance." How unfair!

My 14-year-old daughter wants to go to a Justin Bieber concert, and it's completely unreasonable that my husband and I expect her to pay for the ticket with her own money. "Desiree's parents are paying for her ticket," Emily protested. But we're not Desiree's parents. We're Emily's parents.

My nearly 16-year-old son finds it utterly unjust that we are making him wait until he is 16 1/2 to get his driver's license and my 17-year old-son complains that he has to report his whereabouts and doesn't have the freedom to go and do as he pleases without obtaining our permission.

"It's not fair!"

I hear the battle-cry daily.

What’s not fair,” I often yell back, “is that you guys think everything should be fair!”

After listening to an absurd amount of "it's not fair" this week, I decided to share with the kids some of the unfairness in my life.

I think it's unfair that my friend Mary can eat whatever she wants and doesn't gain an ounce, while I just look at that piece of white chocolate cheesecake and instantly gain five pounds.

I'd really like to go on a cruise, but darn it, the house mortgage and electric bill have to be paid. Can you even believe that?

And I don't use the upstairs bathroom designated for the kids so why should I have to clean it?

I asked my husband if he'd like to add a few of his perceived injustices.

He thinks it's unfair that because he hasn't won the lottery, he still has to go to that thing called a job every day.

And he'd really like to turn an upstairs bedroom into a workout room but heck, the kids have to have a place to sleep. That is so unfair!

I always said I’d never be "that" parent, the one that throws her children's words right back in their faces with matched venom, but you know, I could write a book on all the things I do that I said I’d never do.

The thing is, life's not fair. Never was and never will be. It’s full of shocks and surprises, uncontrollable and powerful beyond imagination.

And sometimes really unfair things do happen, like five years ago when my first husband died suddenly of a very fast-moving cancer.

That is why I strive to live each moment to its full potential. I've seen plenty of unfairness, but I've also seen a lot of goodness. I've met people with truly justifiable reasons to think life is unfair that have amazingly positive attitudes of gratitude.

I try to teach my kids that, no, life isn't always fair. You might not get everything you want, you might have to work harder than someone else. You might even have to pay for your own Justin Bieber ticket or Adventure Island pass, but if that's the most difficult thing you ever encounter, you'll have a charmed life for sure.

Life slams the door hard in our faces sometimes. Even when we don’t deserve it. We're left feeling gut wrenched, heartbroken and angry. It happens. Usually more than once in a lifetime. Sometimes it builds character, sometimes it leaves us bitter and sometimes it makes us better.

I'm really hoping it makes my kids better, stronger, more compassionate people.

Reminding our kids that life isn't fair isn't the fun part of parenting. But it's a necessary part. These are the lessons that matter much more than teaching our kids to tie their shoes or brush their teeth or eat their vegetables.

After all, even when life isn’t fair, and sometimes especially when life isn’t fair, we need to count our blessings.

From my column dated July 27, 2011
http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

Seven Is Too Young To Join The Army (from my column dated 7/20/2011)

2011-07-23T14:16:00.002-04:00

Today I sat in an Army recruiter's office while a camouflage-wearing, big-muscled, tough-talking soldier insisted my 7-year-old son was ready to serve his country by enlisting in the military.

Not really.

Sam is actually 17 years old, entering his senior year in high school and considering joining the Army under the Delayed Entry Program, essentially meaning he signs the papers now but doesn't report to boot camp until after high school graduation next June.

But as I sat with my son in that office listening to the recruiter proclaim all the benefits of a military career, my mind flashed back to a front-toothless Sam at 7 asking me to take him to "McDongals" for a "mikswake."

This is my baby, my first-born son. How is it possible he is old enough to be thinking about the military? He's supposed to be playing cowboys and Indians, not defending his country.

My goodness, he can't even stay all night at a friend's house.

Or at least 7-year-old Sam couldn't. I remembered endless attempts at slumber parties, only to receive countless 2 a.m. phone calls where I was forced to drag my pajama-clad self out in the middle of the night to pick up my homesick boy.

How in the world is he supposed to go to basic training if he can't survive a slumber party?

I write often about quality of life, about slowing down, about smelling the roses. Do I practice what I preach?

Sitting in that office, memories washed over me like rain.

Sam at 3 years old, holding his new baby brother for the very first time.

Sam at 5, refusing to sing "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" in the Christmas pageant because, "Everyone was looking at me, mommy."

Sam at 8, sneaking into the master bedroom to sleep with me because he was afraid of the noises in his room.

Sam at 12, angry and heartbroken over the sudden death of his father.

This boy sitting next to me listening intently to the recruiter couldn't possibly be that same boy, could he?

Wasn't it just a few weeks ago that the doctor placed all 6 pounds 13 ounces of him in my arms?

Yet, there we sat as the recruiter droned on an on about basic training, post assignments, GI bill, college education.

"Excuse me," I wanted to say, "my son should be getting his college education on a college campus. And not for a few years yet. After all, he's only 7."

But the boy next to me with the firm jaw and whiskers on his chin was nodding enthusiastically at the recruiter's talk of combat engineering and weapons training.

"Weapons. Oh no, not MY son. He's not allowed to touch guns. And I just took away a pocket knife that I found in his room yesterday. They're much too dangerous."

Suddenly the boy stood up and I, instantly brought back to reality, stood, too, and noticed how much taller the boy was than I remembered. Quite a bit taller than me...six inches at least.

When did that happen?

This is the same boy I taught to walk, to read, to ride a bike, to stand up straight and tall, even when life dealt some serious blows.

As I think about it now, I bawl. There's still so much I haven't taught him. There's so much he still doesn't know. Have I failed him?

The Army recruiter tells me that they will "tear him down" in basic training to rebuild him as a soldier, but this is my baby, for heaven's sake, and this is not the life I have envisioned for him.

Did I say that?

"Not the life I have envisioned for him."

But that's just it. My baby is 17 years old, 18 in a few short weeks. Not a baby at all. He can make this decision with or without me. Just because it's not what I have envisioned doesn't mean it's not right.

We raise our children to be responsible adults, fully capable of making their own decisions.

My son is joining the Army, and all I can do is support him, be sure he knows how much I love him, how proud I am of him...and then simply pray.

I have a feeling I'm going to be doing a lot of praying.

I know he will serve our country well. I'm proud of his determination, his dedication and his desire to defend his country. He's intelligent, strong and motivated.

But I miss him. Already I miss him, and he hasn't even left yet. He still has his entire senior year in high school yet I am already missing him so much.

I worry about him. I worry about where this path will lead him, where this adventure will take him.

I wonder if he will be safe, if he will return home to me without the physical and emotional scars that so many carry. I wonder if he will be homesick, if he will want to come home in the middle of the night.

But there will be no more dragging my pajama-clad self out to pick him up at 2 a.m.

I have a year to get used to this idea. A year to make sense of it all. A year to allow my 7-year-old to grow into my 18-year-old, and then proudly watch my handsome soldier go off to the Army.

This column was picked up by http://www.offthebase.org/ on July 23, 2011

What Comes Out When You're Squeezed? (from my column dated 7/13/2011)

2011-07-23T14:12:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the day I designated for errand running. Three of my teenagers are in Mississippi on a mission trip with our church, St. Andrew's United Methodist, to rebuild houses still destroyed after Hurricane Katrina, and I'm feeling pretty carefree with only two of my boys, ages 15 and 11, at home. Yesterday seemed like a good day to get some things accomplished and Michael, the 11 year old, wanted to accompany me, even after I warned him that it would be a day filled with line waiting.
My to do list included the usual errand running; grocery store, pharmacy, bank, post office and one chore I've been dreading...renewing my driver’s license.

Ahhhh, yes, the Department of Motor Vehicles, a place few want to venture and do so only when absolutely necessary as they are fully aware they will be made to stand in ridiculously long lines for un-holy amounts of time in order to get the simplest of tasks accomplished.

A place where patience is tested to the extreme.

I’ve been told that patience is a virtue. I freely admit it’s one I’m still working on, sometimes more than others.

Case in point: driving to the DMV to I found myself behind what was conceivably the slowest driver on the face of the earth. Surely he mistook the speed limit as five miles per hour rather than 50. Not only that, but every opportunity I had to pass him was met with his decision to swerve in a zig-zag motion all over the road. At first I assumed he was intentionally trying to frustrate me, but a closer look, as I pulled right up on his bumper, revealed that he was quite elderly, thus I contained my desire to roll down my window and shout that if his goal was to drive so slow that tortoises passed him by, do it in the middle of the Mojave desert, not on roads that people with places to be in a reasonable amount of time used to get from one point to another.

Like I said, I'm still working on that patience thing.

In a time-poor world, waiting in line is a modern form of torture, and as was certainly expected, the DMV was crowded and congested. Only a few fore-sighted souls brought books to occupy their time. Others pulled out smart phones, while some watched the scrolling news on the TV. A few actually slept, although I’m not sure how that was even possible.

After a lengthy wait I finally I made it to the head of the FIRST line, the line where I was checked in and issued a number, 164. On the wall the electronic “now serving” sign read 42.

“Oh boy,” I sighed, exasperated already.

We settled in on uncomfortable, plastic reception chairs and I quickly realized that practicing patience would be much easier if my 11 year old in tow was occupied, so we selected a "Roscoe Riley Rules" book and purchased it on my iPhone. Satisfied, he began to read and I kept my eyes glued to the LED display as it flashed numbers that would correspond with a like number on a ticket stub each customer was issued during the check in phase.

Thirty minutes in Michael decided he was bored. While I was thankful his behavior didn’t come close to matching the much younger child two rows ahead of us, his “When are we going to leave” and “How much longer is this going to take,” wasn’t helping my patience practicing by any means.

Forty-five minutes in he was lying across three chairs making loud sighing noises.

Finally the electronic sign flashed number 164 and I outwardly rejoiced, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically as I caught the stares of several people as I practically skipped to the counter, so thankful to be close to the end of my ordeal.

I truly believe that every person that enters the DMV fears they will not have the required paperwork, identification or some other needed item to allow the mission to be completed in just one visit.

Thankfully I had everything I needed and finally, more than two hours after we entered the building, we were released, my sanity just barely intact.

Still, something nagged at me.

In the back of my head was a little voice reminding me that there was a lesson to be learned in this situation.

It's quite frustrating being confronted with a life lesson when you’re not in the mood. I just wanted to celebrate the fact that I was out of the DMV, another six years of unexpired driving rights tucked safely in my wallet. I didn't want to think about "life lessons."

But the little voice won!

Apparently my half-hearted attempts at practicing patience were weighing on my mind, making me feel guilty.

It's well documented that our true character is revealed in our trying, frustrating times.

As my father used to say, “What comes out when you're squeezed?"

What comes out is what's inside. Anger, resentment and impatience are squeezed out of angry, resentful, impatient people. Kindness, contentment and tolerance are squeezed out of kind, content and tolerant people.

Food for thought as I drove home, no slow pokes in front of me this time around. No opportunity to practice patience and tolerance, a bit more sincerely.

Patience is indeed a virtue. Some are better than others. I’m working on it.

What comes out when you're squeezed?

My Real Family (from my column dated 7/6/2011)

2011-07-23T14:07:00.000-04:00

"The love of a family is life's greatest blessing." Anonymous

It is widely recognized that the concept of the American family continues to evolve. Statistics demonstrate that more Americans are living in stepfamilies than in traditional nuclear families. Clearly it is evident that blended families are becoming the norm.

Just a few short weeks ago my husband and I proudly sent out announcements sharing with family and friends the wonderful news that we had been granted a court order of adoption legally proclaiming us as one family.

Even without the piece of paper legally pronouncing us as such, we have always considered ourselves a family.

While we have faced the usual hurdles of blending a family, all in all it's been a rather smooth process, so much so that my children long ago stopped referring to each other as stepsiblings. They are quite simply brothers and sisters, and have the bumps, bruises and broken noses to prove it.

Yes, I'm serious. Not long ago 15-year-old Thomas broke 17-year-old Sam's nose! Accidentally, of course.

Last week my husband and I were in the car with a few of our many children. Sam, my son who has the uncanny ability to speak without thinking, was asking a question about my brother and his family, who we only have the opportunity to see twice a year and who were expected to arrive later that day from North Carolina for a weeklong visit with us.

We reminded the kids that Mark also has a blended family. He and my sister-in-law Sally are the proud parents of my two beautiful nieces, 17-year-old Mary Beth, Sally's daughter by a previous marriage, and 7-year-old Sarah, their child together.

Having forgotten about this Sam blurted out, "What happened with Sally's REAL husband?"

Being a second wife myself, the words stung for just a minute, in much the way they must have when, as an adopted child myself, I would ask my mother about my "real mom."

Sam immediately realized his error and hastily corrected himself, and we did have a chuckle over his humorous choice of words.

Several years prior, before Tom and I married, we discussed the obstacles we would surely encounter by blending our families. We felt we were up to the challenge and discovered our children were as well.

We are a blended family; we are a REAL family.

A copy of one of my favorite books, "The Velveteen Rabbit," by Margery Williams, the following passage highlighted, sits prominently on a bookcase in our living room.

***
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room.

“Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get all loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
***

Both my brother and I feel blessed to have our real families. We've spent the most wonderful week celebrating my son Matthew's 15th birthday, sharing a wonderful 4th of July holiday, hanging out in the pool with friends and laughing so hard our sides are aching.

Last night, as the week drew to a close, Sam, my "speak without thinking" teenager, said something rather profound when he announced, "You know, not too many of us here are related by blood, and we don't have too many DNA connections in the room, but we're a great family."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Why I Am The Bravest Mom In The World (from my column dated 6/29/2011)

2011-07-23T14:04:00.000-04:00

Several years ago, just a few weeks after my first husband passed away, I was attending my youngest son's 1st grade Open House, an evening dedicated to sharing with parents and other family members the projects our children had been working on in school.

"My mom is..." was spelled out in large, bright, neon construction paper letters and greeted us as we entered the classroom. Responding to that statement, directly below hung more than twenty crayon and finger-paint drawings, one for each student's mother.

Fat moms, skinny moms, moms with long flowing hair, even moms with no hair at all, and displayed over the top of every piece was an adjective each first grader single-handedly chose to describe his or her very own mom.

Words like "beautiful," "smart" and "nice" were declared across the drawings, and the artists proudly showed off their creations to parents who oohed and aahed over their child's imaginative work. Some of the more innovative kids even traced the letters with glue followed by a smattering, or saturating, of glitter.

The "Mom wall" was definitely the star attraction.

I scanned the wall looking for Michael's portrayal of me and found it smack dab in the center. His hand drawn stick figure depicted me with over-sized cherry red lips, large round earrings that fell to my knees and a large circle over my mid-section, appearing as a protruding belly, which obviously made me look nine months pregnant. And just over my large balloon shaped head, boldly spelled out in block letters, gold glitter applied over a thick line of paste, was the word BRAVE.

My child was definitely one of the innovative ones.

My first thought was that I hoped no one would recognize me based on the drawing. I most certainly was not pregnant, and I don't typically wear earrings the size of hula hoops or paint my lips like Miss Piggy.

My second thought was that I MUST be brave to allow myself to be seen in public if I truly looked anything like the way I was portrayed by my young artist.

Oh, but brave!!! I was flattered. How sensitive and perceptive he was. At just six years old Michael realized how much turmoil I had endured over the past few weeks following the death of his father.
As I marveled at his astuteness, the teacher cheerily called all the moms and dads to "circle time," where the students would share their art work with the group.

One by one little boys and girls stood up and described pretty moms, dedicated moms, working moms, stay-at-home moms.

Then it was Michael's turn.

"My mom is brave," he began, and I sat a little straighter in the too small for adult rear-ends, plastic elementary school chair, beaming proudly at my youngest...

"Because when the policeman came to our house with his gun, she put her clothes on.

"WHAT???

I could feel my face turning beet red. At that moment all I wanted to do was disappear through the floor but somehow, someway I was going to have to explain this to the thirty some odd faces staring at me accusingly.

The teacher, who didn't seem to lack for anything to say moments before, stammered and sputtered and finally said something like, "Well, Michael, how nice," before calling the next child up to share his work.

I interrupted.

Poor Justin or Jason, or whatever...I couldn't remember his name, was trampled as I took the floor. I had to explain what really happened.

The police were doing a door to door check to ensure the safety of residents after a neighbor had called to report a suspicious person in the area. My nine year old answered the door to the police officers who asked if a parent was home. They needed to account for everyone in the house.
Sure I was home, but I was in the shower. They banged on the bathroom door and I emerged, wrapped in a towel, to face three police officers. After making sure we were all safe, we laughed about not scaring the wits out of me like that again and the police left to check out the next house.

And that's the story.

Michael's story was definitely much more exciting and I'm not sure if the parents bought my version of the events.

Come to think of it, Michael's teacher never called on me to help out in the classroom that year.

But the main thing is that Michael, almost five years later, still thinks I am brave.

Just yesterday we were walking through Walmart looking for a new pair of swimming trunks to replace the ones that were ripped when he, being one- hundred-percent boy, decided to tie the drawstring waist of his trunks, while wearing them, to the back of a friend's bicycle.

"What were you thinking," I asked him.

"That I'm as brave as you," he replied.

"Brave? Why do you think I'm brave?"

"Because you have seven kids and we're always doing stuff like this."

And that, quite simply, is why I am the bravest mom in the world!!!

Those Lazy (Not Really) Days Of Summer (from my column dated 6/22/2011)

2011-07-23T13:59:00.000-04:00

It's been less than two weeks since school let out and I am already going bonkers.

Bonkers, I tell you!

I'm totally serious! On any given day in the past couple of weeks I have had seven kids in my car (the most it can fit) and anywhere from five to 16 teenagers in my house. Did you get that? Sixteen!

Try putting five 14-year-old girls, four 15-year-old boys, two s16-year-old boys and five 17-year-old boys in a house and see what kind of damage occurs, let alone the sonic boom noise level.

Add a couple of 11-year-old boys to the mix and we're talking extensive repairs.

Really, though, I am very grateful that the kids like to congregate at my house, although for just a moment or two today I may have felt differently, when my friend's 11-year-old son who has recently developed a wonderful friendship with my autistic son, Matthew, was pushed fully dressed into our pool by my other son Thomas' friend, a rowdy16-year-old boy.

That's a phone call you don't want to make. "Uh, hello, Melissa. I'm so sorry to tell you that little Jack was pushed into the pool today by a kid twice his size. I know this is the first time Jack has ever visited our house and I'm aware he's not overly fond of swimming. I'm sure he probably will never want to come back again, and I can't say I blame him." And added quietly but emphatically, "Please don't hate me, Melissa."

I'll admit I'm a bit overzealous when it comes to encouraging Matthew to make friends. Whereas I'm so social I'll talk to a brick wall for an hour and a half, Matthew, like most children with autism, is extremely reserved, quiet and pretty much a loner. When Matthew and Jack's friendship began to blossom I was all over it like green on grass.

My other children spouted things like, "Hey mom, when OUR friends come over, you don't pull out the Oreo cookies and ice cream."

OK, so maybe I overindulged them a bit. I was just so excited about the possibility that I wanted to give this friendship thing a jump start.

And then there was the splash and fully dressed Jack stood drenched in four feet of water, a look of absolute shock on his face, while the perpetrator attempted to make a hasty exit, hoping to avoid the parental wrath that was sure to follow.

Upon ensuring Jack was fine, I became panic stricken that he would immediately end his friendship with Matthew, or worse that he would tell his parents that Tom and I were the most awful people in the world and not only would they never let Jack come to our house to play with Matthew, but they would never speak to us again, ruin our reputation in the community, ostracize us forever.

Yes, my imagination can get carried away sometimes.

After the expected wrath, the "pool-pusher" apologized profusely and Tom and I were forced to remember that we, too, were once teenagers and acted impulsively. All was forgiven and Jack, being a sweetheart of a kid, was laughing about the incident before too much time passed. Relief washed over me as I realized the friendship was intact.

Such is a day in the life of a worry-wart mom with an overactive imagination and more teenagers than she can possibly handle.

I still wonder if I will survive these years. Heck, at this point, I'm having serious doubts I will make it through the summer.

I remember when I was expecting my first baby and thought I had all the answers? I would have a perfect little baby that would turn into perfect little toddler that would grow into a perfect teenager who would share every thought with me, and hang on my every word?

Then I had that baby and realized that I didn't have all the answers after all.

That scenario was repeated several times.

And then those babies hit their teenage years and very quickly I learned that they are the ones with all the answers and I, in fact, know nothing.

Or so they would have me believe...

I have 64 more days to go before my teenagers are all back in school. Still, I can pretty much guarantee I will be writing that day how sad I am that another summer has passed.

Here's The Story...Of How Adoption Made Us One Family (from my column dated 6/15/2011)

2011-07-23T13:55:00.000-04:00

"Tell me the story about the day you got me," I would ask my parents often as I was growing up.

I was adopted as an infant and I was always eager to hear the retelling of my favorite story; the one where my parents were canning tomatoes in my paternal grandmother's south Georgia kitchen when the phone rang informing them that I had been born, how they rushed around packing suitcases to make the drive to Florida to meet me, how as they were racing down the road toward the highway that would lead them to Jacksonville they passed my great-grandmother and aunt returning from the store and stopped briefly to tell them that they would be back in a few days with their first born.

I would listen to the story each time it was told as if it was the first time I had ever heard it, giggling at the part where the name I was supposed to have been given-Lisa-was immediately rejected when my parents learned of a newly discovered fish in the area by the same name.

My mother couldn't possibly name her first child after a fish!

And I would blush, slightly embarrassed, at the description of being placed in my father's arms for the first time.

I begged to hear the story over and over again throughout my childhood. It was a given on my birthday, just the natural order of things that the story be told on that particular day, but that wasn't enough for me. I wanted to hear it much more often than just once a year.

I imagine every adopted child loves to hear their own "the day you got me" story as many times as I did.

My kids, however, won't have to sit, entranced, while they listen to their story; they will only have to remember it.

In what will be cherished as one of the most unforgettable moments of my life, my husband adopted my four children last week.

Maybe I should say he adopted four children, and four children adopted him. After all, they chose Tom to be their dad as much as he chose them to be his children, especially Rachel, my oldest, who at twenty-one years old is a legal adult.

It all began four years ago when Tom and I pledged to love, honor and respect each other. We vowed to work together for the good of our blended family and we promised to do things for each other not in the attitude of duty or sacrifice, but in the spirit of joy. As we stood there in that moment on our wedding day we were both fully aware that the road that lie ahead would surely have its share of bumps.

Seven children between the ages of 7 and 17 were definitely a lot to consider and we knew we would have our difficulties, but we were as prepared as any two people could be. If I may pat ourselves on the back for just a moment, I like to think we have done an exemplary job of blending our family. But we were right about the difficulties.

We have certainly had our share of problems and issues. In fact, we have seven times the problems and issues, but we also readily admit to having seven times the blessings and joys.

And somewhere along the way we discovered that it just seemed the right thing to do to legally become one family through adoption.

After discussing it with the children, and finding it was something they also wanted, we began the process a few months ago and last Wednesday, June 8, we sat in the Plant City courtroom of Judge Mark Wolfe, who, after reviewing our lawyer's documentation, finalized our adoption with a big grin and proclaimed all nine of us Nankervis'.

It was a momentous, celebratory occasion, but still I'm convinced our family is no different today than it was yesterday, or the day before that. I know that regardless of a court ruling, we have been and will continue to be there for one another, through the joys and the pains and the incredible awesomeness of it all.

The reality is that we were a family before the court hearing because of the love that binds our hearts together, and not because we now have a piece of paper that proclaims us as such.

Still, I embrace that piece of paper because through it, we are legally a full family, and no one can ever take that away from us.

Wednesday night as we celebrated with loved ones, a friend told me she had spent some time explaining to her kids our process of adoption. Trying to simplify the concept she started out with the whole, "It's the story of a lovely lady," and explained I had four, he had three, and through adoption we all became one.

Her young son couldn't quite grasp the idea and in the kind of pure, wholesome shock only an eight year old can have, exclaimed, "You mean they're going to keep all seven?"

Oh yes, Christopher, keep them we are!

Forever!

What Do You Want To Do With Your Life (from my column dated 6/8/2011)

2011-07-23T13:51:00.000-04:00

“What do you want to do with your life?”

It’s a question that I have heard asked over and over the past couple of weeks as high school graduates all around me are preparing for "what’s next."

Inevitably, those confronted with this question feel as if they should have an answer. But sometimes adults just ask it as a conversation starter, a way of finding out what kind of person you are and the inquiry is just meant to open the door to further discussion.

Or maybe they ask it the way you might poke a hermit crab at the seashore, simply to see what it does.
Sometimes it is asked almost not as a question, but as advice. Not, “What do you want to do with your life," but "You need to do something with your life."

My oldest, Rachel, graduated from high school three years ago. I stopped counting after a while how many times she was asked the “What do you want to do” question.

At the time she was entering her freshman year at the University of Central Florida to study micro and molecular biology. Three years and three college major changes later, her plans have changed dramatically and she is now studying English education with a desire to pursue a career as a college professor of literature.

I thought she exhibited maturity beyond her years when she told me that she wasn’t afraid to alter her life’s path. She was willing to try a new, unexplored road in her search for what she wanted to do.
It’s only normal that as parents we try to guide our children, and thus our attempts to ask our kids what their plans are.

Our kids and everyone else’s too.

But does anyone really know what they want to do with their time that lies ahead?

In the forty-something years I’ve been on this earth my “life plans” have changed as often as my hairstyle.

We are constantly evolving. Sometimes I, through my own doing and thought processes, have changed my plans, and sometimes life’s events have altered my course.

In a sense, we go through many "graduations" in our lifetimes.

My mother just moved to Florida last week. A good friend just announced she is pregnant with her first child, a cousin just purchased her first house. My husband’s colleague is now an empty-nester, and another just retired.

A graduation is yet another step, another path, another passage in life.

So rather than asking the “What do you want to do with your life” question, my advice not only to graduates, but to everyone would be quite easily stated in an excerpt from a Henry David Thoreau quote:

"Live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”

And in living deeply and sucking the marrow, spend some time also learning what your options are. Discover what it is that you like, then do it. You have to do what you like to be good at what you do.
Be passionate about the path you take and if you discover you're on the wrong path, don't be afraid to change your course.

Always making sure that the place you are is the place you are happiest. Don’t wait for tomorrow or next year to be happy. It might not happen.

That's my lecture for this week. See you next week; I’m off to suck some marrow out of life.

My Mother Is Moving To Florida (from my column dated 6/1/2011)

2011-07-23T13:48:00.000-04:00

Summer is quickly approaching and I, being the type of person that obsesses about order and organization, am stressing that I don't have everything "just so" before the kids get out of school for vacation.

Perhaps I can blame it on the chaos that is my life, but that seems to always be my excuse. One might think I would have grown accustomed to the craziness by now and either forgone my attempts to create structure, or metamorphosed into my inner superhero and solved the world's problems as well as my own.

This summer will be especially memorable because my life is about to change in a big way.
My mother is moving to Florida.

She has lived in South Carolina for more than 25 years, in a large, brick two-story house, hundreds of miles from any family. My father retired there in 1988, and passed away in 1995. At the time, I was living in Minnesota, a place I knew I wouldn't reside permanently, and my brother was still a college student, so we encouraged my mother to move to Atlanta, her hometown, to be closer to family. She occasionally considered it, realizing her large house was a lot of upkeep for just one person, but never made any real effort to put the wheels into motion. She was comfortable where she was.

The years passed and my brother got married and settled with his family in North Carolina. My own family relocated to Florida, where we knew we'd stay, so we began commenting that she should consider moving south. After all, who doesn't love Florida? Still, she resisted.

Until last summer.

Last July at our annual family reunion, my brother and I broached the subject for about the millionth time that my mother should entertain the idea of relocating to Florida. Then we sat back and prepared for the multitude of excuses that typically followed such a suggestion.

But this time she didn't argue.

In fact, she was willing to consider it. Moreover, she was willing to go take a drive around the area and see what the housing market had to offer. Trying not to make too much of this unexpected and abrupt change in attitude, I gladly did the tour with her.

She liked the area, found a house plan that would work nicely for her needs and returned home to South Carolina reassuring us she would begin going through her house, getting rid of some odds and ends while she considered this major change in her life.

Deep inside I figured we'd be waiting another five years or so.

My mother does everything slowly.

But she surprised us with her willingness to purge, and in order to push her along a bit, my husband and I made a trip up to South Carolina in August and another in October to assist her with weeding through the massive amounts of "stuff" she had accumulated over the years. Carload after carload was delivered to Goodwill.

I say it lovingly, but my mother is a pack rat.

Still, there were some things she just was not ready to part with, like the orange Tupperware that has outlived its usefulness by decades but she was determined to keep because, "I might need it."

With what we saw as enthusiasm toward a possible move, we thought she'd put the house on the market in October, but Halloween came and went with no sign of Mom even considering calling a real estate agent. Once again I reminded myself of my mother's slow-moving nature and told myself to move at her pace.

She decided she wanted to get through the holidays before listing the house. She'd call a Realtor after the first of the year, but January passed and nothing was done.

Finally in February she called a Realtor. I didn't get too excited, though, because of my realization that the real estate market moves even slower than my mother. I settled in for what I felt sure would be a long, arduous process.

Friends familiar with the real estate market told me it was likely her house could take a year, or more, to sell.

Seventy-five days later it was sold!

I might as well have been hit in the head with a concrete block. The day my mother called me to tell me she had an offer on the house I simply I sat on the floor watching stars orbit my head and considered calling 911. What would I say?

"Yes, hello, I just got a phone call from my mother. Her house sold more quickly than I expected. It laid me clean out on the floor and I'm quite sure I have a concussion. Could you send someone over with a...with a...with a...what was it my grandfather used to drink? Oh yes, a Harvey Wallbanger."

Click.

I needed some time to absorb the information.

How in the world, in the housing market we are currently experiencing, did my mother manage to sell her house in 75 days?

It suddenly occurred to me that through all the suggesting, all the talk of moving, even through the cleaning out of her house, I never really saw this day happening. The day my mother would pack her household of belongings in a moving truck and move to Florida, to a cute little tangerine-colored house exactly 23 minutes and 12 seconds from my front door.

Trust me, I've timed it!

I haven't lived in the same state as my mother for more than 25 years.

As I recognized my own shock it became apparent to me that this move is even more traumatic for my mother. She is leaving behind more than a quarter of a century of memories. She is walking away from what she knows, what she is comfortable with and what is routine to a brand new life. I'm actually rather amazed.

This is going to add a whole new dimension to our relationship. One I am excited to embark upon.

And something tells me I'm going to have a lot to write about.

Opening The Door To My Zany Life (from my column dated 5/25/2011)

2011-07-23T13:43:00.000-04:00

Four years ago when Tom and I got married and combined our families, we realized very quickly we were going to need a much larger home. My little three-bedroom, two-bath house wasn't going to cut it and even his four-bedroom, three-bath house didn't provide enough room for nine people.

After unsuccessfully searching for a pre-existing house, we decided to build. We put my house on the market and moved into his house for the nine months of construction. Finally, in June of 2008, our new place was complete and we moved in.

Three years later you would think we'd lived here for our entire lives. I didn't get to savor that "new house feel" long before the kids were turning my beautiful dream home into a teenage version of a college frat house. Towel holders used to steady the weight of kid after kid until they ripped right out of the wall; carpets that have been the path for dirty baseball shoes and muddied feet; hand prints on walls, cabinets, even ceilings; and my latest obsession, scuff marks and scratches on all the interior doors. I've tried everything to get them off. Nothing works. I don't know why it has bugged me so much, but those scratched up, scuffed up doors have been a stress factor for the past couple of months.

This week Tom is in Washington, D.C., on business and I thought that perhaps I could take the few days he is out of town to touch up the doors. Mind you, I said touch up.

What is it they say about the best intentions?

I didn't tell Tom of my plans because, well, let's just say that my previous attempt at painting (if you could call it that, I was dabbing a bit of paint over an abandoned nail hole as he stood over me and supervised) was met with frantic protests of, "You're not feathering, you're not feathering" as he grabbed the brush from my hand and finished the job himself.

Not that I haven't painted before. I have. Many times. I actually find it somewhat therapeutic. There is something about transforming a room with color that soothes me.

So, after dropping my unsuspecting husband off at the airport Monday morning, I drove directly to Sherwin Williams and asked the salesman if he could look up the interior door paint color that the builder used in our community. I didn't think it would be so easy but apparently it was because he pulled a file up on the computer and before I knew it, he had whipped me up a gallon. Feeling somewhat accomplished, I headed home to start painting.

Remember...touch up painting.

But it was the wrong color. It was a brighter white than the paint on my doors. I thought maybe it was because it was wet, and when it was dry it might match, so I kept painting, looking back every now and then to see if the colors were blending. They weren't. Frustrated, I located a hammer, pounded the lid back on the paint, and drove back to Sherwin Williams to confront the salesman.

You must have a smoker in the house because this is the same exact color," the clerk said matter-of-factly.

Uhhh, no, no one smokes at our house.

He tells me it's age. My house is only 3 years old. He tells me the sunlight has faded the doors. I inform him all the doors, including the upstairs doors that face the windowless hallway are the same shade. He tells me time can cause a breakdown in the paint and make it change color. I reiterate it has only been three years. He insists it's the same color, so I, dejected, picked up my gallon of paint and returned home.

I looked at my half "eggshell" half "moonlight" pantry door (trust me, there's a noticeable difference), realized I really had no choice and decided to get ambitious. I started painting!

ALL the doors.

Including closets, I have 24 interior doors in my house.

TWENTY-FOUR!

I was committed to painting them all, front and back. And then I decided I might as well paint the baseboards too. And then the stair railing. Face it, I'm insane.

But somewhere around door No. 3, the therapeutic part of painting was biting me in the behind and I was ready to quit. I realized I had made a mistake. How would I ever get this job completed by the time Tom's plane landed on Thursday night? I needed to get determined and work hard. I tried giving myself a little pep talk. "I like painting. Painting is fun."

Yeah, right!

I kept at it, though, realizing that my husband, as sweet as he is, was not going to be happy with me. As I painted door after door I appraised the situation and, along about door No. 11, I came to a very logical conclusion:

It is obvious that my frustration over being at home alone while Tom travels psychologically manifests itself into subconsciously creating a disaster that he will have to repair.

No doubt about it!

The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. Tom can be blamed for this whole mess. It's all his fault!

And I will be sure to remind him of that as he's painting the remaining seven doors!

The Dress (from my column dated 5/18/2011)

2011-07-23T13:38:00.000-04:00

Four of my children I have loved since the very first minute I heard their tiny heartbeats.

Three of my children came to me through marriage.

Because I dislike refering to the three as stepchildren-images of a wicked stepmother come to mind-I refer to all seven as simply mine.

I think my husband and I have set a fine example and as a result our children don’t refer to their siblings as steps, they are matter-of-factly brothers and sisters.

I proudly tell people that I have seven children and when they look at me in amazement and ask how in the world I pull it off, I point to my head and say, “it’s dyed.”

They all, all seven of them, have contributed to the gray hair on my head, some maybe more than others-like the 17 year old who has wrecked my car twice in less than a year, the 15 year old who I’m convinced must have a tapeworm based on the amount of food he consumes and the 11 year old who spends hours a day filling his pockets with “treasures” that wind up in my washing machine, forcing me to call a repairman on more than one occasion.

Soon I’m going to start deducting the cost of my Clairol out of their allowances. And they will certainly rue the day Botox becomes necessary.

If I had to rank my children from easiest to most difficult, well, I couldn’t, because it changes on a day-to-day basis, but one child that has given me slightly (and I DO mean slightly) fewer gray hairs is Emily, my fourteen year old who I came to call my own through my marriage to Tom.

A conscientious student, a thoughtful sister, polite (some of the time), respectful (most of the time), her resume isn’t half bad.

But she IS a teenager.

And teenagers are messy, teenagers are demanding and darn it, teenagers are expensive. And while Emily may have bequeathed to me fewer gray hairs, she is also the child that is most determined to deplete our bank account.

Having learned this early on, I pretty much put a price limit on Emily’s wants and needs, and I don’t give in to her accomplished whine, pout, quivering lip or the coup de grace,“c’mon, you know you love me.”

Ahhh, yes, she has this teenage thing perfected. Her friends would be so proud.

When it comes to step-parenting, though, I like to think that what I lacked in uterine contractions I gained in on-the-job training. I can deflect those pleas like a professional.

At least I thought I could.

For the past several months Emily has been reminding me on a regular basis that the 8th grade dance is approaching. I am a procrastinator, though, and until I realized, by Emily holding a calendar under my nose, that the dance is THIS Saturday, I thought I still had all the time in the world.

Off we raced to the mall, where I pulled her aside just outside the department store and enforced a specific amount that we could spend…”and not a penny more.”

Emily tried on dress after dress after dress. I went back and forth from fitting room to clothes rack picking out sparkly dresses, beaded dresses, satin dresses, lacy dresses. Before long I completely forgot to look at price tags.

After trying on no less than thirty dresses she emerged from the dressing room in “the one.” The show stopper. The dress that instantly transformed her from a ponytailed, ragged fingernailed, jean wearing tomboy into “that girl.” The girl that would turn heads when she walked into a room.

And that was when we simultaneously realized we had no idea how much it cost.

Emily held her breath as I pulled the price tag from the back of the dress.

It was expensive. Thankfully not ridiculously, over-the-moon, take-out-a-second-mortgage-on-your-house expensive, but certainly more than I had allotted for the occasion.

She went into bargaining mode, “I’ll wear it more than once.”

Sure Emily, I can hardly wait to see you at baseball practice wearing THIS.

Homecoming. She remembered homecoming. Next year.

"I promise I'll wear it next year for homecoming.”

Hmmm, it did seem like a compromise. But I'm a seasoned mom. Emily is my third daughter. I've already done the high school years with two others and promises and bargains are quickly forgotten.
My oldest daughter, Rachel, made a similar promise. While out shopping for a homecoming dress, she instead found a prom dress and raised her hand and swore she would "wear a dress I already own if you only buy me this dress for prom."

I held her to that promise, much to her dismay.

So I figured I should grant Emily the same opportunity. Maybe I give in too easily. Maybe I’m a sucker. But my daughter is going to look fabulous at the 8th grade dance.

And at next year’s homecoming!

Barrington Middle School Students Bring Home Medals In Special Olympics (my article from 5/16/2011)

2011-07-23T13:33:00.000-04:00

Three Barrington Middle School students proudly represented Hillsborough County at the State of Florida Special Olympics Summer Games last weekend, May 13-14, at Disney's ESPN Wide World of Sports Complex in Orlando, bringing home gold, silver and bronze medals.

Fourteen-year-old Barrington athlete, Matthew Parejko, stated, "I like running and hope I get to go on to the World Olympics in Athens, Greece, when I get older."

A child with autism, Matthew has amazed many with his gift for speed, finishing the race in just over 15 seconds. "I did better at regionals," stated Matthew, "but the boys I was running against at State were fast and I kept looking behind me to see if I was winning."

Win, he did, bringing home the gold medal to cheers from the crowd.

Barrington reading coach, Brooke Lingo, who has served as the students' athletic coach and has worked tirelessly with them as they prepared for the regional games, held March 5 at the University of South Florida, and last weekend's state games, said, "The Special Olympics are exhilarating and fulfilling, and these kids have worked hard. I'm so proud of them."

Following Matthew's gold-winning race, Nathan Easters showed his determination with a silver medal in the 100-meter dash and Heather Tucker won bronze in the running long jump, stating, "I had so much fun; I can't believe I won."

The competition at the summer games was fierce as more than 1,500 athletes from all over the state traveled to Central Florida to compete in track and field, soccer, cycling, tennis, bocce and volleyball.

Florida Attorney General Pam Bondi and world-renowned athlete Loretta Claiborne were the special guests at the inspirational Summer Games Opening Ceremonies held Friday night in Champion Stadium.

The Special Olympics were created in 1968 by Eunice Kennedy Shriver as a way to allow athletes with intellectual disabilities to celebrate and be celebrated for their accomplishments. Today the Special Olympics serves more than three million people with intellectual disabilities in nearly 200 nations around the world.

For more information, or to volunteer, visit www.sofl.org

An Alien Ate My Pen (from my column dated 5/1/2011)

2011-07-23T13:27:00.000-04:00

You know that missing sock theory? The one that states that somehow the combination of heat and rotation of the dryer drum creates a vortex that allows one-footed aliens from another galaxy to slip into our dimension, abduct single socks and return to their own world happily stocking'd.

We've all experienced it, right?

And I'll admit, I've had my share of unexplained missing socks so the alien conjecture does make a kind of warped sense.

As frustrating as missing socks are, though, I have a more pressing concern.

Writing instruments. Pens, pencils, markers, heck, even crayons. They all disappear. Whenever I need to jot down a note, add an item to a grocery list or sign a paper, I am unfortunately out of luck.

Is there an alternate universe of aliens existing on ink?

My kids joke with me that aliens are eating my pens. But seriously, I know they are the ones taking off with all my writing implements. For reasons I can't explain, they abscond with pens and pencils and just as mysteriously, they lose them.

And then they deny it.

I have struggled with a solution. I purchased a lovely little pencil holder at Green Boutique for my desk and I firmly told the kids that it was mine, hands off, no touching, don't come within two feet of a pen without risking great bodily harm, but the very next time I reached for a pen, I grasped only air.

"Who took my pens," is regularly heard around our house.

"Not me," echoed six times is the chorus.

It's becoming more and more of an issue around here. A serious one! A few weeks ago I had to sign my son's progress report with an eyeliner. No joke! Make-up comes surprisingly in handy when you can't find a pen. I've used lipstick on numerous occasions to jot down a note.

Then I came upon another idea. I purchased one of those little magnetic pads of paper that stick to the refrigerator and has a pencil attached with Velcro.

The pad remains on the fridge; the pencil has disappeared.

I even bought a package of those "return my pen" pens embarrassingly engraved with..."Dr. Lance Hughes, proctology specialist," and "Van Nuys Center for Cosmetic Surgery," but I was embarrassed myself when a plumber servicing our leaky sink needed to borrow a pen and I absentmindedly handed him the one that read, "Verdant Fields Nudist Camp."

He stared at me in a way that made me extremely uncomfortable.

My husband thinks we need to buy stock in BIC because we are single-handedly keeping them afloat in this difficult economy.

Finally, as a last resort, I purchased a white board, attached it with double-sided tape to the wall in my office, and threatened the kids with a security camera focused directly on the board.

The kids enjoy drawing on the white board so much that so far, no one has taken off with the dry erase marker affixed to the top of the board.

While I admittedly tire of the "I love Justin Bieber" scrawls left by my fourteen year old daughter, and the incessant obsessively round smiley faces scribbled by my youngest, I do enjoy having one place in my house where I can jot down a phone number without having to ask the caller to hold while I scour the entire house for something to write with.

And there's an added benefit of getting surprise love notes from my kids.

Today's read, "I love you Mom."

I think I'll stop buying pens altogether.

Living The Fairy Tale (from my column dated May 4, 2011)

2011-07-23T13:22:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I just need a break from the concreteness of my life... when reality punches me in the stomach with a bit too much gusto and I need an escape from the routine.

The past few weeks have been overwhelmed with responsibilities, undertakings and pursuits, from the everyday tasks of raising children and paying bills, to the once-in-a-while needs of broken down cars and doctor appointments, to my most recent endeavor of assisting my mother as she prepares to move from South Carolina to Florida.

Good fortune prevailed and right in the middle of all the chaos appeared a wonderful little opportunity for repose.

The royal wedding.

Who doesn't love a wedding? And a royal wedding...a real life Cinderella story, what could be better?
I know, I know … most of you are far too sophisticated to get sucked into the ostentatious frivolity of a fairy-tale wedding. But I love a wedding. Any wedding. And a royal wedding, well, it's the ice cream on top of the seven tiered rolled fondant wedding cake.

From the moment Prince William proposed to Catherine Middleton last fall, I had mentally thumb-tacked a "save the date" card to the "to do" list I constantly have running through my head.

Memories from my early teenage years, when I sat glued to the TV in awe as Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer, made me nostalgic and I hoped that someone would want to join me as I watched the oldest child of the pair celebrate his own wedding.

My husband told me he'd rather have his teeth pulled than subject himself to the torture of a royal wedding.

Men!

I quickly realized that he was not alone in his thoughts and many people were fed up with hearing about the upcoming nuptials. Fortunately for me, though, I also discovered that the wedding bug was contagious and others had come down with bad cases, when a friend announced she thought it would be fun to host a royal wedding party.

A slumber party.

I was delighted with the idea, even as I realized that slumbering would not be occurring in any shape or form.

The big day arrived and I whipped up an appetizer and breakfast casserole (my contributions for the party), and left my husband in charge of the kids.

Tolerability for pulling all-nighters diminishes as we age. Trust me on that one! But somehow we managed. We wedding watchers donned our gaudy plastic "royal engagement" bling rings and braved the moonlight, staying alert by playing games like "The Price is Right-Royal Style," and guzzling down caffeine.

The food was plentiful and would have made any modern day royalty proud. The strawberry scones with Devonshire cream were a hit, even when paired with pepperoni pizza delivered by a young man who I'm pretty sure attempted to slyly punch 911 into his cell phone when approached at the door by a group of women in pajamas, singing "Here comes the bride."

And when finally the festivities across the pond began, we sat in front of the TV mesmorized, not wanting to miss a single minute of regalia.

A real live fairy tale come true. A Princess Grace inspired gown, royal red carpets, outrageous hats, a famous guest list and more flowers than one could ever imagine.

There were a few tears as we got caught up in the ceremony. I mean, who doesn't cry at a wedding?

And for a few minutes, at least, I forgot about the pile of bills sitting on the counter at home, and the loads of laundry waiting for me to complete. For a few minutes we party-goers were guests at the most lavish wedding imaginable. We toasted the newlyweds with champagne and nibbled on buttercream wedding cake and then slowly began gathering our belongings as the sun rose full outside.

Reality was returning. I sleepily climbed into my minivan and headed in the direction of home, well aware that I would never see the interior of a horse drawn golden carriage. Never walk down the aisle in a fairy tale wedding.

But my Prince Charming was waiting at home, and I couldn't imagine any place I'd rather go.

Celebrating Life

2011-05-06T21:52:00.001-04:00

Life changes...and we change with it...from my April 27th column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

Regardless of the presence or description of faith in one's life, to me, Easter symbolizes life. Appropriately dawning in spring when small creatures are hatching and flowers are blooming and green is finally sprouting in place of dull, lifeless ground cover, we celebrate birth, and hope and vitality.

And we celebrate life…in our churches and chapels we congregate to worship together and in our homes we hustle and bustle with traditions and fellowship, gathering together over baked ham and green bean casserole and aromatic fruit pies. The laughter and chatter as family and friends scurry about the kitchen, all trying to help with the meal preparations but invariably getting underfoot as we stretch to procure a platter from the top shelf, or reach for an oven mitt to retrieve too-browned biscuits from the oven.

We celebrate with Easter egg hunts and brightly colored jelly beans camouflaged in neon-shredded paper grass. We revel in little girls adorned in newly purchased pastel-colored dresses with wide sashes and lace trim, white ribboned straw hats perched atop their carefully combed hair, and little boys in short pants that they pull and tug in a vain attempt to cover awkward knobby knees.

My Easter holiday has fit this pattern many times over, but because life never stays the same, and we are constantly evolving, our Easter celebration was a bit different this year.My oldest, a college student at the University of Central Florida, was required to stay in Orlando for the holiday weekend because she was scheduled to work Easter Sunday, serving greasy hamburgers to restaurant patrons who growled for more coffee and clanged their cups with a knife for emphasis.

Two of my boys were on a spring break trip to Pigeon Forge, Tenn., with a friend's family, no doubt having the time of their lives, but still missed here at home.And another daughter chose to spend Easter with her boyfriend's family. Life changes and we change with it.

With only my three youngest at home we decided to do things a bit differently this year, and after worship services at St. Andrew's United Methodist Church we fired up the grill, threw some burgers on the flames and sliced some fresh watermelon. We even floated in the pool while the burgers grilled.

We invited close friends to share our cookout with us, and I didn't even care that I hadn't cleaned the house beforehand and that dishes were piled in the sink and the laundry was heaped on the floor.

Our lives probably looked a little tattered at first glance, family members missing, the dining room table covered with dust and fingerprints, the Sunday newspaper still strewn across the kitchen counter and a usually loud and chaotic house a bit more somber. There were no aromatic scents of sweet potato casserole emanating from the oven, no hurrying around for last minute ingredients, and no aprons protecting Easter dresses from spills.

But there was laughter, and more laughter…and bathing suits. And looking closer one would find the discarded wrapper of a chocolate Easter candy, the Sunday best shoes tossed by the stairs in a rush to change into swimwear , a prized coin leftover from a hunted plastic egg, and know that it was Easter. It was still here. Perhaps celebrated a bit differently this year, but still celebrated.

Life changes, and we change with it.

Cherishing Family Heirlooms: The "N" China

2011-04-27T09:37:00.000-04:00

From my April 20th column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/, but resurrected from a June 2010 blog post here at http://www.bradybunchplus1.blogspot.com/.

I never really had an extraordinarily close relationship with my maternal grandmother.

"Mema" was a very Southern lady, born and raised in the deep South, the kind of grandmother who, upon my saying something silly or outrageous, would reply, "Why, you stop that now...you're just pullin' my leg." Or when she wanted a kiss she'd render, "I declare, you need to come give me some sugar!"

My memories are somewhat few, considering that my father was a career military officer and we moved throughout the United States and Europe and only visited Mema and Papa's house occasionally for several weeks in the summer. I, being a typical teenager, was not always delighted with the idea of having to leave my friends behind and travel to Atlanta to spend my vacation with "old people."

Mema was also somewhat standoffish, not overly attentive to a young teenager who was probably moody and selfish.

I suppose the combination of prim, straight-laced older gentlewoman and awkward, inelegant, graceless teenager was doomed to failure (unless it's Julie Andrews and Anne Hathaway in the "Princess Diaries").

Mema, though, did try to entertain me to some degree, and I have some happy and whimsical memories of time spent together: Saturday morning visits to the beauty parlor to see Miss Sarah, who coiffed my grandmother's hair into a stiff helmet atop her petite frame.

Mema would hand me her pocketbook as she was led by Miss Sarah to the "wash bowl" to have her weekly shampoo. "Help yourself to a quarter out of my change purse and buy yourself a 'co-cola'," she'd drawl to me as she settled into the black vinyl shampoo chair, and I'd make myself across the hair spray fog to the old-time Coke machine that had the long rectangular glass door you had to pull open and reach in and grab your 8-ounce bottle of coke that clanged as it exited its tight grasp.

I'd sit, waiting as Mema had her hair and nails prettied up, and answer all Miss Sarah's questions about how my family was doing, how well I was doing in school, and how could I possibly be growing up so fast.

It was a throw-back time...a moment of stepping out of 1978 and back into 1954. A place where women traded recipes, discussed ingredients, gossiped about other women, and compared the quality of fruits and vegetables at various farmers' markets.

And speaking of the farmers' market, that is exactly where we headed upon leaving Miss Sarah's Beauty Parlor, Mema all fancied up from her morning of pampering, and we'd go straight for the butter beans and black-eyed peas, where Mema would fill up a brown paper sack of only the finest, hand-picked vegetables before allowing me to pick out a basket of peaches or plums.

I loved the plums...their purple skin that my teeth would pierce, and the sweet, sticky juice of the yellow, orange fruit inside. But the peaches...oh, when we would buy peaches it meant that Mema would be pulling out her old-time rock salt ice cream maker and we'd be enjoying the most incredible peach ice cream in the days ahead.

Later at home we would sit together in the family room, shelling butter beans and peas, and I'd move from one task to the next, depending on how sore my fingers were. Many hands make light work is not necessarily an accurate enough statement when it comes to bean shelling, because there were quite a few hot afternoons that we sat in the air-conditioned house and shelled for hours.

Back in 1968, before any of my memories even exist, Mema purchased three sets of china for her three children, my mother being the youngest. She then carefully hand painted the edging on each piece and monogrammed the plates with the initial of the last name of her children (in my mother's case "N") in an artistry that can only be described as very delicate and intricate.

She gave these sets of china to each of her children for Christmas 1968. I don't particularly recall paying much attention to the china as I was growing up, although surely I was aware of it, but as a typical kid, plates and cups and saucers, no matter how beautiful, held no interest for me whatsoever.

As I grew up and married, however, and certainly once I had my own family and became a very sentimental person in regard to nostalgic items, especially hand made, I realized just how beautiful this china was.

About that time I began pestering my mother that someday I wanted the china. For the past 20 years it had sat on the highest shelf of a cupboard in her laundry room, stored away rather than displayed, and collecting a thick layer of dust as the years passed.

I continued to beleaguer my mother. "Please let me have the 'N' china," I'd needle her.

"Your last name doesn't even begin with an 'N' anymore," she'd answer.

"I don't care. I love it. Please give me the 'N' china."

It turned into a silly game. I'd tease her that the "N" china is all I wanted for my birthday, or for Christmas, but truly, I fully expected that someday, after she had passed away, I'd finally collect the china as a token take-away from my mother's estate.

I really never expected her to give it to me, not because she is selfish or doesn't want me to enjoy something that she knows I would cherish, but just because sometimes giving something up means letting go of a piece of yourself, and I figured she was still holding on to that.

We enjoyed the silly game, though, and, in fact, when I met Tom, I jokingly said I HAD to marry him because his last name began with an N, and that would entitle me to the "N" china.

My mother typically visits once or twice a year and last summer she made a trip down to stay with us for a week or two. The kids were excited about her arrival and, as her car pulled into the driveway, we all ran outside to help her unload her luggage.

Several boxes crowded the trunk and she handed them carefully over to various congregants and firmly instructed, "Don't drop this. Carry it carefully."

Once we were all in the kitchen she handed me one of the smallest boxes and announced, "Open this one now."

As I pulled the top flaps apart on the cardboard box, and removed the top layer of packing paper, it hit me. It was the "N" china, finally passed on to me!

Mema passed away when I was a senior in high school, shortly after we moved back to the United States, and although I didn't know her when she hand painted each piece of the china, and I never got to know her on a level that many grandchildren know their grandmothers. But when I hold one of her teacups or saucers in my hands, I feel that her memory is very much alive and well.

Movie Theater Therapy

2011-04-14T09:16:00.000-04:00

From my April 13th, 2011 column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

I remember the first time I ever went by myself to see a movie at the movie theater. It was a Saturday night during my freshman year in college and my boyfriend had just broken up with me. My roommate had gone home for the weekend and I found myself alone and pitifully sad.

A dark theater, a funny movie, an overflowing tub of popped goodness along with an assortment of boxed sugary delights would certainly dull the pain of heartbreak, I surmised.

As I sat in that musty old theater, curled up on a popcorn butter-greased, upholstered red chair, I lost myself in the story on the screen and by the time a couple of hours had passed I was able to find the strength within to realize I was better off without the creep that had just dumped me.

From that day forward I have always enjoyed finding respite in the confines of a dark movie theater. Granted, I certainly enjoy seeing movies with my family and friends, too, but there's something about sitting alone, a 5-pound tub of popcorn on my lap, and a good, sappy chick flick on the screen that allows me to escape reality, and return to it two hours later ready to face the world.

Yesterday I was in one of those "escape" moods. No, my husband didn't dump me. Yesterday the pause from reality was needed due to a back injury I experienced on Friday. Did you know that flipping your hair back and forth (to dry it-- not to act out the live version of Willow Smith's song- (all you pre-teen moms will know what I'm talking about) can cause severe muscle strain in the lower back? Yeah, it can! Take my word for it!

So, feeling about as sorry for myself as I did when the creep broke up with me so many years ago, I found myself standing in line at the AMC Regency 20 Theatre in Brandon buying a ticket for an 11:20 showing. As I casually glanced around I was somewhat surprised to see so many people at the theater on a Monday morning. Not just retirees either. Married couples on dates (I even ran into a couple I know), moms with small children in tow, even a few teenagers that I figured were probably skipping school.

I bought my popcorn and diet Coke (emphasis on the diet), and slathered the popcorn with butter -- or “topping,” as they call it at the theater -- because I'm usually sharing a container with my husband and he doesn't like buttered popcorn, only salt.

I added another six squirts for good measure.

I chose a two-seat row to the far side of the theater. A seat where I could shovel popcorn into my mouth anonymously and forget that anyone else existed. There I sank into my chair comfortably and allowed myself to rejoice in my solitude.

Just then a woman walking up to the top row, her arms full of snacks, too, paused next to my seat. She's not going to expect me to share my little row is she, not when there are at least a hundred empty seats? But she just smiled knowingly at me and asked, "Are you on a break, too?"

"Ahhh, kindred souls," I agreed, as popcorn spewed from my mouth. She got it. We shared a laugh as she mentioned that an argument with her eighth-grade son had led to her escape, and then she walked away in search of her own hiding place.

Blissfully ignorant to the rest of the world, I immersed myself in the story on the big screen and forgot about bills, housework and, more importantly, back pain for two wonderful hours.

When the lights came up after the movie credits I felt remarkably refreshed, even with pieces of popcorn stuck in my hair from my less than glamourous shoveling technique. I was ready to face the world again.

Come to think of it, I might have to find a reason for another movie theater therapy session next week.

To read more about Riverview resident Lynn Nankervis and her adventures raising seven children, visit http://bradybunchplus1.blogspot.com/.

The Red Fish/Orange Fish/Green Fish Shirt

2011-04-07T10:27:00.002-04:00

From my April 6th, 2011 column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

This past weekend, like so many other Bloomingdale area residents, my family enjoyed partaking in the festivities of the St. Stephen Catholic Church Spring Jubilee (www.springjubilee.com), three days packed full with thrill seeking rides, funnel cakes, cotton candy and a showcase of local entertainment.

Over the past ten years the Spring Jubilee has remained relatively the same, my family, on the other hand, has changed dramatically.

In the fall of 2001 my husband accepted a job relocation from Minnesota to Florida and we moved here with our four children. Little did I know that a mere five years later he would lose a very short battle with cancer and I would be a widow raising our children on my own.

In April 2006, just a month before he was diagnosed with the disease that would ultimately take his life less than eight weeks later, my husband and I and our children attended the Spring Jubilee, just as we had the previous four years. Michael, our youngest, was six years old at the time and that night I captured a snapshot of him alongside his dad that, without realizing it at the time, would become a cherished memento.

To this day when I look at that photograph, all the stress and chaos of day to day building a life together disappears and I see only a father's love for his child.

Small for his age, Michael was too little to ride the bigger, "scarier" attractions with his brothers and sister and we walked over to an area of the fair where there were a selection of "kiddie" rides. Michael, wearing his favorite shirt, one he called the "Red fish/orange fish/green fish shirt" in a silly adaptation of Dr. Seuss' famous book, "Red Fish Blue Fish," was hesitant about getting on a ride and when his dad kneeled down to comfort him, I snapped the photo. Without the photograph as evidence, I doubt I ever would have recalled what Michael happened to be wearing at that moment in time and as we strolled the grounds of the Spring Jubilee that warm spring night I had no idea at all how much my life would change in the next year, much less the next couple of months.

My husband, the father of my children passed away in July of 2006, just three months after that photograph was taken.

Nine months later, in April of 2007, I found myself gathering together my four children for our annual day at the Spring Jubilee in an attempt to hold fast to memories of their father and traditions we had pursued. Perhaps feeling a bit nostalgic, I pulled out the old fish shirt and handed it to now seven year old Michael to wear. It still fit just fine.

And so the years have passed. I remarried and added another three children to my family. We incorporated the Spring Jubilee tradition into our new family of nine and each April my youngest, still small for his age, wore the same fish shirt. I'm not sure if any of us could really explain why, least of all Michael, whose memories of his father are blurred by time and who has been fortunate enough, along with my other children, to have a stepfather that loves them as his own, so much in fact that he is adopting them.

This past weekend marked the opening of the 2011 Spring Jubilee, and it shocked me to realize that we have attended as many of them since my first husband died as we did when he was alive. Still, Michael once again donned his red fish/orange fish/green fish shirt for our annual jaunt to the fair, and I quickly realized this is probably the last year that it will fit.

It was stretched over his small frame and occasionally I caught a glimpse as he tugged at the hemline pulling the shirt down over the waistband of his jeans. It's quite amazing when you consider how quickly children grow, yet Michael has been wearing this same shirt for five years. It's lost all luster over the years, and there are a couple of white smudges from the time he rubbed up against a wall with wet paint. The edges of the sleeves are fraying a bit and the tag at the neckline is so faded that it is impossible to make out any of the lettering. The once vibrant appliqued fish are somewhat muted and cracked with age now.

Time passes and children grow up. Broken hearts can be patched. What seems to be an ending can evolve into a new beginning. What's gone cannot be recreated, but memories live on forever. When next April appears and it's time for the 2012 Spring Jubilee, I imagine the red fish/orange fish/green fish shirt will no longer fit, but rather than making its way to the garbage or the Goodwill box, I am quite sure I will tuck it away in a drawer as a memory. A bittersweet memory like the picture that I cherish of a boy with his dad.

Guarding The Pantry...

2011-04-05T09:15:00.000-04:00

Column dated March 30, 2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

A few years ago when the oldest of our children were entering their teenage years, my husband and I discovered that our grocery bill was getting out of control.

As you can imagine, feeding a family of nine is not cheap and the older our children became, the higher our grocery bill climbed.

Tom and I found ourselves living in a world where the kids were constantly compromising our food supply. In other words, they were eating us out of house and home.

Believe me, they are fed three healthy meals a day, plenty of treats and snacks and if I were to line them up, I guarantee you would not be able to spot a protruding ribcage. They are healthy, normal, growing kids who are simply always on the hunt for food and, left to their own devices, they will devour anything edible in sight like bears stumbling upon a picnic.

One Friday a couple of years ago I spent half the morning at the grocery store and the other half organizing my pantry with the mountains of food it takes to feed my large family.

Grocery shopping is a two shopping cart affair that requires strategic planning, a block of several hours to get it accomplished and an application of intense concentration, or at least that is what I would have my husband believe in order that I might appear so exhausted following the effort that he insists I need an evening out to recuperate.

That particular evening the mister and I arrived home after our date to discover many of my purchases from earlier in the day completely depleted.

An entire package of Oreo cookies, two boxes of cereal, two frozen pizzas, a container of chocolate cake frosting, a 12-pack of soda - all gone. Even the super-sized 72-pack Sam's Club special of fruit snacks - gone. Not to mention the other food that was not completely devoured but certainly picked over. My pantry, my entire kitchen actually, looked like it had been invaded by hungry animals. What should have lasted a week or more was gone in the span of two hours.

What it all boils down to is this: when you have a lot of children, you have to buy a lot of food. Tom and I simply needed to find a way to make sure our groceries lasted a little bit longer in between shopping trips. And we certainly needed to save some money.

So, one day we put a high-tech combination lock on the pantry door. We hoped that the beeping, lighted display would distract the kids from the fact that they were now essentially blockaded from the food on the other side of the door.

My husband was the first one to suggest it. I resisted the idea for a while, thinking it was somewhat authoritarian. I didn't want my kids feeling like they were living in a prison. This is our home, after all, and it seemed a bit excessive to have to lock up the food.

Once my husband reminded me of the grocery bill, though, I jumped on board and now here I am, locking up the canned peaches, Pop-Tarts and microwave popcorn.

Surprisingly, it has worked out well, at least for Tom and me, and our grocery bill. I shop less, thus I spend less. I yell a lot less. I no longer have to patrol the pantry like a prison guard, protecting its contents.

Sure my kids complain...a lot! They compare our house to jail (oh, if they only knew), tell all their friends how "unfair" their parents are, and whine in Facebook status updates. I'm sure their friends, and even some of their friends' parents, think we're a bit extreme, but the simple fact is that our grocery bill has been reduced significantly, my kids are still fed, and I have the satisfaction of knowing that when I need a particular ingredient, I'll be able to find it.

I no longer have to dash to the grocery store at six o'clock in the morning because the peanut butter and jelly I need to make school lunches has been wiped out in the middle of the night.

I will admit there are drawbacks. Sometimes I feel like a human jack in the box for how often I am up and down opening the pantry because of the revolving door atmosphere we live in with teenagers constantly coming and going.

A time or two the combination code has been compromised and we've had to pull out the instruction manual to change the magical number, and listening to the litany of complaints from the children definitely gets old, but all in all, the lock on the pantry has been a blessing, and a survival tactic, for our large family.

Facing Fears and Overcoming Obstacles

2011-03-23T19:35:00.001-04:00

Column from March 23rd, 2011 at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

A friend of mine called me this week to let me know she has been diagnosed with breast cancer, a diagnosis that the American Cancer Society suggests occurs to more than 200,000 women each year.

During that phone call she asked me to write this week's column based off a speech I gave a couple of years ago.

I was asked to be the guest speaker at the St. Andrew's United Methodist Church of Brandon's 2008 Pink Ribbon Tea, an annual event held every October to raise awareness and money for breast cancer research. A breast cancer survivor myself, I was honored when the coordinator of the event approached me about speaking saying, "You have climbed a lot of mountains and faced a lot of obstacles." Those words determined the direction I would take when writing my speech.

Certainly when I received a breast cancer diagnosis at the age of 33 I was frightened and overwhelmed, along with a host of other emotions, all normal reactions when faced with an unexpected illness. I think that as women, and specifically modern, informed women, we naturally worry about breast cancer, even while being proactive in our behavior (mammograms, self-examinations, yearly appointments). Very quickly I realized that the fear I was experiencing over my diagnosis was one I had little control over, so rather than focusing on the fear I took on the task of seeing it as an obstacle to overcome.

Happily, I did overcome the obstacle and beat cancer's butt thanks to dedicated medical professionals, available treatments and what I consider my own specific input of positive thinking.

While preparing my speech for the Pink Ribbon Tea, I talked to many survivors and reaffirmed that a positive attitude and outlook most definitely plays a vital role in overcoming not only illness, but any obstacle.

To further test the theory I wondered if it would be possible to better prepare myself for unexpected fears and/or stumbling blocks (things like illness) if I were to face a fear in which I had a choice. If I could do that, take a designated, self-selected fear and truly challenge it, meet it face to face, eye to eye, I would surely be better at handling those fears that were beyond my control, obstacles not of my own choosing.

Anyone who knows me well can tell you that I am terrified of airplanes. Terrified with a capital T. It's not that I haven't flown and am afraid to try. I'm the daughter of a career military officer and lived overseas for a good portion of my childhood and teenage years. I don't remember exactly when the fear developed but at some point I became absolutely panic stricken when it came time to board an airplane.

I will readily admit that I am the passenger popping Xanax and ordering multiple bloody marys. I'm the one gripping the armrest, if not the actual arm of my seat mate. I push the flight attendant button at every little bump of turbulence to question if we are barreling to our deaths in a metal coffin at 400 miles per hour.

I've turned down vacations because of my fear of flying, and I insisted my husband and I take a cruise for our honeymoon rather than a trip to Europe, simply because of my refusal to step on a plane.

That being said, my fear of flying seemed to be a viable obstacle to overcome. How could I go about this, though, I wondered. I glanced through the yellow pages at "face your fear of flying" classes, and googled Internet sites that promised a complete recovery for only $199.99. I even considered talking hubby into going ahead with that trip to Europe.

After a lot of soul searching I decided that the appropriate avenue for facing this fear, this aviophobia, would be skydiving. What is it that "smart" people say? Why in the world would you jump out of a perfectly good airplane?

Once I came to terms with the fact that I really was going to follow through with this insane scheme to jump out of an airplane, I began telling everyone. This was my personal insurance that I would not be able to back out. After all, I would be duly embarrassed if my friends were able to tease me that I didn't follow through with what I said I was going to do.

The day of the jump dawned bright and beautiful. Secretly I had been praying for a hurricane so that the whole thing would have to be cancelled through no fault of my own. No such luck! With family and friends gathered at the Zephyrhills Skydive City drop zone to cheer me on, I hesitantly climbed aboard the tiny plane that would carry me three miles above the earth, 15,000 feet into the sky, and then, while fastened to my instructor, I would foolishly allow myself to leave the safety of the plane and soar into the clouds.

Speaking of my instructor/tandem partner, this is no exaggeration, the man was in his 70s! "Please don't have a heart attack," I prayed over and over. Even when he informed me he had over 10,000 jumps under his belt, all I could think was, "I sure do hope you make it to 11,000."

I was shaking as I stepped aboard the tiny plane. I was the only "first-timer" on board and the others, approximately 12 of them and all solo jumpers, were making jokes and trying to get me to relax. The plane taxied down the runway which was actually just an old dirt road and suddenly we were airborne. It was certainly too late to back out now. The pilot jokingly told me that he was jumping too. A large door from which the skydivers jump was opened before we even made it to the 15,000 foot altitude so that we could have a larger view of the world outside and the cold air rushed in.

Looking out the door the earth was dotted with what I knew to be houses and buildings but from thousands of feet in the air they appeared to be nothing more than grains of sand. Realizing that I was in it completely now, I was determined to make the best of it, to really feel every moment of the experience. I'm not one to gloss over any of life's moments and I certainly didn't want to do so with this one. I made up my mind that whatever my feelings, I was going to experience it all.

Soon enough we saw nothing but clouds below and my instructor fastened our suits together with what appeared to me to be hooks with about the same strength as paper clips. I said another prayer that we wouldn't come unhooked in the air, after all, the parachute was strapped to his back, not mine. It was time to jump and we moved closer to the open door. We were the last jumpers in the plane and as I looked far below I could see skydivers completing their freefall and opening their parachutes that appeared across the sky as large colorful umbrellas floating over the earth.

My instructor and I stood in the doorway of the plane and my entire body was aware that I would momentarily willingly leave the safety of the aircraft and step outside, truly a step of faith. On the count of three we tumbled out of the plane and for a brief instant I closed my eyes before telling myself, no, I want to see every second of this experience. A sense of calm enveloped me. During the sixty seconds of freefall my natural instincts were telling me to stay alert, but my brain ceased all of its silly fearful chatter and my senses were fully alive. It was an incredibly peaceful feeling combined with an adrenaline rush. Scared, excited and calm, all at the same time. I felt more alive in that minute of freefalling than I had in my entire life.

Once the parachute opened it was just a serene trip back to earth, quiet, calm, relaxed.

There is something about consciously facing one of your primal fears head-on that just frees you from inside. This discovery has led me to a point where I am able to recognize my fears but no longer feel controlled by them. Do I think that facing an obstacle of my own choosing enables me to better handle unexpected roadblocks? Absolutely! I have found that life is a lot like skydiving. Often times we want to close our eyes and not look at what's happening around us, especially in frightening or stressful situations.

We need to open our eyes to the experience of life, all of it, good or bad, not let fear control us and awaken our senses to the beauty that is all around us because there is beauty in each and every moment.

Live every moment. Every single moment.

Video of the skydive can be found on my Facebook page under "videos."

Hooky With Hubby...

2011-03-16T18:10:00.001-04:00

From today's column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

Until recently my youngest thought that every night after he was tucked away in his bed, the rest of us partied the night away.

In his creative imagination, a theme park complete with Ferris wheel, arcade games and pony rides materialized in our back yard upon his bed time and his brothers and sisters, all older and thus allowed to stay up later, rode roller coasters and gobbled up ice cream and cotton candy, all while poor Michael slumbered soundly in his little bed.

Even on nights when his imagination wasn't quite as active, he still thought the rest of us immediately changed the channel to Cartoon Network and munched on popcorn while he was forced to endure an 8:00 bedtime.

Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. We have seven kids and that means that when they go to bed, we go to bed. These days our teenagers are often up later than we are doing their homework, or so they say.

Our busy schedules of work, meetings, appointments, driving this child or that child to sports events, music practices and friends’ houses leaves us with little time, energy or desire to party all night long. Just this week I have logged over 75 miles of carpooling on my minivan.

That being said, part of what makes our marriage work is finding time without the kids, which is not always an easy task. It is inevitable that the minute the mister and I sneak away for a date, one or more of the kids find themselves in desperate need of parenting. There's nothing like a piercing scream of "he won't stop touching me" over the cell phone to ruin an intimate night out.

I think we've found a solution, though, and I highly recommend it to all of you out there who need precious one on one time with your significant other.

I call it "hooky with hubby" and it has developed into a necessity around our house. Every now and then Tom and I take the day off work and spend time together. Sometimes hooky with hubby means taking a day trip to Sarasota or Venice Beach, sometimes it’s a nice lunch out and a movie, and other times, like today, it means getting work done around the house and eating Chinese takeout on the lanai while enjoying the gorgeous spring-like weather.

So far the kids haven't caught on, and when they do, I can at least console the youngest with the fact that we are not out riding roller coasters.

Oh wait, there was that time we spent "hooky with hubby" at Busch Gardens. Never mind...

Special Olympics

2011-03-09T18:00:00.000-05:00

http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/
From today's column:

Last Saturday, March 5, my son, Matthew, along with five of his Barrington Middle School classmates and nearly 700 other participants from Hillsborough and Polk counties, participated in the Florida Area 8 Regional Special Olympics Summer Games 2011 at the University of South Florida. Track and field events, tennis, bicycling, volleyball, bocce ball and soccer were among the sports held on the USF campus soccer field.

Quite frankly, you cannot attend the Special Olympics and not feel a combination of joy, awe and inspiration. As the participants marched around the field as part of the Parade of Athletes during the opening ceremonies, and recited the Special Olympics oath: "Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt," there was an overwhelming sense of camaraderie in the air.

Parents, grandparents, siblings, friends and classmates filled the stands waiting to cheer on not only their athlete, but all who participated in the games. First place or last place made no difference. All were cheered for, loudly and with tremendous exuberance.

Matthew, who has been in training for his two events, the 100-meter dash and the running long jump, since January was particularly excited, yet nervous as the big day neared. Wearing his big brother Sam's cross-country training shoes, Matthew would inform me of his practice schedule by saying, "Now, don't forget, mom, I have Special Olympics practice after school today. Don't forget to pick me up."

Of course I didn't forget, and when he would get into the car following his training, he would proudly tell me how far he had jumped and how fast he had run.

Matthew took first place in both of his events on Saturday, running the 100-meter dash in just over 16 seconds and jumping 12 feet 8 inches to win the gold medal in his category of the running long jump. Qualifying participants will be informed in the next couple of weeks if they have made it to the state games to be held in Orlando in May. Regardless of whether he is chosen to move on to the state games, I could not be more proud of Matthew.

The Special Olympic Games were founded in 1968 by Eunice Kennedy Shriver, a leader in the worldwide struggle to improve and enhance the lives of individuals with intellectual disabilities for more than three decades.

Matthew with a classmate/friend

Opening Ceremonies with Color Guard

Receiving his first gold medal for the 100 meter race

Running long jump

Receiving second gold medal for running long jump

Proud boy with medals

Ice cream treat at the end of the day

Adjusting to life...

2011-03-03T10:27:00.000-05:00

March 2nd column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

A friend asked me recently if I'd read the latest book by a bestselling author. I laughed out loud. I love to read but I can't remember the last time I had five minutes to read an e-mail, let alone a book. I consider it a stroke of luck if I can read the directions on a box of prepackaged food without being interrupted. I have seven children. Do the math! Seven children divided by seven days of the week equals no personal time.

Between baseball practice, glee club rehearsals, track meets, volleyball games, after-school study sessions and, oh yes, cooking meals, washing clothes and a job, there is no time left over for reading.

There is one activity that has been dropped off my mountain of responsibilities as of today. My 14-year-old got her braces removed this morning and now, other than an occasional visit to make sure her retainer is in working condition, we can cross the monthly orthodontic visits off the list.

Emily has been waiting anxiously for this day for a long time, and as happy as I am for her, and to be able to remove a task from the list (as well as a payment from the pile of debts), I'm also feeling bittersweet over this completed stage of life.

Emily has only been in my life for four years and, up until we began the orthodontic treatment, I felt like we had a good relationship, but those monthly trips not only straightened out her teeth, they also helped to set the mother/daughter relationship we have now. That monthly trek to check on the progress of her teeth was time for just Emily and me, and I grew to really enjoy it

I think that our drives back and forth to the orthodontist cemented our relationship. It was a time where we would discuss everything from Justin Bieber to more serious subjects like grades, sibling issues and future plans.

Sure we still have our moments. Just this past weekend I got the "you're not my mom and I don't have to listen to you" screech. Why? I asked her to clean her room. Typical mother-daughter stuff, right? Granted I probably did not help matters by yelling back, "if I'm not your mom I shouldn't have to take you to get your braces off on Tuesday."

But I am her mom and I did take her to get the braces removed (along with a celebratory lunch at Olive Garden and new shoes from the mall to complement her new smile), and along the way it hit me that orthodontic treatment is a lot like blending a family. You have to go through a lot of uncomfortable adjustments to straighten everything out and reveal the beauty underneath.

Tangible Memories...

2011-02-23T14:40:00.000-05:00

February 23rd column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

Collecting mementos that bridge the gap between our past and present...

I am a "remember when" person. Remember when...Rachel was a baby and couldn't pronounce girl and it came out gorilla. “I’m a little gorilla,” she’d proudly announce.

Remember when...Sarah started the bath water, then went to her room to finish watching a TV program and forgot the water was on and flooded the whole house.

Remember when...Sam thought it would be fun to try hang-up calls with 911, until they showed up at our front door having traced the calls back to our house.

It’s not that I’m so busy looking in the rearview mirror that I don't see what's ahead of me, but I do treasure the past and consider myself a collector of memories. The funny ones, the sentimental, the bittersweet, the sad, the frustrating (notice the house flooding thing above), I cherish them all.

I value the tangible memories, too, the remembrances from past events, the little something I can hold in my hand to remind me of a time or place in the past.

Yesterday I had an opportunity to spend the day shopping and lunching with a couple of friends. My desk was piled high with "to do" items, but casually browsing through antique shops and sipping sangria over a relaxed lunch sounded so much more appealing than tackling that list.

I love to visit antique shops, not so much because I am looking for something specific, but because walking into an antique store is almost like taking a step back in time. Many times I have been browsing through a store and have stumbled upon a memory, like the time I found a top to the salt shaker that matched the one my grandmother used when I was a child. Mind you, it was just the top of the salt shaker, not the whole shaker itself, but I immediately bought it and it hangs in my kitchen window today.

A few years ago I found a miniature grandfather clock exactly like one my father bought for me when we were in Germany. Mine had been broken in a move and could not be repaired so we had to throw it away, and when I spotted the identical clock, I knew I had to have it. Even though it's not the same one I had growing up, I still associate it with happy memories.

I have found matching pieces to the china that I inherited from my great aunt, a cherished book from my childhood and an old telephone table identical to one that sat in my maternal grandmother's house. It's rare that I go looking through antique shops and don't find some connection to my past.

When I was a child, I wanted a horse. I’d never been on one, didn’t have an inkling of what it would take to care for a horse, and for goodness sake, we didn't even live in the country, but oh my gosh, I had to have a horse. I read all the classics, like “My Friend Flicka,” and “Black Beauty,” that only fed into my desire to own a horse of my very own. Looking back I realize that I didn’t even help take care of the 10-pound dog; it's really no wonder my parents were not willing to purchase a 600-pound horse. Instead, they pacified my passion with molded plastic "model" horses. I had seven or eight of these model horses and I would spend hours contorting my stiff-legged barbies on their backs and pretend to gallop them around the Barbie Dream House, Barbie Corvette and Barbie Airplane.

One horse in particular was my very favorite. I named him Bunny Lightning. My 8-year-old imagination thought Bunny was the most beautiful name ever, but so was Lightning, and so lovely was each name that I couldn't bear to split it between two horses, so I combined the name and bestowed it upon my favorite horse, a plastic golden stallion complete with white plastic flowing mane and white plastic tail. It was pure brilliance; I was sure of it!

Over the years I grew out of my fascination with horses and, shortly before a move to Europe when my mother was trying to get rid of extra odds and ends, she donated my model horse collection to a local charity.

I had not thought about Bunny Lightning in years. He and all of his plastic glory were buried deep in the recesses of my mind. Over the years I have been in many antique stores and not once have I ever come across a display of model horses. They may have been there, but they just never came to my attention...until yesterday.

Browsing through the antique store I suddenly spotted a selection of the model horses and, amused over the memories that flooded my mind, and the fact that toys from the '70s might be considered "antiques," I told my friends the story of Bunny Lightning. They laughed along with me and teased me that I should buy one of the horses as a keepsake. We all giggled over the idea of how a plastic model horse would fit in with my decor.

In the next store we visited I saw another display of model horses. Again my friends chortled and claimed it was meant to be that I was supposed to purchase one of these horses. After all, this was the second store we had been in that had them and it did seem strange. Still, I really had no desire to purchase a memento that wasn't even similar to the one I had as a child.

In our last stop of the day I was browsing through a selection of old valentines when suddenly my eyes were drawn to a display shelf slightly above my eye level and, poised on the shelf right in front of me, was Bunny Lightning. I couldn't believe it. I realize it might be ridiculous to think it could be THE Bunny Lightning, but you just never know. I do know it is the exact same model, though, and I couldn't believe my eyes. I gingerly took him off the shelf and looked at the price tag. Twenty dollars for a plastic horse. I knew my husband would think I was insane. What would I ever do with it? But there I was holding a tangible memory and I just couldn't seem to put him back down. Regardless of how silly it would look to purchase a plastic horse, I knew I had to bring Bunny Lightning home again...for the memories.

Bieber Fever (Feburary 16th column at www.bloomingdalepatch.com)

2011-02-17T11:23:00.000-05:00

My 14-year-old daughter, Emily, like most girls between the ages of 4 and 16, is head over heels for pop star, Justin Bieber. A true "belieber," as his fans are known, her room is practically a shrine, adorned with posters, magazine layouts and other ornamentation dedicated to the singing sensation.

Last week Emily spent more than $30 of her allowance to attend the premiere of Bieber's new movie, "Never Say Never," at the AMC Regency 20 Theatre in Brandon. The premiere was released just two days before the national release of the movie, and she was willing to spend more than double the cost of a regular movie ticket just so she could have bragging rights that she, along with 100,000 other teenage girls across the country, saw the movie 48 hours before anyone else. Personally, I thought she was crazy, but that's just my opinion.

Her obsession with Justin Bieber intensified after last year's trip to Miami with a friend and the friend's mother to see him perform in concert at the Pepsi Superbowl Fan Jam 2010. Spotting the two starstruck teenagers at the concert, a producer from CBS' "The Early Show" approached them and asked if they'd like to meet the singing superstar the next morning. Of course, they agreed.

Emily called home and squealed with delight through the phone line that she was about to meet her future husband. The girls were also invited to attend "The Early Show" featuring a segment in which Bieber would sing one of his hit songs, "One Less Lonely Girl."

I watched the show the next morning keeping my eyes peeled for Emily and her friend, and I worried the friendship might fizzle when only one girl was invited to sit up on stage and have Justin sing his hit song to her, plus present her with a dozen roses. That girl was not Emily. It was her friend.

She got over her disappointment, though. After all, she had met him. And the obsession continued. She even became known on Facebook as Emily Bieber. It seems to be a new fad that teen girls all over Facebook change their surnames to reflect a relationship with their idol, but I think Emily was one of the first to start the trend.

I will admit that when I'm driving Emily to her orthodontist appointment and she slips her Justin Bieber CD into the car's CD player, I tap my foot and sing along with "Somebody to Love," and "Baby Baby Baby," but I blame that on overexposure. Just as when my kids were small and I sang along to "I love you, you love me" with Barney, it becomes rote. It doesn't mean I like it.

And now Emily insists I must see "Never Say Never" because she absolutely HAS to see it again and, according to her, it will change my life. At $14 a ticket, I think all it will change is my bank account balance. Somehow, though, she seems to be getting through to me. I have a feeling it won't be too long before I'm sitting in the theater with 200 screaming fans singing at the top of my lungs.

After all, "Bieber Fever" can affect all ages.

Reply All

2011-02-11T11:42:00.001-05:00

February 9th column at The Bloomingdale Patch
http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

I am a self-proclaimed ditz. I'm scatterbrained, sometimes flighty, a bit frivolous, and, yes, I'm proud of it.

My kids compare me to Lucy, of "I Love Lucy" fame. I take that as a compliment. I never want to take myself, or life, so seriously that I forget to have fun.

But there are those embarrassing moments that happen to those of us who walk with our heads in the clouds. Those 'oh how I wish the floor would swallow me up, my face is the shade of a ripe tomato, I really wish I could die right now' moments.

The day I married Tom I was well aware that I was taking on three more children, and he was getting an additional four, and we were both willing to accept that responsibility. What I think we forgot is that the basic laws of parenthood state that you should not let your children outnumber you, and we have exceeded that by five.

In doing so, we have put ourselves into quite a precarious situation as we have had to learn to juggle the need to get several children to several different simultaneous events in several different locations and, let me tell you, it ain't easy.

With all that stress comes the opportunity for really embarrassing moments, such as the one that occurred yesterday.

Our son Thomas plays Little League baseball for East Bay Little League. The spring season has just begun and I have not yet met the coaches as my husband has been handling the responsibility of Thomas' chauffeuring needs. With a family as big as ours, we have to divide and conquer.

Yesterday Thomas' coach sent out a multiple-recipient e-mail informing the team members and their parents of the required uniform for the spring season. Because we used my e-mail account to sign Thomas up for baseball, my husband is not on the e-mail list (note to self: fix this!). However, since he is the one that is handling the baseball undertaking, thus making him the one that would need to get the uniform, I wanted to forward the e-mail to his account rather than making a mental note to inform him later.

Unfortunately, in my hurried state, as I had one child needing a ride to Glee rehearsal and another one pulling the garden hose inside the house from the lanai (a future column), I inadvertently hit "reply all." Yes, the dreaded reply all. Those two words can send chills down a spine faster than fingernails on a chalkboard. I have heard other people's reply-all stories for years, and now I have one of my own.

Yes, I mistakenly hit reply all and, in my oblivion, as my husband and I always do when we send e-mails to each other, I festooned it with a sugary sweet, "I love you, love you, love you, love you...with all my heart...forever."

And I hit send! The second my finger pressed down on that key, I knew. I just knew! And you know how you get that feeling of your stomach dropping? And that sharp intake of breath. And that horrified, "Oh my gosh, what did I just do?" You just want to reach through the computer monitor and yank the e-mail back, but it's out there in cyberspace filling up the e-mail boxes of every single one of those team members and their parents. What could I do? I put my head in my hands and groaned.

And then it hit me. I could fix this. So I quickly did damage control by sending out another e-mail to everyone explaining that I was not, in fact, in love with the baseball coach and that I was very sorry but I had intended to forward that e-mail to my husband, not send it out to the masses.

Only my husband informs me that I actually did more damage because Thomas was basically anonymous up until that point. After all, no one had met me. I didn't sign my name. No one knew who I was or who Thomas was. But when I sent that second e-mail, I signed it with my name and then, in little parenthesis, I added "Thomas' mom."

Now, according to my husband, they know exactly which kid has the ditzy mom.

My poor son. So, in trying not to take life too seriously, I look for the consolation in all this. For me it's that every parent, coach and team member of the East Bay Little League knows exactly how much I love my husband. As for Thomas' consolation, well, that's to be determined.

Better You Than Me

2011-02-06T10:15:00.000-05:00

From last week's Brady Bunch Plus One column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

This morning Matthew informed me that he needed colored construction paper for school. Don't you hate that? When your kids wait until the last possible minute to tell you that they absolutely have to have a required supply, in this case last minute being Monday morning when we had all weekend that we could have picked up whatever was required. My kids do this all the time!

Let me back up for just a minute.

Did you ever read in that little instruction booklet that comes with life the chapter about being immune to challenges? Somehow I seem to have skipped that part…

We all have our challenges, and they are as individual and unique as we are. Sometimes they are lifelong struggles beginning from the moment we are born. Sometimes they are issues that slowly creep upon our unsuspecting selves, thrusting us into a whirlwind of chaos. And sometimes they explode instantly like dynamite upon our lives, changing our entire world.

I am the mom of two special-needs children, one 14 years old and one 11 years old. At the time Matthew, my 14-year-old, was diagnosed with autism, epilepsy and related learning disabilities, it seemed my whole world was cartwheeling and somersaulting and I felt as if I would never get my footing again. But, like a lot of people faced with challenges, I immersed myself into finding out everything I could about my child's special needs in an attempt to educate myself, and in doing so, be an advocate for my son. I spent hours researching on the Internet, browsing through bookstores and sitting in doctors' offices questioning physicians about the challenges my child, and my family, would face.

In those first years after Matthew was diagnosed, I would often receive sympathetic smiles or pats on the hand when I informed people, as necessary, that Matthew was a special-needs child. They would stare blankly at me when I explained that he was autistic. Or they would smile and say, “Oh, how nice. He draws really well then?” "No, I did not say artistic; I said autistic!"

Of course, there was also a population of people that simply could not grasp the reality of day-to-day life with a special-needs child. Well-intentioned people would make what could only be perceived as ignorant, impolite and, at times, insulting comments. Autism is a neurological disorder that affects the development of a person's communication and social interaction skills. The disorder has not received a lot of publicity, although that is changing. Chances are good that you know of someone on the autism spectrum. With one in 150 children being diagnosed, it's very likely.

Still, there are those who think that autism is a convenient diagnosis for rude, ill-behaved, temperamental children who are "in need of a good spanking." I became fluent early on in explaining autism to people who tried to give me unwanted parenting advice. I refused to allow people to think that my child was "being bad" or "misbehaving." People with autism often find the world an uncomfortable place. They thrive on routine and sameness. Going out to the store, for instance, can be an increasingly upsetting experience, and until they learn, and some never do, how to self-soothe, an outing can be a difficult experience for all involved.

Now, getting back to that outing this morning. Matthew has come a long way in being able to handle going out to public places. Typically he'll find a subject to talk about, and he'll talk and talk and talk. I suppose it’s his way of keeping his mind focused on something besides the fact that we're in the store. This morning’s outing took us to Publix to pick up the needed construction paper before school. We found what we needed and moved toward the check-out lane which, at 8:30 a.m., was already filled with customers pushing overloaded shopping carts.

Glancing at the clock, I steered Matthew to the line with the least people and tapped my foot impatiently. Matthew, by now overstimulated with the sights and sounds of the grocery store, launched into a tireless monologue about zombies (I thought the zombie phase was well over so I was somewhat surprised to be cast back onto this topic).

"Mom," Matthew began, "where do you think would be the safest place if zombies attacked? The grocery store or school?”

Planning my defensive strategy because I was not willing to let Matthew stay home from school just in case of a zombie attack, I retorted, "School. You would definitely be safer at school.” I glanced impatiently at the front of the line where a customer was writing a check.

"Well," Matthew continued, and I knew he was about to embark on a lengthy harangue. The woman in front of me, overhearing because there was no way she could not, and obviously intrigued that anyone could possibly be so fascinated by zombies, turned around slightly, smiled, then turned her attention back to the rows of tabloid magazines that lined the checkout aisle.

A few seconds later, as Matthew discussed the importance of taking advantage of the different “weapons” one would be afforded by seeking refuge against zombies in a grocery store, she turned again, and noticing I was aware of her glance, said, “My, he certainly knows his zombies.”

“Matthew is autistic,” I offered, “and he really likes talking about zombies.”

Why, you might wonder, am I so straightforward with this information? I'm aware it might make some people uncomfortable but I think it's important to be very realistic about Matthew's special needs. HE knows he is autistic and he's not ashamed, and neither are we, his family. By being up front and honest with people, I feel that we're, in a sense, educating them.

"Oh," the woman nodded, and I knew she was at a loss for words, "It must be difficult at times. Better you than me."

Let me point out very quickly that she did NOT mean this the way it sounded. And it would not surprise me at all if, like I do after I have awkwardly told my server, "You, too" when he tells me to enjoy my meal, she wanted to hit herself upside the head. What she meant was, " That must be a lot to handle. I'm not sure I could do it."

I did not take offense at her words because it was obvious that she was well-intentioned when she was speaking.

It did get me to thinking, though...about challenges. Yes, we all have them. They come in all sorts and all sizes, some big, some small, some short lived, some lifelong. We all face them. I'm very happy I have mine. Better me than her? Yes, I think so, too!

"Let me win but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt" (Special Olympics Oath)

2011-01-20T08:54:00.000-05:00

The following is an article I did for http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/ on 20 January, 2011. Matthew will be participating in the Special Olympics and I could not be more proud. As a writer for THE PATCH, I was able to cover the story of the training that will be leading up to two big events.

Barrington Middle School Students Prepare for Special Olympics
Students Train for Two Upcoming Dates
By Lynn Nankervis

Seven Barrington Middle School students throw questions out to their coach as fast as she can answer them. "Am I allowed to do the running long jump?" "Can I run the 100-meter dash?" "What if I get sand in my shoes?" "Will we be able to have a snack?"

A seasoned veteran, Brooke Lingo, Barrington reading coach and now Special Olympics track and field coach, takes it all in stride as she patiently answers questions and focuses her students' attention on the task at hand.

"I love every minute of it," states Lingo, and it is obvious she does as she demonstrates the proper form for the standing long jump, instructs her athletes in the importance of staying in their own lane while running the track and cheers loudly at each success.

The students, all children with special needs, are preparing for the Special Olympics Training Day at Gaither High School in Tampa on Feb. 18, where athletes from all over Hillsborough County will gather to compete and organizers will use competition times to group similarly skilled atheletes for the Regional Special Olympics, to be held on the campus of the University of South Florida on March 5.

"This is a passion of mine," states Lingo, who first started coaching Special Olympics six years ago at Benito Middle School in Tampa before transferring to Giunta Middle School in Riverview where she coached for two years. Now in her second year at Barrington, Lingo was delighted when last year student Nathan Easters was selected to compete at the Special Olympics Florida State Summer Games at ESPN's Wide World of Sports Complex in the Walt Disney World Resort. "Nathan made us so proud. He represented Barrington very well."

This year's students are just as motivated. Proving once again that Special Olympics builds self-confidence, student Matthew Parejko, representing Barrington in the running long jump and 100-meter dash, proudly stated, "I knew I was good at running but I didn't know I could jump, too. I jumped really far today."

The excitement is real, for the students and for their parents.

"I had fun," signed Zachary Foyt, who will be participating in the 100-meter dash and the standing long jump, to his mother Ann as she arrived at Barrington to pick him up following the practice.

"I think this is a wonderful opportunity for Zach and I'm so grateful to Ms. Lingo for working with our kids," said Ann Foyt. "Zach is getting exercise, and more importantly, doing things with his peers, learning good sportsmanship and having fun."

For more information, contact Special Olympics Florida at (352)243-9536.

It's-All-About-Me-Itis

2011-01-18T13:44:00.000-05:00

From my January 18th column at http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

We all know moms aren't supposed to get sick and, when they do, unlike their male counterparts who are catered to, pampered, babied and loved back to good health, mothers are expected to keep up with the daily pace no matter what their condition. With moms the world just keeps on a-spinnin'.

Case in point. I spent Friday night at Urgent Care because, it seems, somewhere in the recesses of my mind I must think that the weekends were made for getting sick. Out of the three weekends we've had thus far in 2011, I have spent two of them coughing and sneezing, feverish and exhausted. I rarely fall ill and am surprised by this recent deluge of poor health. I was feeling under the weather again Friday but, as we moms often do, I pushed the thought aside, hoping it would go away. Later in the day the realization hit me that I needed to see a doctor, and my husband, seeing how poorly I was feeling and realizing our family physician's office would already be closed, insisted we visit Urgent Care.

Like any responsible parents, we informed the children of where we were headed, made sure they knew how to contact us while we were gone and made the drive over to the clinic in the hope of finding some relief.

There I sat in the waiting room filling out all the necessary paperwork while desperately trying to shield myself from the flying germs as other sickies coughed and sneezed around me. Not long after we arrived, as I tried to discreetly hold a tissue over my nose and mouth to keep from inhaling all the germs that I envisioned floating all around me, I received a message from my daughter, Emily.

Emily is 14, in the eighth grade and caught up in the middle school drama of cute boys, even cuter boy bands (she is obsessed with the Jonas Brothers) and suffering from the epidemic teenage girls all over the world suffer from: It's-All-About-Me-itis.

Seriously, though, Emily is actually one of the sweetest kids I know, and I'm not just saying that because she belongs to me. I got Emily through my marriage to Tom and one of the things I like to say to my kids, via Carol Brady, "the only steps in our house are the ones that lead you upstairs."

Emily (and Sarah and Thomas) are as much mine as Rachel, Sam, Matthew and Michael are. I do not, nor will I ever, refer to them as my stepchildren. They are my children and they receive all the rights and privileges that go with that title, including, and not limited to, being singled out in my column.

Leading up to the message I received from Emily, as I sat in the waiting room, truly at that moment just wanting to crawl into a hole I was so miserable, I still took the time to update my status on Facebook because, like most every one else on the planet, I am addicted to social networking. Because, by my own admission, my every move is recorded on Facebook, I announced to my friends that I was under the weather and sitting in the waiting room at the Urgent Care.

Not five minutes later my phone dinged letting me know someone had responded to my status update. I looked down to see that Emily's It's-All-About-Me-itis had flaired as indicated by this message she sent:

"Will you bring home food?"

Never mind that at that moment all I could think about was trying to get the pounding in my head to subside, trying to stay in an upright position and trying to manage a coherent conversation with the office staff at the Urgent Care clinic. Upon receiving the message, all I could think was, "Sweetheart, you can scrounge through the refrigerator for stale leftovers," but sitting there, miserable as I was, I didn't respond at all.

A couple minutes later my husband's cell phone chimed indicating an incoming message.

"Are you bringing home food?" it read, "Good food."

Apparently my lack of response over Facebook caused Emily to raise the bar. Not just any food would do. It had to be GOOD food, and I think we all know that for teenagers good food means high calorie, non-nutritional, questionably tasty bagged or boxed meals.

Tom didn't respond, either, although I don't know if it was due to his worry for me or his exasperation at the children gathered together at home expecting dinner to arrive when there was plenty of food there already.

I was called into the examining room where another text came through, this time from 17-year-old Sam.

"Hey, where are you? I'm hungry."

Apparently Sam was not paying attention when we announced exactly where we were going, probably because he was sitting at his computer, his eyes glued to his own Facebook account. If he had just checked recent status updates, he, like Emily, would know exactly where I was.

The doctor made her diagnosis: Bronchial pneumonia. Her advice: antibiotics, prescription cough medicine, decongestant and plenty of rest. Yeah, like that last one was going to happen.

As my husband and I left Urgent Care, downtrodden, exhausted and hoping against dear hope that neither one of us picked up any contaminants in the waiting room, his cell phone chimed again. We didn't even look at it.

Oh, and on the way home, we picked up McDonald's.

http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

Fixations...or, at least it wasn't another turtle...

2011-01-11T14:20:00.000-05:00

My 3rd column, January 11, 2011, The Bloomingdale Patch
http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/

A couple of years ago my son had an elementary school assistant principal who, in an attempt to get him to calm down after a meltdown in the classroom, began talking with him about red-eared slider turtles.

Why he chose this particular topic I haven't a clue but thus began an obsession so intense that it took my husband and me months to change the subject, so to speak.

My desire to keep a turtle out of our already-overcrowded house filled with seven children, a dog and two cats was just as strong as his desire to bring another living, breathing creature that needed food, water, companionship and, heaven forbid, "potty training" into our home.

I suppose I should say he comes by it honestly. Matthew is my 14-year-old son. He is a special-needs child, autistic with a learning disability, and when he gets an idea in his head, boy, does he get an idea in his head.

I've learned, though, while autistic children do become overly focused on subjects that interest them, I can't completely blame this trait on autism because Matthew has a mom who gets stuck on ideas, too. Let's just say I'm still fixated on a cute dress I saw at the mall the other day, oh, and those great shoes.

Back to the subject at hand, over the years I have become quite the advocate for autism awareness and you'll find soon enough that a great deal of my writing focuses on those with special needs.

Matthew has a backpack with an "Autistic Kids Rock" design. I have to agree; autistic kids do rock! Children with autism often get fixated on things they really, really like and can talk about a subject that they are interested in at length. For Matthew it happens (right now) to be something called Tau from a game, Warhammer. He also loves Lego Bionicles and Halo Reach characters.

Like most autistic kids, though, Matthew will talk and talk about things he is interested in, but doesn't really perceive when his audience is tired of hearing about the subject. Autistic children don't pick up on social cues so when whoever Matthew is speaking to begins to yawn or look away, Matthew doesn't realize that this is an indication of boredom and he'll continue to chat away until someone comes to the listener's rescue.

Trust me, I've had to do this many times! I have lived with autism for many years now and I'm still learning new things every day. My husband and his three children came into the picture even later and have been quick studies and have adapted well to a son and brother who lives on the autism spectrum.

We feel privileged to be included in Matthew's special world, even during those times when he is completely preoccupied with a particular subject. The idea that has been stuck in Matthew's head the past few days is a trip to Target so he can spend a gift card he received for Christmas. I've tried every trick in the book to get out of making the trip realizing that the first couple of weeks after Christmas will be teeming with post-holiday shoppers.

I've exhausted all my excuses, though, so it's time to brave the sea of the credit card-carrying, discount-hunting, frenzied public. So, off we go into the shops in the hope of finding exactly what Matthew wants. Maybe while I'm out, I'll pick up that pair of shoes...

Holding on to the memories as you put away the Christmas decorations...

2011-01-04T13:00:00.000-05:00

Second column, posted on http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/ on Tuesday, January 4th, 2011.

I always suffer from a mild case of the holiday blues once Christmas is over. I'm all about the anticipation, the excitement and the preparations and, once it's all over, I go through, well, a withdrawal of sorts.

Oh please, just once more verse of "Santa Baby," one more candy cane, one more kiss under the mistletoe, even if it's a sticky peanut butter kiss from my 11-year-old.

The packages are unwrapped, the Christmas dinner leftovers are getting stale, even the stuffed Santa by the front door has lost some of his ho-ho-ho, as if saying, "Give it up, lady. It's over."

And now comes the dreaded task of disassembling Christmas, which entails taking apart the Christmas trees (yes, that was purposely plural) and carefully wrapping hundreds of ornaments in tissue paper and placing them in ornament containers with the hope that they survive until next year.

I realize that I go totally overboard with the Christmas decorating, and this, folks, is why I begin decorating so early. I want to make sure I have plenty of time to enjoy all my hard work. I have never understood people that put their Christmas trees up just a couple of weeks beforehand. No sir, not me. I'm decorating for Christmas while the kids are out trick-or-treating.

And now it's over and I look around at the un-decorating that has to be done and the toys and gifts for seven children that I somehow have to make room for in an already-overflowing house and the Christmas dishes that still sit on the kitchen counter because I have not yet put them away in the china cabinet.

It strikes me as amusing when I remember how everyone was all too eager to help me set up for Christmas but now they have suddenly disappeared into the woodwork when it comes time to take everything down. It takes nine people to put it all up and just one is left to take it all down.

Still, I'll spend a few seconds on every ornament as I take it off the tree, remembering its history and cherishing the memories. We have a lot of memories hanging on our tree, as I'm sure you do, too. Soon my holiday blues will be replaced with happy holiday memories of another year gone by.

A new year, a new blessing, a new endeavor...

2011-01-01T13:47:00.000-05:00

I am positively giddy with excitement. You know I love to write...it's what I do...and now I am happy to announce that my blog is being branched out into its own column, by the same name, for the Bloomingdale Patch, a national, yet local, online news organization, owned by AOL, that brings community news to the Internet. Along with my own column, I will be returning to news writing, which is another love of mine. Because I am a freelance writer, and maintain ownership to all I write, I will share my column on my blog. My introductory column, published on January 1st, 2011, is below. You can also find my column by visiting http://www.bloomingdalepatch.com/. Thank you, dear readers, for your enthusiasm and support! And now...my first column:
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The Brady Bunch Plus One
Here's The Story...
You know, someone once said that you should never ask God for patience because in doing so, he might give you opportunities to use it. I've learned this the hard way, but then again, that's me, never listening to anything anyone says, having instead to experience it for myself firsthand. That being said, I've been granted many occasions to practice patience, and I admit to still having much to learn.

Let me introduce myself. I am the newest columnist for the Bloomingdale Patch and I am looking forward to sharing my thoughts, stories and anecdotes with you. I began my blog, www.thebradybunchplus1.com, about a year ago and I feel very fortunate to have been given the opportunity to branch out into my own column by the same name. The Brady Bunch plus one, you say? Well, let's get a few things straight. No, I am not attempting to channel Carol Brady by having my stylist give me the legendary she-mullet in a direct throwback to the 70's era, and my husband, while a very kind man, is nothing like Mike Brady. And let's just make one thing perfectly clear right up front; I do not have a live in housekeeper. We are a blended family, however; he has three kids and I have four. Hey, that's more than the Brady's. So, we're the Brady Bunch…plus one!

I look forward to writing about a life of everyday chaos with one husband, two cats, one dog, seven kids and one very worn out mama. Peanut butter kisses, muddy feet, grimy walls and sticky counter-tops are just par for the course in my life. My house beautiful looks more like Barbie dream house meets Animal House. My reality is a far cry from Hollywood and "Brady Bunch" land. My life of parenting tweens, teens and beyond consists of cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring, cleaning, refereeing, cleaning. You get the picture. My stress relief comes from writing it all down, thus, this column. I welcome you to come along for the ride. I'm sure there are many of you out there who can relate.

Above all else, and through all the parenting and blended family challenges, I have realized that life is good. Better than good, actually. Life is excellent. I hope you think so too!

Stay tuned…
Lynn
The Bloomingdale Patch

It's the most wonderful time of the year!!!

2010-12-23T23:58:00.005-05:00

I remember as a child awakening on Christmas morning and just imagining the possibilities of what lay ahead. The old "sugar plums dancing" thing? Oh yes, they danced...they danced merrily in my head. And the awakening...that slow, slurry coming out of sleep feeling...and suddenly, oh yes, it's Christmas...and even as a child I would lie there and let it soak in for a minute or two...yes, it's Christmas.

We were not allowed out of our rooms on Christmas morning until our parents gave the okay so I would stay in my warm bed, the blanket up to my chin, and impatiently call out for my father. "Dad, hey dad...dad, it's Christmas. Can we get up yet?" Soon my younger brother would chime in and any hope my parents had of sleeping past 6am was long gone by our incessant chorus of pleading. My father would rouse himself and traipse into the living room, pretending to grumble under his breath, and turn on the Christmas tree lights and get his camera at the ready, and inevitably, even late into my teenage years, he would holler back at us, "oh dear, sorry kids, Santa didn't come this year. Too bad." We'd giggle, knowing full well this was the tradition, and continue our pleas to be allowed out of our rooms. Finally, he and my mother would give the okay and we'd run down the hallway at top speed, seeing the mountain of gifts Santa had left us and racing to it as fast as our feet would carry us when suddenly...STOP...my father would hold up a hand, stopping us in our tracks, and inform us it was time to pose for his camera. All the while my brother and I would dance around trying to peek and peer over his shoulder at all the glory that lay just ten or so feet away under a spectacular tree, which in my memory seems ten feet tall, but I know now must have been only 6 feet, if even that. The distance between us and Santa Claus' bounty might as well have been ten miles, though, and we would groan and moan and finally submit to the blinding flash of snapshots before being unleashed into the chaos and splendor of Christmas morning.

Those Christmas day memories are blissfully happy, and now, looking back, I wonder if there wasn't maybe a motive in making my brother and I pause for pictures before tearing into our gifts. I wonder if my father realized that often anticipation is the sweetest part of Christmas. Christmas Eve is by far my favorite day of the year and to some extent, I imagine I owe that to my dad. Now, as an adult, my anticipation is not for what gifts I will find under the tree, but rather for what memories will be made. The joy of our many children, even as they grow older, of opening their gifts on Christmas morning. And I admit that I have adopted the tradition of my father, of pausing my children at the top of the stairs and snapping photos until their cries of "c'mon mom, let us go see" plays on my sympathy and I give in to them and they tear down the stairs, nearly knocking each other down as if in a stampede.

On Christmas Eve, the preparations and planning cease and the participation and celebration begins. But for me, the real fun of Christmas is the weeks beforehand, the entire season really, because I love the preparation and the planning and most of all, the anticipation. Maybe this is because, even while waiting in my bedroom, prancing with excitement early on Christmas morning before being given the okay to emerge, I really relished the "it’s all still before us" thing, without realizing what it was.

Merry Christmas, Friends! May your lives be filled with wonder and enchantment on this day...and always!
Much love,
Lynn
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"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem with his wife Mary, being great with child. And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were very afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

You'll be in my heart...

2010-11-21T21:33:00.002-05:00

Twenty-one years can pass in the blink of an eye. I know this to be true! Twenty-one years ago right to this very minute I was decorating my Christmas tree in my first little house in Lockport, Illinois, a small-town suburb of Chicago where my husband and I moved shortly after he took a position with a new company. It was our 2nd Christmas together since we'd been married, and the first in our very own house, and I was about 34 weeks pregnant and very excited about welcoming a baby girl into our lives in the coming weeks. I wonder now, if events had not turned out as they did, if I would even remember so very clearly the specifics of that night, November 21st, 1989, or perhaps they are etched so clearly on my mind's eye because of the following day's occurrences. I remember I was tired...very tired...and I wanted to go to bed but I had this innate compulsion to finish the Christmas tree that night. I remember thinking it was crazy; I could finish decorating tomorrow, but no, somehow I couldn't. My hands reached for ornament after ornament and continued placing them on the tree over and over and over again, until it was complete. About midnight, with the tree glowing softly, I decided to rest on the sofa with the mind numbing Danielle Steel book I was nearly finished with, "Daddy." I'd been having a difficult pregnancy in the past few weeks and had already been in and out of the hospital in premature labor, and I'd read more Danielle Steel books than anyone ever should read, but I knew that a few minutes of reading would put me over the edge of exhaustion and I would sleep hard for the next few hours, so I plopped my pregnant self on the sofa and somehow stayed awake long enough to finish the novel. I never made it to the bedroom though, falling asleep on the sofa instead, and I awoke in the morning, November 22nd, 1989 without a clue in the world to how much my life would change over the course of the day. I spent the hours frantically cleaning. I'm kind of a clean freak anyway, so I doubt anything really needed to be scoured anymore than it already was, but I spent the day dusting, vacuuming, and mopping. About 4:00 that afternoon I pulled out the silverware from its drawer in the kitchen and began washing it when suddenly the lights faded and we experienced a "brown out." Bad weather was moving in; we were expecting the first major snowfall of the year that night. Putting the silverware back I decided to take advantage of the reduced electricity supply and sit down and put my feet up for a spell. The minute, no, the second I sat down, my water broke. Suddenly the crazed cleaning made sense. I had been nesting. Why I didn't recognize it for what it was at the time is beyond me, but at that moment, I knew. I had been preparing for the arrival of the baby and now it was time. Oh, but wait, we were expecting a snow storm, my husband was a good hour away, I was hungry, tired from cleaning all day, and a mess to look at, so I did what anyone would do in that situation. No, I didn't call my husband or my doctor. I took a shower, washed my hair, applied makeup, put on my prettiest maternity outfit, and THEN made the phone calls. By the time my husband arrived home to take me to the hospital, it was very dark and a blanket of snow was falling. We got caught in a huge traffic jam with him announcing, "this is probably just another false alarm." Uh, yeah, and my water always breaks when I'm having a false alarm!!! But I really couldn't say anything because, after all, it was my own fault we were so late getting out the door since I found it so important to fix myself all up to go to the hospital. It was Thanksgiving Eve and the drivers all around us were anxious to get home and enjoy their own holiday break, so no one was being overly cordial and inviting us to merge into their lane of traffic. Meanwhile the snow continued to fall and the roads were becoming more and more slippery. In due time, though, we made it to the hospital where my wonderful friend and alternate lamaze partner, Judy, met us. I was told by a nurse that I needed to realize that first babies take a long time to arrive, and that I must calm myself down and get changed into a hospital gown and start working on my Lamaze, because obviously I was overreacting by "pretending" to be in so much pain so early on. Less than twenty minutes after she said those words, I had a daughter. Rachel! From the moment that little creature arrived, my life has never been the same. She's just as loud and dramatic, funny and pouty faced, stubborn and elusive, charming and captivating as she was the day she was born. She changed my world for the better the day she entered my life, and I like to think that every day I've known her has added a little more happiness than the day before. We've had our moments, certainly, as all mothers and daughters can attest, but there have been more deliriously happy moments than any type of sad, angry, or hurt moments. She has dealt with more upheaval in her 21 years than most people do in a lifetime, and in enduring she has become this strong, confident, independent, successful woman. A junior in college now, with aspirations to get her PhD and become a college professor of religious studies in the next few years, she continues to amaze me continuously. Could I be more proud??? Uhhhh...no! I don't know how her father and I produced this amazing human being but I'm so glad I can call her mine. And Rachel, your dad would be incredibly proud of you!!!
Happy 21st Birthday to my incredible Thanksgiving blessing, my partner in our own little version of crazy, my mini-me, my heart walking around outside my body. I love you!

I sing the body electric...

2010-11-03T20:03:00.004-04:00

I have discovered that as I grow older my lack of immortality becomes almost tangible. Not in an ominous way...I just become very aware of the precarity of my existence. As a Christian I do believe that I will have an everlasting life, and for the intents and purposes of this blog, I'm referring to the fact that I will not live forever in this body God has given to me, but my soul will live on even when my life here on earth is over. Life passes in the blink of an eye. I see that so clearly as I watch my own children growing up. I look at my oldest, twenty-one this month, and realize that it seems like just yesterday that I was her age. I like to think (hope) that I am not even midway through my life yet. Still, settled into my 40's, I realize that I'm not going to live forever. Somehow this revelation becomes even clearer every time the holidays approach. Year after year I have told myself that I am going to record photographs and histories of all of the Christmas
decorations so that my children will have documentation of the beautiful, beaded ornaments that my grandmother spent hours upon hours making by hand, the handpainted decorations that Tom collected in Abu Dhabi and Dubai, the tiny windmills and wooden shoes that we purchased in Holland while living overseas, the angels that I have collected over the years, and the special pieces Tom and I picked up on our honeymoon. There is something to be said for preserving history. I'm all for it. Perhaps it's a greater selfishness on my part...a need to be remembered long after I am gone, a shout out to future generations that, hey, I was here. Please don't forget me!

There have been occasions that I have felt inclined to toss a memento, not realizing the history behind it. I don't intend for my children to question the sentimental value of any item. If they choose to throw away things even when they know their history, well, that's their prerogative, but damn it, I'm gonna give 'em the history! Each year, though, the task of documenting the many, many Christmas items, not to mention the non-holiday keepsakes I have lying around, seems daunting, too emotional, too...hmmmm...morbid? I'm alive and well, after all, why would I want to photograph each piece and record a description to accompany it when I plan on being around for many, many more years? Because it's what I do! I preserve memories! I'm a planner, a control freak, and a "just in case" kinda girl.

I start holiday decorating early. Way early! We're talking pulling out the Christmas ornaments while the kids are out trick or treating. When I was a kid I would begin playing Christmas music on the first day of school. I adore the holiday season. It's my favorite time of year...the gentler spirit, the kindness of strangers, the quiet understanding that we're all celebrating together. I like to let Christmas linger. And because I am a self admitted control freak, I freely consent that it takes me a couple of weeks to get the house just the way I want it, and by that time I do, it's close to Thanksgiving. I love returning home from turkey day travels and my house is a complete Christmas wonderland which, trust me, takes away a lot of holiday hustle and bustle stress having it all done beforehand. So yeah, today is November 3rd and my trees are pulled out, six of them, in fact, and I have boxes of ornaments all over the house, and I'm enjoying every minute of it. This year, though, I AM recording photos and descriptions of all of those special remembrances. And I'm good with it!

I Sing The Body Electric

Walt Whitman

I have perceived that to be with those I like is enough,

To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round
his or her neck for a moment, what is this then?
I do not ask any more delight, I
swim in it as in a sea.

The cat's in the cradle...

2010-10-28T20:53:00.012-04:00

Dear first born child,

I love you more than life itself. I think I have proven that love over and over and over (I'll be happy to provide an itemized list at your request), most recently by assisting you with the tremendous cost of declawing and neutering the kitty cat that you acquired while living on your own as a college student. Not only that, but I proved my love even further by agreeing, because you have roommates that are allergic to him, to take said kitty cat in and allow him to live in my home until your college graduation in May of 2012. I was assured by you, dear daughter, that kitty cat was the sweetest thing on four paws, that he would lovingly climb onto my lap, nuzzle me playfully, and wait patiently for nice pats on the head and ear rubs. Against my better judgement, and after listening to your sobs of, "I can't send my baby to the pound," I was somehow talked into what I now consider to be a brief visit to insanity. Call me crazy...I only have seven children, a dog, and a cat of my own, but in a moment of obvious mental decline, I agreed to care for kitty cat for TWO YEARS!!! Upon my consent to take kitty cat in, you informed me that he was ready and waiting to be picked up at the veterinarian's office following his surgeries where the poor creature was stripped of all of his claws and, to add insult to injury, his boy parts. I was met at the veterinary reception desk by a sweet, smiling veterinary technician who held out a plastic container with a sliding metal grate over the top by which what appeared to be a mountain lion inside could most certainly escape. "Here's Louie," she proclaimed cheerfully. "THIS is Louie," I stammered, obviously befuddled that this large feline could possibly be the sweet kitty you had told me about. "You mean you don't know," responded the now unsmiling vet tech, clearly concerned that I was some type of catnapper bent on sneaking kitties out from under their unsuspecting eyes. "Ummmm...I've only met him once and that's when he was a tiny little kitten." My thoughts of relaxing with kitty cat purring contentedly on my lap as I rubbed his ears quickly evaporated into thin air. Still, even in my shock I paid a nice chunk of the bill for his surgeries, brought him home and forced myself to breathe calmly as he bounded out of the kitty carrier the minute I opened it, ran under the nearest piece of furniture and menacingly hissed at me every time I tried to coax him out. I considered dangling a steak in front of his face, thinking that this fierce beast might be willing to emerge for the taste of blood, hopefully not mine. Thankfully, what they say is true and animals WILL emerge from hiding when they are hungry enough. Thus began our first few days with kitty cat. I shrugged off my frustration as he jumped onto an end table with his Elizabethan collar (the decoration of neuterdom) and knocked off what might have one day been handed down to you as a family heirloom (hey, items from Kirklands might someday be quite valuable). Thankfully the REAL valuables were locked away behind glass. I even remained cool, calm, and collected when he leaped onto the counter as I was preparing dinner, shedding fine kitty cat hair that rained down all over my freshly made pasta. The garbage disposal enjoyed a fine dinner that night while your parents and brothers and sisters dined on cereal. Now, though, this precious feline has decided that he is going to terrorize MY cat. Yes, I realize that "my" cat was once your cat (another that you brought home without permission, might I remind you) and she stayed with me for so long that I came to love her, but at the rate Louie is going, he is not going to be feeling very loved by me for a long, long time...if ever!!!

Sincerely,
Your mother, who still loves you very much but who is feeling very overwhelmed by the new family member
P.S. You get to clean his litter box when you come home to visit!!!

You gotta laugh...

2010-10-05T19:02:00.004-04:00

Disclaimer: Adult Content

Breathe in...breathe out...breathe in...breathe out...

That is what I continue to tell myself. It's been one of those days where my patience has been tested, but my funny bone has also been tickled. Somehow I know that the day will come that I will look back on these moments and laugh, so I'm choosing to go ahead and laugh now, big guffaws of hearty belly laughs. And I will laugh and laugh and laugh!!!

So here's the scoop:

Have you ever had one of those moments where you felt paralyzed with horror? Where the room felt a little bit like it was spinning and your face turned a lovely tomato shade of red.
Yeah?
Well good, because it has happened to me oh, about a zillion times...and it happened again today.

This afternoon I had a meeting with Michael's teacher to discuss his tremendous improvement in reading. He is advancing by leaps and bounds, and I couldn't be more proud. As a mom of special needs children I have learned to rejoice in the small things...the little achievements...and so it calls for tremendous celebration when a monumental victory is attained. Michael has improved a full grade level in just a couple of months. He has worked so hard and is so intent on becoming a reader, something we were skeptical would ever occur. Something has just "clicked" though, and he is suddenly able to put consonants and vowels together and read words. I'm so proud!!!

But that, of course, is not the mortifying part.

Upon entering the classroom today I was greeted by a lively, chipper, animated Michael who from all the way across the room belted out....

"Hey Mom, I'm gonna get a blow job!!!"

I came to an abrupt halt, an intense and immediate freeze!!! I couldn't move. WHAT??? My thoughts screamed inside my head but no sound came. WHAT???? I tried to form words, I really did, but I just stood there transfixed and stared blankly across the room at Michael who once again proclaimed,

"Mom, did you hear me. I'm gonna get a blow job!"

At this time I noticed that his teacher also stood frozen, stricken, at a loss for words. Our eyes met. Somehow my mouth began working again and I was able to utter, "uh, Michael, honey, Michael...uh, Michael, what do you mean?" (Perhaps I thought if I said his name enough times we would disappear)

Oh, now I laugh...now it's hysterical to think about, but until he responded with the funniest reply I remained hypnotized, completely unable to move.

"Mom, I'm gonna blow bubbles at the Autumn Festival. My job is bubble blower. I gotta blow job."

Relief!!! Sweet solace washed over me and I was able to breathe once again. But for a minute there, my life ended!

I've had quite a day with my youngest. We've spent a wonderful day together. We ran errands, had lunch together, and decorated the house for Halloween.

Later this afternoon, while I worked in the kitchen, Michael told me, "stay inside, mom. I'm gonna do a surprise for you."
So I obediently did as I was told and stayed in the house working on this and that. A little later Tom came in from the office and announced, "Michael's washing the car."
Oh how sweet, I thought, he's washing Tom's car (I've been driving Tom's car this week while he drives the rental car since my car is in the shop from Sam's latest accident) as a surprise for us before our weekend trip.

Twenty minutes or so later Michael finished his "surprise," but Tom and I certainly got a bigger surprise than we ever bargained for when we stepped outside to see that Michael had washed the car all right!!! Washed it with a scouring pad!!! Tom had not noticed when he arrived home that Michael was scrubbing away on the car with a scouring pad or certainly he would have put a fast stop to the activity, but an hour later it was too late and we had the equivalent of a "sanded" car.

Hmmmm...paint job???

I'm a mom of seven kids, so I experience embarrassment, frustration, and yes, anger multiplied, but I also experience joy x 7. Can't beat that!!!
It reminds me of an old anecdote I once heard years ago:
How do you divide your love among so many?

I don't. I multiply it!

Small, small world...

2010-10-04T18:16:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I am amazed by just how small our world is. And sometimes I wonder if there is a deeper meaning or reason behind events and occurrences that happen in our lives.

I have a friend, Dave, that I have known for almost four years. Tom and I met him when we first began attending St. Andrew's United Methodist Church. During that four year period we have seen each other almost every Sunday for church, we're in the same Sunday school class, and for over a year now we have fellowshipped together in our Disciples bible study class every Sunday night. Not only that, but he was my son Sam's 7th grade geography teacher.

Probably for a couple of reasons it is somewhat difficult to get to know Dave well, one being that he is rather reserved. We even joke around with him in our class that he rarely cracks a smile.  The other reason is that, while I definitely consider him a friend, our association is strictly through church events and we don't socialize outside of that venue. That being said, I don't in any way mean to diminish my tremendous respect for him. He is an outstanding teacher, and probably one of the most involved and loving fathers that I have ever met. His wife passed away several years ago and he singlehandedly raises his daughter and does a finer job than most two parent families do. His daughter is one of the most well rounded, intelligent, sensitive kids I've ever met and Dave is tremendously proud of her, as he should be.

Last night during a casual conversation at bible study, Dave mentioned that he had been stationed at Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas during the mid 90's.
I turned to him and said, "I lived at Fort Bliss when I was a kid in the 70's. My dad was stationed there." We chatted a bit about the area and I mentioned that my family had lived on Border Road in Fort Bliss. Dave responded, "I lived on Border Road."
"We lived right next door to a playground," I said.
"So did we," stated Dave.
Yes, amazingly enough it turns out we lived in the exact same house, albeit twenty years apart. I spent a few of my elementary school years there, and Dave was stationed there while serving in the military.

Most people would probably say that this is simply a fantastic coincidence, but me, well, I never see things as coincidence...I think there's something deeper. I have no idea what it could be, but seriously, I've known Dave for several years and never has this subject come up. I don't exactly remember why Dave mentioned Fort Bliss last night, and why I, after explaining I also lived there, felt compelled to say what street I lived on. Who does that?

Also interesting is that in my previous blog posting I had been reminiscing about autumn and living in El Paso and while I didn't add too much detail to my blog about my time living there, I enjoyed some quiet time of reflecting and remembering the home we lived in, the town, the way of life, the happy moments and the sad.  Just a few days later to meet someone else who lived in that very house, well, it's remarkable to me.

To prove to myself that I wasn't overstating this incredible "coincidence," I did some research on Fort Bliss. It is the Army's second largest installation behind the adjacent White Sands Missile Range with an area of about 1700 square miles. In the mid 1990's there were more than 1600 households and more than 8000 people living at Fort Bliss. Indeed, it is remarkable to consider that two people living in Riverview, Florida, knowing each other for more than four years and attending the same church, even more specifically the same small Sunday school class, lived in the exact same house twenty years apart. I think it's rather amazing!!! Considering that the number of homes in the United States is approximately 114,836,422 and I think you would have to agree.

I think Dave and I need to start hanging out more!!! Oh, and the fellow that rarely cracks a smile had a big grin on his face last night as our classmates kidded us about the "coincidence." :)

Speaking of hanging out, we had a great time socializing with good friends on Saturday night. We are very fortunate in our neighborhood to have so many wonderful friends. One of the topics we have been discussing in our current bible study is the extinction of "front porches." Back before tv and the Internet and social networking sites were around, people sat out on their front porches and talked to their neighbors. These days most of us don't even know our neighbors. Facebook and like sites have tranditioned into the new front porch.  While I myself love Facebook and the opportunity it gives me to reconnect with old friends, make new friends with common interests, and stay in touch with those that live far away, I do recognize that, in many ways, it has become the primary way many people communicate. Social networking sites, along with texting and cell phones, enable people to communicate anywhere, anytime.  Face to face communications are becoming a thing of the past. Additionally, through these sites it becomes very easy to avoid those people we no longer want to associate with simply by "defriending" them.  I find that many people don't even attempt to work out their differences anymore; they just stop being friends. They de-friend. I'm all about befriending, not de-friending.  Let's bring back the traditional front porch of yesteryear and start socializing again in other ways than the Internet.  I feel fortunate that, in our neighborhood at least, most of us know each other and get together several times a month to socialize...as Wendy and I were doing Saturday night. :)

That's my new motto...Befriend, don't defriend! :)
'Til next time...
Lynn

P.S. Today is an anniversary for me, of sorts. Eight years ago today I had a stroke due to an undiagnosed blood disorder. Ask your doctor to test for Protein S Disorder. Prevention can save your life! I'm happy and healthy today due to being young enough at the time of my stroke to heal, a proper diagnosis, and medication!

Hello October...

2010-10-02T17:50:00.001-04:00

I love October! I love autumn!!! It is by far my very favorite season. I have so many memories intermingled with this time of year. They're not all happy memories; plenty of sad and stressful moments have occurred during the autumn months, but it's not just the wonderful moments that make us who we are, but a mixture of the joyous, the sad, the cross, the bittersweet.

I have one particular memory, and I'm not sure why I recall it so fondly, as it's not particularly a merry memory. I must have been about 3rd grade and we were living in El Paso, Texas where I attended Fort Bliss Elementary School. I remember this day...it was windy and there was a chill to the air. In the late afternoon a cold rain began to fall over the school yard and the thunder rumbled through the sky. It must have been mid to late October and we were approaching Halloween. I remember standing on risers in the choir room and singing "Hang down your head, Tom Dooley. Hang down your head and cry. Hang down your head, Tom Dooley. Today's the day you're gonna die." What a morbid song, but I sang it with all the gusto my skinny little self could muster, emphasizing the "die" with over enunciation, like "diiiiii-eeeee."

I believe we were rehearsing the Tom Dooley song for the autumn fall festival show, and those depressing lyrics together with the weather and the approach of Halloween just made for a dark, spooky kind of day, but in my memory it is also cozy and warm and I, along with my classmates, sang in the choir room and looked out the windows at the drizzling rain, pondering trick or treating a few days away, and knowing that soon enough I would be safe at home with the scent of pot roast or meatloaf wafting through the house as my mother busied herself with mealtime preparations and I sat at my little green and gold desk and worked on my homework. How funny that that particular memory is so pleasant in my mind. I can completely go back in my head to that day...see my little 8 or 9 year old self singing "Hang down your head" at the top of my lungs. I wasn't shy!

Nine years ago today we moved to Florida, making another October memory. My husband Chet and I, along with eleven year old Rachel, eight year old Sam, five year old Matthew, and two year old Michael left Minnesota and headed south for sunshine and new opportunities. I was so happy to be closer to all of my family who live in the Atlanta area, only a few hours drive from Tampa. It was a fresh start, a new life, and I was very happy in the moment. It's so hard to believe that nine years later my life is so very, very different. So much has happened in that nine year period and now I sometimes actually gasp (I really do!) to realize all that has changed. Florida turned out to have quite a few bumps in the road and I never would have imagined at the beginning of that journey that over the course of the next five years I would go through so much, the culmination being losing my husband to cancer. But happiness reigns. Seek and you shall find! Look for the positive! I could throw in a few more happy thoughts there but you get the picture. Now I have a new family and a new life, and this life is so much better than the old one, no disrespect intended. If you know me well, you know exactly what I mean. A friend once told me that it is as if God just plucked me out of one life and set me down in another, completely different except for the players. The shell is different, but the core is the same.

Last night Tom and I went out on a date night, which we try to do fairly often, but life with seven children is always throwing a curve ball so we never know if we'll actually be able to follow through with spending a few hours together ALONE. It all worked out last night, though, and we decided to go out to dinner and a movie. My sweet husband doesn't even mind going to chick flicks so we decided to see "You Again." Arriving at the theatre about twenty minutes before the feature began, we found our seats and settled in, Tom with a bag of popcorn that he quickly munched through, and me with my cell phone to check email and texts. Suddenly the date hit me. October 1st. My memories took me back to nine years prior, sitting in a hotel room after a long three day drive to Florida from Minnesota, waiting for the realtor to call to let us know that we were all set to close on our new home the next day. And then my mind's eye played videos for me...nine years of moments upon moments...and I paused the screen on one of Rachel and me together, sitting in that very theatre, she about 13 or 14 years old, watching a movie, sharing popcorn, laughing...and suddenly I was overcome with sadness. Times change, children grow up. It's good, it's natural, it's the way God intended, but somehow we moms hold on to those memories of little hands and runny noses and pre-teen angst and giggly little girls spending alone time with mom. As I sat there in the theatre becoming all teary eyed with my befuddled husband asking, "What in the world is the matter," I waved him off explaining, "you know, just memories," which he totally understood because he knows me better than I even know myself, and in my bittersweet mood, I texted Rachel, and she, taking after her mother in SO many ways, especially with emotions, texted me back.

The movie was funny and lifted my spirits and soon I left my reverie behind and focused on right now. I don't mind my trips down memory lane, but I'm happy when I return to the present. My here and now is so very wonderful that I don't like to visit the past too often for too long. I occasionally find myself melancholy over moments lost, which is why I make it a priority now to live each and every moment to the absolute fullest. :)

'Til next time...

Code Yellow!

2010-09-18T12:34:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was one of "those" days, apparent to everyone from the toll booth operator on the Tampa Crosstown who witnessed my frustration firsthand as I somehow got trapped in what I thought was the cash only lane and spent a good several minutes rifling through the bottom of my purse for pennies and nickels and dimes before the attendant noticed my fast track pass on my windshield and announced, "you know you can use that to get you through;" to the bagger at the grocery store who listened to my litany of "don't touch that display, Michael. Get off the cart, Michael. Now Michael. I said NOW, Michael;" to the poor customer service girl at Target who had to call a "Code Yellow" on my missing eleven year old. At home later, my groceries strewn all over the kitchen, I nursed a headache before finally gathering the energy to put everything away.

The morning started ordinarily enough, with only one child forgetting a school lunch (unlike two the day before) and no one missing the school bus (unlike three the day before). Michael, though, coughed and hacked and pretended to be dying of a sore throat, but I had set in stone plans to do some much needed grocery shopping (I had sent the kids to school the day before with peanut butter and jelly on hot dog buns, if that gives you an idea) and finally, after listening to his pitiful cough, I told him that he could miss school, but he'd have to tag along running errands.

The trip to the commissary at Mac Dill was fairly uneventful, except for Michael climbing all over the bagger's cart at the end of the expedition, and the only things I gave in to were Little Debbie Zebra Cakes and Gogurts. I had brought a cooler with me because I knew I needed to make a couple more stops on the way home and wanted to keep the cold things cold while they sat in the car.

Leaving Mac Dill, we headed back for our side of town and stopped first at Kirkland's where lo and behold, I didn't buy a thing!!! Even though they had some of their Christmas items out. CUTE Christmas items!!! In case you're not getting it, this is really impressive that I didn't buy anything.

Next stop was Target to pick up a couple of grocery items there. Just as we were headed to the cash registers to check out, Michael spotted a pirate Lego set that he decided he had to have.

"No," I said firmly, "I'm not buying that today."

"But you bought Lego's for Matthew!"

"I bought Matthew a set because he was in the hospital. I'm not buying you Lego's today."

I could see by the look of determination in his eyes that he was deciding how he was going to handle my refusal.
The morning medication was wearing off and it could go either way.

"Hey, come on and I'll buy you a Starbucks," I announced, in an attempt at bribery.

Michael just stood there and stared at me.

I could read everything going through that little head of his...

***If I throw a fit, she might give in just to get me out of the store. She's tired, it's been a long morning, she'll realize it's the easy way out to just get me what I want.***

I stared back. Meanwhile the man ahead of me in line finished paying for his purchases and was gathering up his bags. The cashier looked at me impatiently as I unloaded my items on the belt while still talking to Michael.

"Come on Michael," I said, "come help me empty the cart and we'll go get a Starbucks."

Suddenly a "NOOOOOOO...I want this and you are going to buy it for me."

It is times like this that I wish I could tattoo "special needs child" on his forehead. Although he's 11 years old, thankfully he looks more like six, but even six year olds are expected to behave. When Matthew and Michael were younger it was easy to imagine that strangers just thought that they were typical toddlers having a meltdown during moments such as these, but as they have gotten older, although the tantrums are not nearly as often, when they do occur, it is unsettling to imagine what people must be thinking. An adocate for my children's special needs, I have no problem whatsoever informing people that they are autistic, but still, it is awkward and uncomfortable at times. Autism and ADHD children typically don't "look" like special needs children, so all everyone else sees is a child behaving rather defiantly.

The woman behind me in line yesterday, holding tight to her baby, glanced at me and shook her head slightly, as if indicating her child will never give her any such problems. Oh just wait lady, just wait. I used to think that way too! Even non special needs kids have tantrums and you have your share coming. Trust me! I slipped past her and said loud enough for those around her to also hear, "he's a special needs child," and kind of hoped she felt guilty.

But as I neared Michael, he took off in the other direction through the store, the Lego set tucked securely under his arm as he ran off at top speed. The cashier was finishing up ringing up my groceries and asked, "do I need to call someone?" "No," I responded. I can find him. Don't worry." I grabbed my cart, now loaded with bagged and purchased items, and headed back into the aisles searching for Michael. Soon I saw him standing by the toy aisle, still clutching the set of Lego's.

"I've already paid, Michael, it's time to leave."

"I'm taking this with me," he announced stubbornly.

"That would be stealing. You have to put it back."

I could see I had his attention so I continued, "once you step past the cash register with merchandise you haven't paid for, you can get into trouble," I exaggerated. I mean, no need to tell him that he has to actually exit the store with the item. Michael stared at me defiantly and took a giant step toward the area I had just designated as off limits.

"Michael, you are really trying me," I said, trying very hard to maintain my cool.

"NOOOOOO!!!" and he took off again. With growing impatience my thoughts drifted to all the groceries thawing in my car and in the cart that I pushed along. I decided that perhaps if I went ahead and purchased Starbucks, I might be able to bribe Michael out of continuing to run, so I bought two tall vanilla bean frappachinos and once again began pushing my shopping cart around the store, occasionally taking sips from my drink and holding Michael's drink precariously in the other hand as I steered the shopping cart with my wrists.

Michael was not to be found, and while I wasn't worried that he had been kidnapped or left the store on his own accord, I did realize that I needed to alert the customer service desk so they would know to be on the look out for a parentless boy wandering the store. So I approached guest relations and very calmly explained that I had an eleven year old special needs child who was angry that I wouldn't buy him a toy and was hiding in the store. I asked the associate, Lorraine, to please page Michael over the PA system and ask him to meet me by Starbucks. "It's not an emergency," I explained, "he's safe; he's just angry and running."
But Lorraine immediately went into a wild frenzy.

"Code Yellow, Code Yellow," she practically shouted into her walkie talkie. "Missing eleven year old boy." She turned to me, "Mom, what is Michael wearing?"

Oh crap! Seriously!!! This is WAY out of hand. What WAS Michael wearing anyhow??? My mind raced..."Umm, he's wearing an orange shirt, no, no...a pink shirt...khaki pants...and gray and white tennis shoes," I answered, all the while trying to tell her that there is no way he left the store, he's just playing a game, he's hiding, he's angry, but not wanting to look like the worst mom in the world I plastered a "concerned" look on my face.

Of course I am thankful that they have this system in place for children who truly are missing, but I knew very well that Michael had not been abducted by some stranger. We were not looking at a kidnapping. I know my child extremely well and he would not leave the store, he just wanted to hide from me in an attempt to get what he wanted in the end. Again I asked Lorriane to just announce over the intercom, "Michael, please meet your mom by Starbucks." But no, the entire store was on alert. This is NOT the way I wanted it to go. Lorraine might as well have busted out of her little red Target shirt and khakis and turned into Superwoman. She was on fire.

"We'll find him, mom. Don't you worry!"

"Trust me, I'm NOT worried. I know he's in here," I thought.

Again, let me stress that I AM thankful for this operation they have going, but goodness gracious, it was a little overboard in our circumstance, particularly since I explained several times that Michael was most definitely in the store, just hiding because he was angry that I wouldn't buy the Lego's. And I know Michael. And I know that the minute he heard his name announced and realized people were looking for him, he'd find an even better hiding spot. That worried me the most.

As Target employees, their walkie talkies buzzing as they shared the news of a missing little boy, searched the store, I stood next to Starbucks, holding the two frappachinos, now dripping with condensation, and hoped against hope that no one I knew was in the store. Five minutes went by, then six (I know because Lorraine kept a detailed tally of how much time was passing), and suddenly Michael appeared before me. No, no one found him, no one was around him, he just decided to come out of wherever he had been hiding, still holding the Lego set.

"Are you gonna buy this for me," he asked, prominently holding out the Lego set.

"Nope," I answered.

"Okay, I hafta put it back."

"Okay, you do that."

And off Michael walked to return the Lego's to the display a couple of aisles over. Drama over!!!

Lorraine just stared at me. Yeah, it was one of those days!

Blogging from the "hopsibal"...

2010-09-13T21:22:00.003-04:00

Even having the most amazing husband in the world (and I really do), it's sometimes kind of mind boggling how much we moms have to do to stay on top of life and make sure everything runs smoothly in our absence. Matthew and I have been in the "hopsibal" (Matthew speak) since this morning, and we won't be discharged until tomorrow midday because he is having a 24 hour EEG to determine the severity of his latest seizure activity. Before I left the house this morning I cleaned, prepared school lunches for the two days I would not be at home, left detailed instructions on how to do everything from run the dishwasher to retrieve voicemail messages off the home telephone, and even so, I have been on the phone with my family no less than five times answering questions and offering reminders. I suppose that had I not done any of the above, I would have arrived home tomorrow to a house still standing, maybe just a little more untidy, but the world would not have come to an end, so maybe it's an ego stroke for myself to think they need me as much as I think they do. That being said, I can't imagine where I would be without the fabulous hubby bringing meals to me and Matthew, and just coming over after work to sit with us and relieve some of our boredom.

(Pretty cool pirate themed hospital room)

Hospitals and medical appointments have kind of been getting to me as of late and a week or so ago I stood before my bathroom mirror attempting to apply eyeshadow to sleep deprived, puffy eyelids and asked God what in the world He was thinking when He set forth in action my life as I know it today. "Really, God, is this your idea of a practical joke? A science experiment gone terribly awry?" Will I come face to face with you eventually to be met with fits of laughter over the hilarity of the joke...or might I enter the kingdom of heaven to be greeted by a Rod Roddy God who will announce that I have won "fabulous prizes" for playing the game, making the deal...

There are days, like the one recently, where Michael's medicine just wasn't quite kicking in as fast as I would have liked and he was being extremely difficult, resistant, defiant, and Matthew was in an unresponsive, nonverbal mood and even my so called non special needs children were trying my patience to the nth degree. Add to that the washing machine signaling me that it was time to move the laundry around, and the dog whining downstairs that she needed to go outside, and in the distance I heard the garbage truck and realized I had not yet set out the week's worth of trash for collection...and I stood there, eyeshadow brush in hand, thinking, "okay God, want to give me a clue as to why this craziness belongs to me?" I mean, He must have had a purpose in this, and yet for the life of me I haven't figured it out yet. I am fully aware that there are many women who would have made better moms to my children, better wives to my husband, heck, even better dog owners to my dog. And yet He chose me??? And truly, what in the world was He thinking when He brought Tom and me together? Seven kids...come on??? Insanity! (Side note: Tom is the BEST thing that ever happened to me and I'm certainly grateful God DID bring us together).

But I do know with all my heart that God IS in control...and in those times of confusion and chaos I remind myself of Jeremiah 29:11..."For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Lately I've been reciting that one a lot!!

I admit to spending a pretty good amount of time in conversation with God. I use that word...conversation...because I do believe that I'm in a two-way relationship with God. I've met some who suggest that it is not practical to believe in something that you can't see, feel, hear...and there may have been a time in my life where I, on some level, was skeptical, but my relationship with God has flourished as an adult and I can and do completely feel His presence in my life.

Call me naive (yeah, sometimes I am!)...call me a ditz (I freely admit it)...but until I heard my husband say it yesterday, I had never before encountered the expression, "There are no atheists in foxholes." Granted, I certainly knew that people who claim to be non-believers very often call out to God in times of crisis, but still, that expression was completely new to me.

Most of my conversations with God take place in either the car as I'm driving, or in the bathtub (too much information, haha). Yesterday our church began a congregation wide study called "Talking In The Dark: Praying When Life Doesn't Make Sense," and I have really been looking forward to the messages from our pastors and our small group discussions.

Now in an attempt to pull all this together (and you'll have to pardon my exhaustion and the fact that I'm probably not making too much sense in tonight's blog): yesterday, following the bible study and still feeling pretty warm and fuzzy having spent time with our class and listening to different viewpoints, I was once again reminded of the need to keep prayer as a priority in my life. Sam, Thomas, and Emily had been away for the weekend with the church youth group in Orlando for Night of Joy. Thomas, returning home from the getaway, opened the door and greeted us with the worst case of pink eye I have ever seen. Ever seen that movie "Shallow Hal?" Where Hal, in an attempt to get out of a date, slathers globs of Vaseline on his eye and claims it's conjunctivitis. That was NOTHING compared to Thomas' eye yesterday. Nothing! So Tom took Thomas to Urgent Care where he got a shot in the behind of massive antibiotics and two prescriptions of oral antibiotics. And then Sam, you remember Sam...the one who is spending half his time in cardiology offices lately in an attempt to get some answers about the heart valve "regurgitation"...well, somehow he convinces me to allow him to use my car to go to the mall, where it was involved in a lovely little accident...and we get that dreaded phone call as we're driving home from bible study...the one that begins with, "mom, I'm okay but..."
Second accident in six months. I don't even want to think about our insurance right now. And we arrive home to find my bashed in car but I there's no time to dwell on that because I have to make about a zillion peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and pack overnight bags for Matthew and me, and sign homework papers, and...well..you get the picture.

Keep praying, right!!! :)

So here we sit tonight in the "hopsibal," as Matthew says, and I'm antsy because I miss home, and even though there are days where I wish I had unlimited time to just sit around on the computer, and just such a day has presented itself to me today what with just sitting here and all, I still would give anything to be back in the midst of the insanity of home. :)

P.S. Just an update on my "do something new every day"...

I've certainly been keeping busy...

I have spent a day doing CRAZY things with my daughter (will have to share the photos another time).

I have taught myself how to hula hoop again (haven't done it since I was a child).

I took flowers to nursing home residents.

I took Cinnabon to a nursing home resident I had not seen in a long time.

I have told a dirty joke. (Yes, me!)

I have tried a several new recipes.

I began a special memories book for my children.

I hugged a stranger.

I payed a toll on the crosstown for the person behind me.

Tuesdays with Lee...(and day 3 of 365)

2010-08-31T20:36:00.001-04:00

A while back my friend Lee and I began the tradition of having lunch together every Tuesday, but you know how it is with moms (or perhaps I should just say you know how it is with ME), half the time I'd end up having to cancel lunch because one of the children was sick, or I had a parent/teacher conference (sometimes with me playing the part of parent, and other times the role of teacher), or I'd not be able to get off work, or a million other things. And whenever we're not able to have our lunch dates, I find myself becoming blue, because trust me, Lee is the kind of guy that just lifts your spirits and puts you in a much happier frame of mind.

The background info is that I met Lee when we moved into our neighborhood a couple of years ago. He and his partner Kendall were also moving in. We were a brand new community and that fact offered a lot of benefits in that we were all new at the same time, in the same position of reaching out and meeting people, attempting to make new friends and forge relationships. The minute I met Lee I knew we were going to be great friends but it took some time to really get into the groove of our relationship. I had met them several months prior, but it was December of 2008 that we really got to know each other. Another neighbor was hosting a Christmas party and Tom and I were late arriving due to multiple parties scheduled for the same night. The party that we left early in order to attend our neighbor's was an office party for Tom and it was a rather fuddy duddy event where in order to bear the "office talk," I consumed several glasses of wine and was definitely "feeling it" by the time we made our escape. To top it off, on the drive back to our neighborhood we received word from one of the teenagers at home that another of our teenagers had sneaked out of the house during our absence. So by the time we made it to the second party, I was desperately in need of more wine, and find it I did.

Now lest you think me a bit of a lush, I should make it clear that I don't often get myself into such predicaments but on this particular winter's night, I did, and apparently as we walked home from the holiday party, Lee, Kendall, Tom, and I, I found it necessary to announce that my shadow was the biggest of all. Not exactly something I would proclaim in my more sober moments. But that did it! From that moment on a bond formed amongst the four of us and now we consider each other family. From dinner dates to Bunco nights to planning parties to Tuesday lunches, we spend a lot of time together. If I need someone to pick up my mail because I'm out of town, I call Lee and Kendall, or if I need assistance with a prescription medication, I call on them (Kendall is a pharmacist). They have babysat the pets, attended family birthday parties, established a relationship with my mom, and truly become extended members of the family. And a couple of weeks ago when Matthew had a seizure and we spent the day in the hospital, it was Lee and Kendall checking in, bringing over Kendall's famous oatmeal raisin cookies, and lending support. We have the kind of friendship where it's perfectly acceptable for Lee to say, "hey Lynn, can you come over a couple of hours before the party and help me clean," although when he says it it comes out more like, "hey, Lynn, can you come over a couple of hours before the party and dust the top of the thermostat." (Inside joke!) You just know that when you get to that point in a relationship, you're good friends...the kind of friends that can see you at your worst but still love the life out of you.

So today, day number three of my 365 List, I decided that I wanted to let Lee know just how much I cherish our friendship. I am of the belief that you should say what you feel, and that there shouldn't be unspoken love. Today during our Tuesday lunch I pulled a letter out of my purse that I had written Lee, simple and to the point, but just letting him know how much he means to me. Of course I have written letters before, also letters to people that I love, but the "new" or the first in this is that I had never before done it for Lee. And I think he even very nearly cried a little! :) In this new little life experiement of trying something new every day, I want it to be memorable; I want it to mean something, and I want to make a difference in others' lives. Telling those that we love and appreciate how we feel is important, necessary, and fulfilling.

And, on a simpler note, I did something else new today too. One of the places that Lee and I often frequent for lunch is a little Thai place down the street from our neighborhood. Having similar tastes, Lee and I usually order the same thing...the Panang Curry Chicken. Well, I decided today to deviate from that plan a bit, but it's a small place with an even smaller menu, although all the food is wonderful, and so today I chose the Green Curry Chicken. It was pretty darn good. You have to understand, though, that when I find something that I really like at a restaurant, I order the heck out of it. I'm so afraid to try anything new and end up with regrets that every time I visit the restaurant I'll order the same thing, so this new found willingness to stir things up a bit and try something new is pretty cool...and I'm glad I did it.

But my favorite piece of new for the day was sharing my thoughts with Lee. I'm very blessed to have him in my life and I'm glad he knows it! :) Now go tell someone how you feel!!!

That's the spirit...

2010-08-30T20:51:00.002-04:00

I can already tell that I'm going to have to get somewhat innovative with my "try something new every day for 365 days" venture. I'm enthusiastic about this, and it certainly gets my creative juices flowing, but brainstorming ideas amidst cooking and cleaning and packing school lunches and doctor appointments and track meets and date night and...well, you get the picture...it's perhaps not going to be as easy as it looks. I have no intention of not following through, though, because once I set my mind to an idea, I'm committed to it.

So here we are on day two of my little life experiment and I was thinking of all the tremendous things I want to try...horseback riding on the beach, an overnight trip to New York City, hang gliding, hot air ballooning...and suddenly I realized that quite a few of my desires will require a bit of foresight and planning. Can't exactly rush the kids out the door and off to school, head out for a day of deep sea diving, and be back home all June Cleaver-esque, pot roast in the oven, and ironing the sheets by the time the kids walk through the door at the end of the day. No, I'll have to make some plans.

That being said, we're starting off slow and easy...but still I'm giddy with excitement. Today's first is quite simple really. If you've ever watched the show "Frasier," you probably know that Dr. Crane and his brother Niles often discuss the merits of sherry. Hmmmm...sherry! I decided that I needed to partake in the imbibing of such. So, in an attempt at appearing like I knew what I was doing, I walked into the local liquor store and casually glanced around, hoping that a huge neon sign would direct me to the sherry aisle. No such luck! Perhaps it would have served me well to have googled sherry before I set out on my errand, at least then I would have known something about it and where I might find it, but no, as long as I'm playing firsties I might as well look like a fool too.

"Excuse me," I said to the man behind the register, who was all of 25 years old and more enticed by his "Rolling Stone" magazine than assisting me, "can you tell me where I might find the sherry?"

"Wine aisle," he mumbled, barely glancing up at me and shooing me off with a backhanded wave in the direction of the wines.

"Ahem," I cleared my throat and waited until once again he glanced over his tabloid. "I hate to bother you but I've never purchased sherry before and I'm not sure what to really look for."

"Sherry is sherry," he retorted, clearly uninterested. "You'll find it by the red wines. We only carry four or five bottles back there."

Clearly he was very mistaken. Judging by the disparity in prices, and the number of bottles, sherry is quite clearly not sherry. The least expensive bottle was $7.99 and the priciest was $86.99. The poor saps marketing that cheap stuff are clearly not getting their money's worth if, according to the counter clerk, "sherry is sherry." Either that or the expensive stuff is way overpriced.

Beside that, do you have any idea how many kinds of sherry there are? Dark sherry, light sherry, dinner sherry, cream sherry, dessert sherry...

I decided on a rich, full bodied, cream sherry in the lower price range. I figured I'd go cheaper ($14.99) and if I liked it, I could always go more expensive next time. But if I purchased the $86.99 bottle and gagged on it, I would still feel compelled to finish the bottle based on how much I had spent on it.

And gag on it I did! Literally! I can say with complete sincerity that I will never be a sherry connoisseur. It looks like amber orange, and tastes like liquid raisins. Tom called it "fruitcake in a glass." Just nasty! Probably it is an acquired taste, and while I'm generally very accepting of acquired tastes (I love blue cheese, anchovies, olives, etc), this is one that I don't really wish to try again. I guess I'll use the rest of the bottle for the occasional use in a recipe.

Still, we had fun while sherry tasting, and we spoke with British accents and put on our best "snooty" faces. Hey, if you've just wasted $15 bucks on something you really dislike, you might as

well get your money's worth by having some fun with it. :)

Our "snooty" impersonation...

So day number two might not have been a blasting success, but I never have to wonder again if I like sherry or not. Clearly, I do not!

Funnily enough, as we were re-corking the bottle Tom proclaimed,

"this is kind of growing on me."

Hmmmm...can I start calling him Frasier? :)

Celebrations...

2010-08-29T22:26:00.002-04:00

Like any story the past needs resolution, and my past is certainly an elaborate and involved story. Not wanting to bore you with the details, I'll just say that two years ago, on my 44th birthday (yes, I am admitting my age!!!), I chose to begin a path of resolution. I decided to begin a tradition of confronting a fear; and/or overcoming an obstacle; and/or trying something new...never attempted before (by me) on each birthday. It all began when I was asked to speak at a ladies event on the subject of overcoming challenges. At the time I thought..."me...what do I have that I can possibly speak about?" Yes, I have been faced with challenges, we all have, and in my situation I have never really found any other decision but to just deal. I have two autistic children...I deal, my husband is diagnosed with cancer and dies a few weeks later...I deal, I'm faced with health issues myself...I deal, and on and on and on. What choice do I have? I'm not trying to pat myself on the back. Far from it, actually. I'm not alone in this walk. Many, many others face challenges far greater than mine, and I am constantly awed. Facing my own individual challenges has made me the person I am today, and I truly would not change a thing. I have always thought it was my nature to pick up the pieces and keep on going when faced with adversity...that's just how it's done.

That being said, I began to realize that in some ways, I kind of tiptoed around the fears or challenges that I actually could do something about. When faced with an obstacle that I had some choice in...that a decision could be made in...that I had some say so in the outcome...well, let's just say I was really good at sticking my head in the sand and pretending it didn't exist, or sugarcoating it, or just plain denying that there was a problem at all. So, after several days of reflection about how to work my speech, it came to me...first of all, I wanted to leave my audience with a feeling of impowerment, a positive, energetic, "I can do anything I set my mind to" aftertaste. And then I realized that in order to speak with any real knowledge or clarity on the subject of overcoming anything, I needed to truly confront at least one of my own fears...

Many people that know me very well know that I am terrified of flying on airplanes. Having lived in Europe for several years, plus all over the United States, I have flown many, many times...but each time is a fear- filled-white-knuckled-pester-the-flight-attendant-until-she-is-ready-to-inflate-the-emergency-chute-in-flight-to-escape-from-me-experience. Pilots dread having passengers like me on planes, and the flight attendants probably trade favors to get out of having to assist me. Do you get the idea? So what does a person terrified of airplanes do to overcome her fear of flying? I considered taking flying lessons, but decided I wasn't really up for that, so for my 44th birthday I got the wild idea to go skydiving. Once I came up with the idea I told everyone (my friends, my relatives, total strangers) about it so that there would be no possibility of me backing out without serious reprisal (chicken! CHICKEN!!!). Then I began hoping and praying for a hurricane, a tornado, anything at all to get me out of this commitment; no such luck, though, my birthday morning dawned bright and beautiful and I was stuck!

If you want to know the outcome, you have to watch the video...

Then came last year, birthday number 45, and I chose to conquer another fear...roller coasters. Not as daunting as skydiving, perhaps, but still stomach churning, sweaty palm inducing, hyperventilating time...for me, at least. Ever since Sheikra opened at Busch Gardens my kids have been begging me to try it out. A floorless roller coaster with a two hundred foot, 90 degree vertical drop into an inverted loop made me loudly proclaim that they would NEVER find me on that ride. Ahhhh, never say never...I ended up riding it for my birthday last year (front row too!) and overcoming another fear. I've been on it several times since too.

That brings us to today...birthday number 46. Ugh...they just creep up faster and faster, don't they? This year, though, rather than overcoming an obstacle or facing a fear, I decided to just try something new...nothing scary, nothing intimidating...I just wanted to enjoy an experience I had never had before. And along with that, I have decided that beginning today, and every single day for the next 365 days, I am going to do something I have never done before. It might be something as simple as dancing a jig on the kitchen chair (yes, I'm serious and Tom is holding me to this!), or something like hot air ballooning (the thought scares me half to death), but I have made a promise to myself to follow through...and I will. If you're a regular reader, you'll certainly be able to keep up with my experiences.

Anyway, this morning, on my 46th, I decided that a champagne breakfast on the beach at daybreak was to top the list at number 1. And to tell you the truth, I might have overcome an obstacle there too...do you have any idea how difficult it is to get up at 5am on a weekend? On your birthday nonetheless! But there we were at the beach, the one where we were married on MacDill Air Force Base, before dawn and we celebrated the birth of the morning with mimosas.

Last minute planning left us with few choices. Tom's brother David and his wife Claudia had sent me an amazing gift basket with wine, cheese, and crackers and we grabbed the basket with the cheese and crackers but not the wine, knowing that more than half of whatever we took would be thrown out so that we would be safe to drive home. We grabbed a cheap bottle of champagne, and stopped at a convenience store for orange juice. I had packed a container of frozen grapes (that didn't thaw well), and champagne flutes that I was digging through the china cabinet at 5 am in an attempt to find. As we were leaving the house Tom grabbed an old moving pad to use as a blanket on the beach...

Mmmmmmm...mimosas...

Signs along the beach warned that glass containers or alcoholic beverages were not allowed on the beach. Oooohhhh...we broke rules! :)

Dawn slowly began to break...

Seascapes, where Tom and I were married, still covered in the deep blue of early morning...

The seagulls soon realized that we had enough breakfast to share...

It was an amazing morning with the man I love! And the day didn't go downhill from there. We spent the rest of the day doing fun things like driving around downtown Tampa and exploring sites we had never seen before. We visited with our neighbor who just four days ago gave birth to a new baby boy. Holding that little fella was incredible! And we enjoyed sloppy hamburgers for dinner at Mimi's Cafe.

Upon arriving home I was greeted with birthday cards from the children and a poem from Emily on my bedroom door. And I received lots of hugs and kisses and greetings from all the children. Have I mentioned how much I adore my kids???

We opened the bottle of wine from David and Claudia and it was amazing!!!

Thank you to my amazing brother and sister-in-law!

And while enjoying our wine, my incredible friend Wendy stopped by with a gift...this birthday wine glass. Talk about perfect timing! I absolutely love it and I love her too! Thank you Wendy!!!

And we finished off the birthday celebrations with a round of Banana Grams! :)

Followed by making school lunches, signing papers that need to be returned to school tomorrow, pulling out school clothes, packing back packs, loading the dishwasher, throwing a load in the washing machine, wiping down the counters...need I go on? But seriously, all the stuff that I really do love because if I didn't have the mundane, I certainly wouldn't know to appreciate the spectacular...and today has been spectacular.

Thanks to everyone for making my birthday so special!

Good Night...I'm off to think about what I'm going to do tomorrow that I've never done before...