Three-year-old wisdom

I decided to practice some escapism in the form of shopping today. I headed off to Target and the mall first thing this morning, with my three-year-old niece in tow. I wasn't too far down the road before I remembered what a tonic a young mind can be to a weary soul.

"La La" she said, about 1/2 mile down the road. "Are we at Target yet?"

"No, TT" I patiently replied.

"Got any toys?"

"Ah, no. Sorry."

"Got any music?"

"Well, sure!" I was pleased to be able to answer in the affirmative. This was shaping up to be a long drive. I hastily put in a favored mix CD of mine replete with David Cook, Reliant K and a little tobyMac.

A loud sigh came from the back. "La La, we forgot my van."

"Why do we need your van, TT? Isn't La La's just as good?"

"No. My van has kid music."


At Target, I almost immediately found some items sure to please my nephew (TT's brother) for Christmas. "Look at these! Don't you think Peter would love them?"

TT donned her most critical face. "He has plenty of those."

I was disappointed, but soon found something else. "What about this?" I proudly displayed my find.

Even more scornfully, TT replied, "He doesn't need that." She quickly added as I began to move out of the aisle, "but I do."

As we continued, many "I wants" were proclaimed. Seeing a moral lesson at hand, I firmly told her that La La never gave in to demands. She promised that she would not say "I want" again.

Next aisle over, a plastic doll started crying as we walked by. TT proclaimed, "Oh, I'd really like that!" Catching my hard stare, she said incredulously, "I didn't say 'I want'!" Clever.

Over lunch at the mall, TT overheard a post election conversation that I was trying hard to ignore. "I don't like Obama," she told me emphatically.

"Oh?"

"No, I wanted the duck to win."

Ahh. Sounded good to me, too.

She was so well behaved at the mall that I told her to pick out a book at Borders. She excitedly chose an Elmo sticker book. I got some coffee, and we decided to sit for awhile, sipping the sweet nectar of life and outfitting Elmo's room. "How do I do this?" she asked.

Organized, methodical me tried to explain that the sticker sheets had corresponding page numbers. "See, these stickers are for page 5, so Elmo can find books at the library." I helpfully put a book sticker on a shelf.

"No, it doesn't go there. It goes here." She turned the page and stuck the book in the middle of a corn field.

"Good thinking," I encouraged. Why not? It really was freeing to watch her put muffins in the art room and a shovel on a classroom shelf.

This trip was exactly what I needed today. Laughing at a chocolate tipped nose, chair-dancing to "Mambo Italiano" and playing Simon Says on the way home - this is the stuff that makes it worth getting up in the morning.

"Simon Says touch a tree!" TT commands as we drive down the road.

"Now how am I supposed to do that?"

"Oh well, you're out."

Unless I lose my head, I'm not going back to the doctor.

A few weeks after our foray into the wilds of Maine, I noticed a redness under my nose. It was a little bumpy and slightly itchy and tight. I didn't pay much attention to it at first - my skin is as sensitive as Obama whenever Bill Ayers' name comes up. Anyway, after applying creams and lotions and potions to no avail, I decided to make an appointment with the doctor.

You may not realize what a huge statement that is. In the recent past I have had episodes of irregular heart rates, migraine headaches, and excruciating stomach pain, but have avoided the hospital like a plague. Now, because my looks were at stake, I picked up the phone. Ah, vanity of vanities.

My absence at the neighborhood clinic did not go unchecked by the appointment clerk. "Madame, it seems you haven't actually established care here. I see only some scattered visits in acute care."

"Yeeeesss...." I wondered what she was getting at. Was I supposed to go to the doctor if I didn't have an issue?

"Well, if you do not establish care, we will not allow you to keep coming in for problems." I felt she was beginning to adopt a haughty tone.

"So you are saying that I have to pay 20 bucks just to check in with a resident when there's nothing wrong with me in order to be able to come in when there is?" This conversation was making about as much sense as Palin discussing foreign policy.

"That's right."

"So then, when the resident leaves after a few months and you send me a letter saying I've been assigned to someone new, I have to come in to "establish care" again?!" Now I was thinking that even my looks were not worth this much hassle.

I reluctantly agreed to make an appointment in acute care for the following day and an appointment with the Resident of the Month for the following week to establish care. So far this call had cost me 40 bucks.

The doctor at the acute appointment was confident that the rash was fungal, and prescribed a cream. Add $15 to the tally.

A week later, faithful applications of the cream proved futile, and I arrived at my "well-person" appointment not so well. This doctor disagreed with the acute care diagnosis, and thought that some simple OTC hydrocortisone would do the trick. Sigh.

That was last month. Can you guess the end of the story? Yep, rash is still there. All we have established is that I don't care to return to the doctor any time soon.

Camp War

"Is their son at war?" the nervous bystander whispered to my sister as other anxious faces awaited her reply.

"He's eleven. He went to camp." my sister responded, suppressing a chortle as she added, "About 3 hours ago."

OK, so perhaps Gregory and I overdid the somber upon discovering a missed call on the cell from our son. War, camp...whatever! Our boy had left the home front and was out there on his own! By missing his call had we sent a message that we were not there for him? That we were out celebrating his departure? This was grave matter!

Much to my surprise, I discovered as we pulled away from Chivalry Camp that afternoon that parental distress does not go away when your child is out of your immediate care. If anything, it intensifies. I tossed and turned a good part of the first night. I wondered if he was homesick. I wondered if his mattress was comfortable, if he was warm enough, and if his pillow was hypoallergenic. I got up to place the phone on my nightstand, "just in case".

After two days of a churning stomach and distracted attention to my duties, I knew something had to be done. I had been praying diligently for him since he left, and yet I had no peace. Then it hit me. Phillip is not really mine. He has been entrusted to my care, and certainly I am responsible for his well-being, but he is not ultimately mine. He is God's.

This reminder changed my outlook entirely, restoring my peace and instilling a sense of freedom. Like Hannah before Eli, I willingly give my beloved son to God's service, and trust that as I let go, Christ will take hold.

Yes, he's eleven, and yes, he's just at camp, but in a way he is at war (or at least he is a soldier in training). The purpose of the Chivalry Camp he is attending is to train boys to be gentlemen ready to protect and defend their Faith and Christian culture. So as he learns to wield his sword, I will tie a yellow ribbon and prepare a hero's welcome for his return home, no matter how temporary it is.

L.L. Flexible

I never, EVER buy something advertised in an infomercial.

Well, until recently.

Newly discovered bingo arms and the ham hocks attached to my hips aside, I can't really explain why Chalene enticed me to agree to the 3 easy payments for Turbo Jam. Clicking the "BUY NOW" button just seemed so thrilling and full of potential ...

I was marvelling about my impulsivity again this morning as I suffered through Turbo Sculpt. It was mat time, and as I stretched my jiggly arms toward my distant toes, a revelation struck.

Flexibility. I desire flexibility.

My resourceful husband spent days on Google maps a few weeks ago, plotting a route from our driveway to the Blackwoods Campgrounds of Acadia National Park. We even knew where all the Dick's Sporting Goods stores were along the way so that we could stop to return some of the spoils from an overzealous pre-camping shopping spree. He printed out about 40 pages of maps: zoomed out, zoomed in, with points of interest and without, the route there and the route back (including a stop for Mass on Sunday at a church in Waterbury, Connecticut. We searched for a Mass time and location which would fit our travel plan for hours.) He entered each leg of the journey into a borrowed GPS as a supplement to the printed maps. We felt ready, seasoned and wise.

In stages throughout the week, however, our Boy-Scout-merit-badge-worthy preparedness developed some holes. 1. All of our research into the trip did not reveal the fact that the campground had no showers. 2. Some of the maps became campfire starter, which was fine except for that the trip back maps which were carefully removed from the fire ring vicinity got lost somewhere in the van/wimp tent, not to resurface again until we were back in our driveway. 3. Masses have no rain delays, which is unfortunate. 4. "Clean and convenient" in an on-line hotel review doesn't always tell the whole story. "Ghetto nearby" and "Scary men leering over balconies" is far more accurate.

Despite the grimness of these holes, they were opportunities to limber flabby character muscles and stretch further than I thought I could.

Same resourceful husband hooked up a primitive cleansing area with a few trees and an extra tarp. We dubbed it a "bucket bath" and steam actually rose from the top of the tarp while in use. It was surprisingly refreshing. (Photo courtesy of Allison)

Without the maps to rely on on the way home, we had to trust the GPS, and my limited knowledge of how to work it. What an opportunity for my husband to gain patience and for me to learn to make fast decisions!

Not going to Mass was a hard blow, but it led to a good discussion of avoiding legalism and the worth of an honest intention.

Without a reputable hotel in sight, we bucked up and headed straight for home. A 13-hour day in the car is a stretch for anyone, but we made it.

Now planning is a good thing, and I do not regret a moment of the prep work we did. But I am grateful for the storms that cause us to bend in the wind.

I noticed this morning on the mat that the third time I stretched my arms down my extended legs toward my toes, I was closer to reaching them than the first time (even without a map or a GPS!) Flexibility can be learned.

Novel Endings

I've heard that authors spend months - years even - birthing the first line of a book. It's important stuff, setting the tone and reeling in the reader and all that. There are a plethora of fine examples of first lines. A few quick picks from my bookshelf demonstrate:

"When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."


"This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it."


"Christina Brannigan would have laughed at the empty sheet of college ruled paper if it weren't so sad."

Not bad, eh? Are you hooked?

I picked up a book recently called Flabbergasted by Ray Blackston at my favorite library. I fell in love with the title, the cover, and then the author. I truly LOLed through the whole book. I loved his style, his humor, just about everything except...the end. Why is it that authors (save those who penned the above quotations, of course) who spend so much time crafting the beginning of their works seem so darn sloppy at the end? Perhaps they get tired, or bored, or pressing deadlines trump creativity. Whatever the reason, I often find myself disappointed as I approach the back cover.

There is a possibility I expect too much. Look at my college career, for example. The beginning was exciting, fresh, intense. The middle long and drawn out to be sure, but the tantalizing question of "how will it end?" kept interest high, like the obsessed viewers of The Truman Show (see video below). The end turned out to be disenchanting. As you can see, I didn't even blog about Graduation. It rained, I wasn't given the Summa status I earned because I transferred too many credits, and I spent most of the time cold and worried that the black from my drenched gown was going to bleed on my nice new dress underneath. Disappointing.

But, you say, what else did you expect? Where did the experience fail you? I suppose I anticipated a feeling of satisfaction and completedness. Kind of like the satiated sensation I experience after summer fare of grilled chicken and pasta salad, or the accomplishment of lying in the middle of a room I've just redecorated. Or the rare exultation of closing the cover on a book which ended in a lovely way I didn't expect.

Final Final

Rain. You might know.

I should have hired security guards. Maybe I should have called my insurance agent. At the very least, I could have invested in a plastic bag!

I was on my way to my final final and in my hand I held my ticket to success: a crib sheet. The guideline given by my professor was one 8.5 x 11 in. paper with as much information as I could fit in my own handwriting. I've been working on the sheet for days. I've kept it by my side for safekeeping, protecting it like an original copy of the Declaration of Independence. Now, mere yards from my goal, it was raining.

I angled the broken umbrella kept in the van for such emergencies and clutched the sheet close to my body. One drop of rain could wipe out paragraphs of my microscopic script.

I reached the classroom without mishap and set up my space: two sharpened pencils, a big eraser, a granola bar that I wouldn't eat because I hate making food noises in public but in Paddington-esque style felt bringing it was necessary, and my crib sheet. My professor had warned that at the end of the three hour exam, he would probably have to wrench the test from students' hands. I was ready for intense.

Ever feel like you're braced for a gripping drama just to be let down by an anticlimactic end? Well, join the club. The test was done in an hour and a half, and I barely needed my cheat sheet. I think it was my professor's ploy to get us to study more writing it all down.

I left O'Leary Center to find bright, beautiful skies. I am done.

White flag

I surrender. I give up. I lose

As You Like It Quote of the Day

Touchstone: Nay, if I keep not my rank,

Rosalind: Thou losest thy old smell.

The Hills are Alive, But They Are Not Laughing

Some forces are simply too powerful to stop - like earthquakes, runaway trains, adolescent boys near food... Most uncontrollable of all in my book, however, is humor. How am I supposed to know when something is going to strike me funny? I harbor no humor defense system. Never wanted one, quite frankly.

So, this is why, sitting in an auditorium on Sunday afternoon with my daughter, waiting for our high school's production of The Sound of Music to begin, I became concerned. Written boldly in the program in the helpful section referred to as "Theater Etiquette" was this warning: Laugh only at appropriate times.

"How am I supposed to know if it is an appropriate time?!" I nervously asked my daughter. "What if I think it is appropriate, and no one else does?"

I'm pretty serious about rules. I hold the opinion that good manners dictate respect for authority. But this one was tough. Even if I wanted to, I wasn't sure that I COULD comply! Historical reports reveal a poor appropriate laughter record.

There was the inappropriate bug earring hysteria during a church service back in '86, as well as the "Unto You, O Lord, Do We Lift Up Dale Whampam" hilarity judged unfit by our youth minister who glared at us in the rear view mirror of the church van.

Then there was the uproarious display at the movie theater during Stranger Than Fiction. Apparently, there were no other writers (or wannabes) in the house that afternoon.

Why, just yesterday I was simply walking into Weis Markets when I saw a sign which read "Passover Display Inside" right next to a "fresh pork" ad. No one else nearby seemed to find that to be appropriate humor, either.

I thought the crowd at the high school musical on Sunday was a little dead. Maybe they were struggling to ward off a Sunday afternoon nap. Perhaps the swell of the live pit band obscured some of the more humorous lines. Maybe, sitting in a play recounting the terrors of the Nazi regime, they were simply afraid of breaking the rules.

Catherine Debuts

I am about to make a very bold move. To demonstrate the progress I am making on my Spring Break List, I am posting part of my highly publicized book. Since the only readers of this blog are also the only readers of my manuscript, I don't need to go to great lengths to introduce the characters or anything. Suffice it to say, in the following scene, Catherine arrives at college after a difficult decision. Happy reading - and please let me know what you think!

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The campus was crawling with students carrying boxes and lugging baggage. Most forged ahead quickly while a parent or two followed behind with stricken faces and red-rimmed eyes. The weather was perfect – sunny, about 80 degrees, with a light breeze rustling the leaves of the cherry trees lining the walkways of the Quad. The electronic bells of Rooke Chapel announced 2:00 pm as we left the Registrar’s office and headed for the van.
“According to the map, Swartz is just to the east of the Quad. Why don’t you two walk and I’ll go get the van.” Dad loved a mission, and for the time being, navigation and logistics were his specialty.
Since the abrupt end to our family night, Mom’s mood was noticeably different. She was quiet, reflective and calm. I had expected the trip to Pennsylvania to be replete with Mom’s bubbly, false enthusiasm, but it was actually an enjoyable drive. We talked on and off about the scenery and the weather. Then Mom and Dad got going on their own trips to college, which of course put both of them into a “remember when” extravaganza. I was tortured with bad fashion nostalgia, an oldies sing along, and tall tales of risky adventures. I pretended to be more annoyed with it all then I really was. It was comforting to see them laughing and joking together, and to sense that it was all very sincere.
So my walk with Mom toward my dorm continued in this relaxed atmosphere. She walked with one hand loosely gripping the purse on her shoulder, and the other arm swinging slightly at her side. Her dark, straight hair blew pleasantly in the breeze. There were fine lines around her eyes, which were each like little historical markers, memorializing the joys and worries she had experienced. I was looking at her as if she was a stranger. Maybe she was.

We reached the dorm and found my room. The cinder block walls were painted in “Bucknell white”, which looks an awful lot more like tan. I didn’t know what should concern me more: that an institution would feel the need to patent their very own color, or the apparent color-blindness of whoever named it. At any rate, I was very pleased that I had not gone with the blue and real white motif. It would clashed terribly. The warm red and gold that I had chosen was a perfect compliment to the Bucknell white, and the tones echoed the color of the rampant campus brick. I was off to a well-coordinated start. Perfect!

I have found that moments of self-satisfaction are short-lived. This particular moment was no exception. The door to the dorm room burst open. I turned, prepared to help Dad with the first load of boxes from the van. It wasn’t Dad. That realization came as quickly as the flash of bright pink through the room. Dad didn’t wear pink, and he certainly didn’t have an ear-piercing squeal.

“Catherine?” More squealing. “Hi, ROOMIE!!! I can’t believe we’re actually here, you know what I mean? It’s, like, WOW! We’re really college students! I can’t wait to get the room set up, can you? I brought all my favorite things from home. I hope you like pink, ‘cause that is my favorite color. I do everything pink. I know, I know, I’m a real girlie – girl. Do you really want that bed? ‘Cause I need a lot of natural light. I prefer to wake up to natural light instead of an alarm, don’t you? I hope you don’t like to sleep with the blinds drawn, ‘cause I like to go to sleep looking at the stars and wake up to the sun. So is it ok if we switch?”

The dryness of my mouth pulled me back to reality. I snapped my gaping mouth shut and swallowed hard. So this was Veronica. Oh, joy. “Umm, hi, Veronica. Nice to meet you. Sure, take that bed, I haven’t really started to unpack anyway. My Dad is getting my stuff from the van.”

On cue, Dad’s muffled voice came from behind a stack of boxes in the doorway. Mom and I ran to him with admittedly undue haste. “Hey, now that’s what I call prompt response!” Dad smiled. “Now that I finally have you trained to jump at my command, it’s time to fly the nest, ‘eh, little Kitten?”

“Aw, Dad. Come on in. My roommate’s arrived. Veronica, I’d like you to meet my father, Joe Larson. Oh, and I guess you really didn’t meet my mom, Genevieve.”

Veronica rushed at both of them with arms wide open, squealing. “OHHH! Mom and Dad Larson! It’s so nice to meet you! My mom’s looking for someone to help with my bags. She’ll be here soon. Look at you guys! What a good-looking family! I can’t wait to get to know you better. I’m sure there will be lots of time for that, you know. Fall break, Christmas break – even the summer! Oh, this is just perfectly wonderful, isn’t it? Say, Catherine – are you an only child? I don’t remember reading that anywhere. Imagine two spoiled little only children in a room together! Ha! What a hoot!”

Veronica tossed her long, straight blond hair and blew her bangs away from her eyes. I guess she finally needed some refueling. She apparently forgot her question as she began rifling through my boxes, tossing clothes and accessories all over the bed she had rejected. Although irritated that she was touching my stuff, I was just as happy that she had been distracted from her inquiry into my family life. That was a topic I was not ready to unpack.

About 30 minutes later, most of my side of the room was arranged and looking collegiate. We were just breaking down the empty boxes when Veronica’s mother arrived, or perhaps more appropriately, I should say she “descended” upon us.

“Veronica, darling, what ghastly service. Do you know they don’t have anyone
assigned to baggage? I had to hunt down these gentlemen.” She waved her arm gallantly in the direction of two freshman guys in the hall with dopey grins and leather suitcases hanging all over them. “Boys!” Ms. Veronica’s Mother commanded, “in here.” The boys dutifully entered and began stripping themselves of their burden as Veronica began smoothing her clothing and hair. I couldn’t be sure if the primping was for her mother’s benefit or for the guys.

“There now, boys, here’s a little something for your trouble.” She pressed bills into their hands and pushed them out the door. “Thank you, young men. I’m sure Veronica will be seeing you around campus. Bye-bye now.” She closed the door and turned toward us, rubbing her hands together. We must be her next victims.

Vacca girls - seen one, you've seen 'em both

Is there a name for an emotion that reflects simultaneous comfort and unease? That nebulous feeling is exactly what hit me upon reading my sister's Spring Break post. It is comforting, no doubt, to have someone in this world who is as near to your "twin" as un-biologically possible, but it is also somewhat eerie to go to someone else blog to find strikingly similar material to what has been knocking around your own brain for the past hour!

I, too, am basking in the radiant glory of SPRING BREAK! At 10:52 on Friday morning I was suddenly and miraculously cured (at least temporarily) of several acute symptoms: hand cramping, shortness of breath, racing heart rate and fear of watches.

In my joyous haze, my energies turned immediately to the home fires. I asked the children what I used to do in our old, tranquil routine that they had been missing in our new, chaotic lifestyle. My dear son predictably listed several meals he'd been craving, homemade mac & cheese first and foremost. My daughter readily agreed, which proves that my familial worth is primarily culinary.

With their input in mind, I made my own list of Spring Break goals, and planned to share them here with the world (which, I found, was not such an original idea):

1. Write page 9 of my book
2. Clean out the Master Bedroom closet.
3. Cook
4. Plan my spring garden, and, weather permitting, clean up the flower beds
5. Start reading the books my husband bought me for Christmas
6. Clean my desk
7. Eliminate old magazines (there ARE some differences between my sister and I)
8. Apply a special wood cleaner to our cherry floor
9. Plan an outing for the children

I hope to make as much progress as my sister seems to be making on her list. We have no British Shops around to my knowledge, but I'm sure our holiday will be just as memorable. Cheerio!

DD Philosophy

It was Thursday morning - rush hour at Dunkin' Donuts. I was doing a little last minute cramming for my final CLEP, sipping liquid inspiration. I was finding it difficult to concentrate. I was seated near a window, with a good view of the drive-thru. A never-ending parade of fellow caffeine junkies filed past, and I could hear their orders coming through the speaker to the young man working the window. Most were your typical "coffee and a bagel" or "Dunkachino and a donut" orders, and after a while a little game started in my head. As I heard the voice and the order, I began to visualize the drivers before they drove by. It was amusing enough to be very distracting. I decided to turn my nose back to my book when I heard a loud, confident voice broadcast the following: "Yeah, I'd like a medium coffee with Splenda and skim milk" (a lithe, athletic health-nut began to appear in my mind), pause, "and a glazed chocolate donut with chocolate frosting". I was laughing too hard to look at who drove around to pick up this Jekyll and Hyde order.

Upon reflection, my amusement turned to admiration. She knew how she wanted to allocate her fat and calorie expenditures for the day, and she didn't waste time with the unimportant. How liberating to approach life that way! I marvel at how I spend my resources each day - spilling the sugar of my life liberally in many directions, figuring "hey, I'm already over-committed, what's one more starchy filler of an activity going to matter?"

Meanwhile, DD lady is probably just as trim as I first imagined, and her life probably doesn't look as bloated as mine.