My Caretaker

As we age, eventually we stop being the caretakers, and our children take care of us. My friend used to call her children her "grocery carriers", because according to her, when she got old they had to bring her groceries.

Yesterday I went to get progressive lenses fit into my awesome nerdy Wayfarer glasses. I love them because they are green and blue and geeky, and while I don't love the progressives - it was time. Last time I got glasses I was on the cusp, this time I was full on in the valley of being in need.

It took 90 minutes for them to fit the lenses into my existing frames, so my family and I dropped off my frames and we went putzing around the mall. This immediately seemed like a bad idea, as I realized how very BLIND I am. I don't go anywhere but the bathroom at 3am without my glasses anymore.  I felt like an enfeebled old woman, holding on to my 10 year old's hand, whispering "Don't let go of me" as he walked me through the mall.

We stopped at the book store and went into Starbucks for a much needed coffee, my caffeine deficit was playing hell with me too, and as we sat at a table waiting on my husband to get our coffees, Julia looks at me and exclaims "MOMMY! WHERE ARE YOUR GLASSES???"

I leaned over and whispered, "Shhhh, they are fixing my glasses they are at the shop. Hush." The Starbucks patrons were giving us the eye. Or, I thought they were. I couldn't actually see that they were.

She wasn't to be thwarted, "DADDY! DADDY! MOMMY DOESN'T HAVE HER GLASSES!! DAAAADDDYYYYY!" she called across the coffee shop.

I leaned closer and hissed "Hush sweetie, shhhhhhh, it's ok...."

at which point she turned around, put her hand on her arm and said, "Shhh, Mommy it's ok. I've got this."


I guess she's already my caretaker, at age two.


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My Caretaker

As we age, eventually we stop being the caretakers, and our children take care of us. My friend used to call her children her "grocery carriers", because according to her, when she got old they had to bring her groceries.

Yesterday I went to get progressive lenses fit into my awesome nerdy Wayfarer glasses. I love them because they are green and blue and geeky, and while I don't love the progressives - it was time. Last time I got glasses I was on the cusp, this time I was full on in the valley of being in need.

It took 90 minutes for them to fit the lenses into my existing frames, so my family and I dropped off my frames and we went putzing around the mall. This immediately seemed like a bad idea, as I realized how very BLIND I am. I don't go anywhere but the bathroom at 3am without my glasses anymore.  I felt like an enfeebled old woman, holding on to my 10 year old's hand, whispering "Don't let go of me" as he walked me through the mall.

We stopped at the book store and went into Starbucks for a much needed coffee, my caffeine deficit was playing hell with me too, and as we sat at a table waiting on my husband to get our coffees, Julia looks at me and exclaims "MOMMY! WHERE ARE YOUR GLASSES???"

I leaned over and whispered, "Shhhh, they are fixing my glasses they are at the shop. Hush." The Starbucks patrons were giving us the eye. Or, I thought they were. I couldn't actually see that they were.

She wasn't to be thwarted, "DADDY! DADDY! MOMMY DOESN'T HAVE HER GLASSES!! DAAAADDDYYYYY!" she called across the coffee shop.

I leaned closer and hissed "Hush sweetie, shhhhhhh, it's ok...."

at which point she turned around, put her hand on her arm and said, "Shhh, Mommy it's ok. I've got this."


I guess she's already my caretaker, at age two.


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Hail Ya'll

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Hail Ya'll

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Define Typical

I've decided that learning how to make lots of kinds of bread is my new thing. Processed bread is just so...PROCESSED. It's normal to most of us, but when you start learning how to bake your own bread, the first thing you realize is that what you consider to be "typical" white bread, isn't typical at all. In fact, after having made a few loaves now, I'd like to throw out there that I'm not sure that any of us have any idea WHAT bread is supposed to be. We've lost the knowledge of what was once the norm.

Today I decided to learn to make English Muffin Bread. I recently picked up that Holy Grail of cookbooks at a consignment sale, the Betty Crocker Cookbook. I got the big one, not the version for girls who don't cook like I've used for 20 years.

The first thing I realized paging through the well worn BREADS section was this, there are about 1000 kinds of bread and bread products and none of them are a bit like your store bought white bread. They take work, they are hard and involve patience, and work. You have to pay attention to what is happening.

The girl and I made two loaves of English Muffin bread this morning, me doing the measuring and she doing the mixing. While the bread rose, I ran upstairs and took a quick shower, shaved my legs and hurried back downstairs. When I came back downstairs, I was overwhelmed with the undeniable fact that one or both of the twins needed a diaper. It was no joke and emergency status. 

A quick diaper change and and endless handscrubbing later it was time to bake the bread.

At that point a fight broke out in the living room, involving hair pulling and scratching. 

This is a normal Sunday. It's typical in my world. It's probably not typical in yours. It's unlikely that you have 8 year olds in diapers, or one who caterwalls like a desperate cat in heat for hours at a time. You don't have to juggle the 24/7 care of them with the balance of a two year old who is trying desperately to push her way out of the nest.

Life can be hard, take work and patience. But I think making bread has helped remind me that things worth having, ARE.

I feel more and more that there is no typical. Just variations of reality that are more or less in line with the mainstream. My typical kids are typical unto themselves, as are my special little guys. That's probably all that actually matters.

And they loved the bread. Which is obviously most important.

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Define Typical

I've decided that learning how to make lots of kinds of bread is my new thing. Processed bread is just so...PROCESSED. It's normal to most of us, but when you start learning how to bake your own bread, the first thing you realize is that what you consider to be "typical" white bread, isn't typical at all. In fact, after having made a few loaves now, I'd like to throw out there that I'm not sure that any of us have any idea WHAT bread is supposed to be. We've lost the knowledge of what was once the norm.

Today I decided to learn to make English Muffin Bread. I recently picked up that Holy Grail of cookbooks at a consignment sale, the Betty Crocker Cookbook. I got the big one, not the version for girls who don't cook like I've used for 20 years.

The first thing I realized paging through the well worn BREADS section was this, there are about 1000 kinds of bread and bread products and none of them are a bit like your store bought white bread. They take work, they are hard and involve patience, and work. You have to pay attention to what is happening.

The girl and I made two loaves of English Muffin bread this morning, me doing the measuring and she doing the mixing. While the bread rose, I ran upstairs and took a quick shower, shaved my legs and hurried back downstairs. When I came back downstairs, I was overwhelmed with the undeniable fact that one or both of the twins needed a diaper. It was no joke and emergency status. 

A quick diaper change and and endless handscrubbing later it was time to bake the bread.

At that point a fight broke out in the living room, involving hair pulling and scratching. 

This is a normal Sunday. It's typical in my world. It's probably not typical in yours. It's unlikely that you have 8 year olds in diapers, or one who caterwalls like a desperate cat in heat for hours at a time. You don't have to juggle the 24/7 care of them with the balance of a two year old who is trying desperately to push her way out of the nest.

Life can be hard, take work and patience. But I think making bread has helped remind me that things worth having, ARE.

I feel more and more that there is no typical. Just variations of reality that are more or less in line with the mainstream. My typical kids are typical unto themselves, as are my special little guys. That's probably all that actually matters.

And they loved the bread. Which is obviously most important.

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Dear Officers - STOP DOING THIS

So everyone morning, me and the other brown blob cars go flying down the interstate toward Atlanta. At one particular exit ramp, usually sit a pair of police officers with radar, working together. Not really that unusual, and it's good to slow us all down and keep the treacherous Atlanta rush hour more reasonable and less Mad Max. Except for this one thing - the WAY in which they pull you over. You never know WHO they are going to pull over as we all roll past them, and how they handle it is -

one of them steps directly into traffic. Into ATLANTA RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC GOING FAST.

In all fairness, we've all slowed down a bit because hello COPS. But, more than once he's stepped directly in front of MY car in order to stop the person beside me. HI! WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO GO? Into the police cars? Into HIM? Into the guy beside me as punishment for speeding? I've actually had to EXIT because I couldn't brake fast enough, and just get back on the damn highway.

Police in the Atlanta metro. PLEASE STOP DOING THIS. I am so so SO afraid one of you will get hurt by some one NOT paying attention.

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Dear Officers - STOP DOING THIS

So everyone morning, me and the other brown blob cars go flying down the interstate toward Atlanta. At one particular exit ramp, usually sit a pair of police officers with radar, working together. Not really that unusual, and it's good to slow us all down and keep the treacherous Atlanta rush hour more reasonable and less Mad Max. Except for this one thing - the WAY in which they pull you over. You never know WHO they are going to pull over as we all roll past them, and how they handle it is -

one of them steps directly into traffic. Into ATLANTA RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC GOING FAST.

In all fairness, we've all slowed down a bit because hello COPS. But, more than once he's stepped directly in front of MY car in order to stop the person beside me. HI! WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO GO? Into the police cars? Into HIM? Into the guy beside me as punishment for speeding? I've actually had to EXIT because I couldn't brake fast enough, and just get back on the damn highway.

Police in the Atlanta metro. PLEASE STOP DOING THIS. I am so so SO afraid one of you will get hurt by some one NOT paying attention.

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So I Have This Thing On My Eye

Over the weekend, I had the uncanny feeling of an eyelash or some sort of soap + eye gunk thing going on in the corner of my eye. I wiped at it, and went to the mirror and tried to remove it. I figured it was one of the fabled "eye hockers" of my high school vernacular and it would come right out.

It wasn't.

It was attached to my eye. A little round weird thing. I was immediately sorry for trying to remove it. If it were on your face, or your arm, or butt, you'd squeeze the hell out of it and then dose it with some sort of drying chemical and probably antibiotic ointment.

This however. WHAT IS THIS? IT'S ON MY EYE OMG WHAT IS ON MY EYE?

It's bigger. You can't even see it unless I look over at my nose and then, only then is it actually visible. The rest of the time it's hiding in the corner under where the eyelids meet.

I am going to the eye doctor on Thursday, will get new glasses or at least new lenses cuz my glasses are awesome  and hopefully something not horrible can be done about my eye zit.

That's what I'm calling it unless someone comes up with a better name.
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So I Have This Thing On My Eye

Over the weekend, I had the uncanny feeling of an eyelash or some sort of soap + eye gunk thing going on in the corner of my eye. I wiped at it, and went to the mirror and tried to remove it. I figured it was one of the fabled "eye hockers" of my high school vernacular and it would come right out.

It wasn't.

It was attached to my eye. A little round weird thing. I was immediately sorry for trying to remove it. If it were on your face, or your arm, or butt, you'd squeeze the hell out of it and then dose it with some sort of drying chemical and probably antibiotic ointment.

This however. WHAT IS THIS? IT'S ON MY EYE OMG WHAT IS ON MY EYE?

It's bigger. You can't even see it unless I look over at my nose and then, only then is it actually visible. The rest of the time it's hiding in the corner under where the eyelids meet.

I am going to the eye doctor on Thursday, will get new glasses or at least new lenses cuz my glasses are awesome  and hopefully something not horrible can be done about my eye zit.

That's what I'm calling it unless someone comes up with a better name.
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Too Weird To Make Up

Every bath, Miles gets out last. He likes to watch the whirpool of water as it drains out the end of the life of the bath. He laughs and squeals every time.

Today, when there was still about two or more inches of water left in the tub, I noticed him swirling his hand in the water just over the drain, kicking up the whirlpool early - which I thought was kind of impressive. He swirled and swirled until a large whirlpool had grown.

He stood up.

And peed into it.

You can't make this stuff up.


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Too Weird To Make Up

Every bath, Miles gets out last. He likes to watch the whirpool of water as it drains out the end of the life of the bath. He laughs and squeals every time.

Today, when there was still about two or more inches of water left in the tub, I noticed him swirling his hand in the water just over the drain, kicking up the whirlpool early - which I thought was kind of impressive. He swirled and swirled until a large whirlpool had grown.

He stood up.

And peed into it.

You can't make this stuff up.


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What If You WEREN'T Being "Tested"

I've been mulling over these thoughts for several weeks after my good friend started talking to me about "disease literature". Mainly, the misconception that, it's ok if terrible things are happening in your life because you're being tested and honed and that makes everything ok, so you  just embrace that suffering. SUFFER. You'll end up better for it.

I've decided, I have a problem with this in a lot of different ways, but mainly because it bothers me that people would live out their lives unhappy holding to the idea that they are supposed to be. 

I say this without regard to anyone's religious beliefs but, I always loved the line from THE COLOR PURPLE when Miss Sophia tells Miss Celie "You oughta bash Mister's head open and think about heaven later."

The bigger message there, more than violence and the afterlife is this - quit living in suffering willingly.

On the day these pictures were taken, we were strolling through a beautiful Federalist garden in Atlanta, enjoying the sights and the peace of the amazing foliage.

The statuary was amazing and graceful, and I was really enjoying snapping pictures of our day, as my children ran and played  up and down the hedge rows.

It was shortly after we discovered the wonder of this solitary elephant, that the sky opened up. Rain and thunder came down on my family as we scurried and hurried back through the garden and down the paths to find shelter back in the main museum.

It rained on our day. It rained with extreme downpour, in fact. It wasn't a trial or a test. If I WERE a religious person, I wouldn't be able to carry big enough ego to presume I'd warrant such a test, or any other kind of test. As I'm not religious, I know this - sometimes it rains.

The trick is, you don't let the rain ruin your day. 

And you don't let your trials ruin your life.

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What If You WEREN'T Being "Tested"

I've been mulling over these thoughts for several weeks after my good friend started talking to me about "disease literature". Mainly, the misconception that, it's ok if terrible things are happening in your life because you're being tested and honed and that makes everything ok, so you  just embrace that suffering. SUFFER. You'll end up better for it.

I've decided, I have a problem with this in a lot of different ways, but mainly because it bothers me that people would live out their lives unhappy holding to the idea that they are supposed to be. 

I say this without regard to anyone's religious beliefs but, I always loved the line from THE COLOR PURPLE when Miss Sophia tells Miss Celie "You oughta bash Mister's head open and think about heaven later."

The bigger message there, more than violence and the afterlife is this - quit living in suffering willingly.

On the day these pictures were taken, we were strolling through a beautiful Federalist garden in Atlanta, enjoying the sights and the peace of the amazing foliage.

The statuary was amazing and graceful, and I was really enjoying snapping pictures of our day, as my children ran and played  up and down the hedge rows.

It was shortly after we discovered the wonder of this solitary elephant, that the sky opened up. Rain and thunder came down on my family as we scurried and hurried back through the garden and down the paths to find shelter back in the main museum.

It rained on our day. It rained with extreme downpour, in fact. It wasn't a trial or a test. If I WERE a religious person, I wouldn't be able to carry big enough ego to presume I'd warrant such a test, or any other kind of test. As I'm not religious, I know this - sometimes it rains.

The trick is, you don't let the rain ruin your day. 

And you don't let your trials ruin your life.

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