The Unchanging World of the Conversationally Constipated

When I finally pursue writing I want this to be the title of my humorously introspective biography. My story will not be unlike the numerous volumes that are already collecting dust on shelves. My toes are pinched and blistered from walking miles in the shoes of survivors before my time. I have nothing new to complain about that is worth reading, no overwhelming cure for the ill or dying. Until recently the book I wanted to write would likely have been no different than what I have been writing since I was 10 or 11, journal entries…my stifled voice locked between pages. Pages of dots and lines forming and blurring in front of me, enabling my refusal to exert my lungs and speak my feelings into life, into recognition; refusing to communicate outside of myself; comforted that someday far in the future, someone might read my words and understand me. The difference is, for the first time in my 28 years, I am that reader. I finally understand me! I am finally awake and alive in my own skin. Comfortable with who I am and exited to see where I am going. I have recently adopted the minuscule statement of magnanimous proportions: Carpe Diem! My life is a work in progress and I am in a revitalizing love affair with the pursuit of fun.

Too long my thoughts and feelings have been clenched behind burning rocks of molten lava--a bowel churning with unforgiving pain from the pit of my being; seething mounds of anger so volatile as to cause bouts and fits of verbal diarrhea.

I am not an artifact of Pompeii but my thoughts might as well have been. Archaic in their very nature and preserved for almost a complete decade to be revisited and experienced again with no foreseeable antidote. No possible resurrection of the soul. No hope of survival. When I reflect on my existence I am stunned to find myself as a shell, void of transferable spirit and holding only a gentle whisper of my life, smelling acrid from fire.

Recently I was awakened by a gentle listener. She filtered through my tossing spirals, the waves of deflection and the composure that I wear to mask my rage. She called me on my lies and self-deprecation. She pulled the choking weeds from within and chipped away the stones that had pulverized my emotional well being and she gave me permission to speak. It seems funny now that I should feel the need to receive approval; permission…but not in a humorous way. With one swift scratch of my carefully polished surface the connection was made and I finally saw the picture…all those dots and lines… for the first time, clearly. I felt empowered…and slightly deflated.

It has taken me so long to write this down, now that I have lost some steam. The volcanic bowels are shut off and at peace. Really, the motivation behind the title is from an evening of looking through boxes in the basement, with my husband, on a search for shoes. So many boxes from storage, our life contained in cardboard and sprawling across expansive concrete seems restrictive. Why do we keep all of this? It's junk! Memories and sentimental attachments of course, is the only thing I can think of now. For this reason we are inspired to sort out our sh*t and get down to an even more simple existence. After all, how will we move forward if we allow sentiments of the past to hold us back?

In the search, which was successful by the way, I came across my favorite purse, a missing pair of eye-glasses and one of my signature lip gloss colors from several years ago. I put them all on and laughed at myself with my husband. I commented about being taken back, but that I've lost weight and things feel different. He looked at me and said that I look happier now.

It's true! I feel so much happier now! I feel so much more invested and in control of my own happiness that I am exhilarated. I am in love with life!

Perhaps a sane person might wonder what the heck has brought such change and why hadn't I acknowledged my responsibility to control my happiness before? Well, it's complicated. Difficult to express, but not because I do not understand or don't want to share, but because it is so much more than feelings on a page now; so much louder than writing can project.

While looking through the boxes of books (more than 5) I came across one of my journals. A true symbol that my past is never far behind me and that my future will always be ahead of me. This particular journal was written between November of 2004 and January of 2007. These were a monumental few years in my life. At first, the intent of the book was to write anecdotes about my two older children, who were then almost 3 and almost 1. This is how it did in fact begin and I enjoyed reminiscing the funny nuances of preschool children--particularly my own. As I continued to read the pages began to fill more with my own worried thoughts and feelings. These ideas expanded and became overwhelming. It's hard to reread my thoughts while I feel so happy. Here is the deflation. This period of my life was particularly difficult. Over and over I expressed the thoughts that I have recently communicated in real life. Thoughts that if I had said out loud and as concisely years ago I might have realized my happiness sooner. I might have made a change or found my voice and not lost an additional few years.

My entry on March 22, 2005 spoke of feelings so raw and true. Of my exact sentiment that I recently shared with my husband…after my life changing conversation with the gentle listener. Almost word for word the conversation I had been having with no results. Amazing! Four years ago I knew what I wanted but did not have the confidence to allow myself the privilege.

In an instant I recognized that I have lived a fearful life. I have been afraid to live and afraid to die. I have allowed my fear to control my life; to control me and by consequence, to control all those around me. I was speaking and explaining and analyzing but no one was listening. No one was hearing me! I was angry. I am angry now, at myself, as I look back because the biggest line and dot to connect is this: I wasn't listening. Everyone else had heard me, had advised me, had sympathized with me…but I refused to listen. I was talking too much! Yet, very few people knew I felt the things I was feeling because I refused to use plan language. I was so afraid I might be heard clearly I made it impossible to decipher.

The take home message is this: When you let go of fear you move forward. Conversations require twice as much listening as talking. And most importantly: Feelings are messy--better out than in!

Success by Any Other Name

My mind is fuzzy while I try to remember the snatches of deep pondering that I enjoyably lost myself in last night. I took a long hike into my brain's branching web of pockets and fell into a small pond of wisdom and foresight--such a pity that it remains elusive now. The profoundness of it all is remarkable and such is life that I should stumble upon a glimmer of my purpose here, only to forget it when I took the chance to write it down.

This irritating conundrum digressed upon a different memory however that I feel the need to pick apart and examine with equal fervor. After an exhilarating evening out with some friends to support a very dear friend while he performed at a hole in the wall venue (sometimes these are the best places to hear good music really) we were swinging very high--sober and on actual swings--and someone, whom I had just met and have already forgotten his name, mentioned that we should build a time machine.

At first I was amused by the suggestion, because it seems to be the youthful dream of every person I meet, and since this person was several years younger than me, it seemed appropriate. But it was the reactive comments that sent my mind into tailspins. The general consensus was in agreement, it would be great to go back in time--to an age where there weren't many responsibilities, when there was still youth. I was alone in thinking that I did not want to go back or look forward, even after pointing out that they are all still young, and in perspective relatively free from responsibilities: none being married or with children other than myself. Then one of my friends, whose thoughts and ideas often inspire me or give me pause, said that he should like to go forward in time--to see if he is a success.

That's it, right there. For several hours after this conversation I battled the irrational idea of success. What is success anyway! A unit of measure; a following of order; an inheritance of possessions? Who determines what is successful? And why is failure the opposite--when it is said that by failing we learn to succeed? Is it a personal revelation to have success, or is it someone else's ideals we look to fulfill? When do we determine if we have been successful? How do we know when we have crossed the finish line? It hit me that success is completely intangible!

In general, I have been successful. I am able to congratulate and give recognition to others for their successes. But isn't it true that I am defining success by my own weight of what is worthy of praise? So is there humility in success? Do I not have to reflect on my own experiences of failure to understand when I or someone else has succeeded? Or is success something we envy in others, not truly understanding what the other has been through in their attempts to move forward and in our own forceful powerlessness when feeling left behind.

We as humans never want to be left behind. Isn't this the paradox of "keeping up with the Joneses"? Drawing on experience: I met my husband while finishing high school. Against everyone's better opinion and indulgent in my own naivety I left college when I unexpectedly started a family. I worked hard with little money to speak of so that I could return to college and eventually finished my degree, married with three children. The toll of my success has been heavy and my family now lives in my mother's home, often bridled with tension and foaming at the mouth with resentment. I have been striped of my former independence, my fleeting moment of adulthood and my reality of functional prosperity has all but become a far fetched fantasy. Degree in hand and future spread ahead into a chaotic time of scandalous recession--money is still beyond my means. Yet, surprisingly, I am content. My children are well provided for and in respective health. There is an ample roof over our heads and a safe, quiet neighborhood to play and grown within. The schools on this side of town are recognized for their successful teachers and bright students who are sure to be successes in the future. My husband is working at a job that offers benefits and paid leave--and while he truly dislikes his job on any given day, he too seems content to continue on this path. He is returning to school this fall to finish the degree he left behind when our lives became entangled--to pursue a new path and propel us in a different direction…one of success.

So am I a failure? Who determines this? Is it I who should be reflective and accept my direction or am I prey to the perspective of another? One who might not have walked in my shoes or chosen the path upon which I allow my family to wander.

When will I know I have become successful? If I were to see myself in the future…would I even know who I am looking at? There are so many things I wish to experience while here, in life. So many things I have already experienced that some people have lived a lifetime without. I would not want to go back in time…and because I do not think I would fully appreciate my success without the leading experiences…I do not want to go forward in time either. As far as I can tell, truly, existence is a success.

A Deafening Reality

I wish I hadn't gone. In the quiet journey home my mind became fixated and while internalizing the thoughts there in became bloated with regret. There have been many times…too many to count…where I have felt left out and wanted to try something, only to finally experience the inflated obsession and found myself disappointed. Tonight epitomized this feeling and personified itself into loud cymbal crashing angst.

No thank you. You can have it.

Windows of the Soul

A smile is one of the most communicative gesture we possess. The entire face is involved in a genuine smile. The general picture is so familiar to me. I know my smile from the inside out and I assume my observations are universal. The head tilts; our lips draw back tightly, spreading wide across our teeth. Our cheeks consume our eyes, leaving only slits of dewy color. Our eyebrows lift and our noses flatten slightly at the sides. Wrinkles craze and dimples puncture. And the pressure on our tear ducts creates a marvelous twinkle in our eye, while a burst from our salivary glands give us a shining flash of brilliance. Even our body responds with a pleasant release of hormones. Immediately I know when someone is faking a smile, or at least has been holding their smile for too long. The feeling is gone. An empty gaping hole remains and the lights are out.

Our culture, in America, is very strict on the hygiene of a smile. From the smell of our breath to the height, width, and shade of our teeth, perfection is anticipated and disappointment follows missed expectations. As a result, dentists spend years in school learning how to keep teeth alive, and are paid large sums of money to remind us to brush twice daily and floss regularly. Call in a specialist, like an orthodontist or endodontist and you can bet change is on the horizon. The stigma attached to poor dental hygiene is unsympathetic. I am guilty of such behavior. A large toothy smile with bright white teeth, all in a row like the window shades in a suburban neighborhood is attractive and alluring.

A person with such a smile is believable. They have an educated and naturally beautiful smile. How can a smile be educated? Because hygiene is not common sense; it is learned and reinforced, and practiced. Immediately stereotypes flash behind my eyes of different types of smiles: A gap-toothed grin belongs to someone slow, (southern of course). It is charming and naïve. An overcrowded smile belongs to someone uptight or with something to hide. Stained, missing or broken teeth belong to the illiterate or impoverished. My mother said it today, the people on 5th street all look like they lined up for the same dentist (based on their insurance) to yank all their back teeth out, simultaneously. But a straight set of white teeth, that is a wealthy person's smile--someone who can afford regular dental visits and can afford to care for their teeth.

Some people are born with a set of teeth made for an appeasing smile. They have a becoming profile with a wider jaw, allowing each tooth its own spot to see the world without elbowing or stepping on toes. These people advertise toothpaste and Crest White Strips. These smiles are on Primetime TV, daytime soaps and on the fronts of magazines. These smiles are famous and idolized accordingly. So many straight white teeth on the rack at the store that I wonder sometimes if the copy editor simply cut and paste the same smile onto each picture….

I read recently that our jaws are actually getting smaller because of how little chewing is required for our processed, cut and overcooked food. The book said that our ancestors had larger jaws because of the need to crush food without the benefit of knife or fork--raw, fresh food. What's the problem? Smaller jaws are impish and cute, larger jaws are masculine and harsh, right? Well, apparently while our jaws are diminishing our teeth are remaining the same size=overcrowding. We are evolving into a population destined to wear rail-road ties and brackets with rubber webbing and wax. If you wore braces in the 90's you know what I am talking about. The smile is so important now, if it is perfect of course, that braces have even become cut and paste! Invisalign braces are clear plastic molded to gradually change bite patterns--no more train crossing jokes.

Also mentioned in that book is the fact that of the millions of bacteria in our bodies, keeping us alive, one of the bacteria found in our feces is actually found in the mouth as well, and contributes to the smell of poop breath. Fancy that. Don't forget to rinse and spit.

But I digress. Windows of the soul…oh yes. Our teeth, being alive and connected to the inner workings of our body, are letting us see the big picture, literally, in every picture of ourselves. Underlying health problems often show up in the mouth, but by the time they have become visible on the outside something is usually very wrong. While I am not a scientist (far from it) it would seem that if digestion begins with chewing wouldn't a problem in our teeth mean a problem with our digestive system? So would a problem in the "skins of our teeth" be connected to the integumentary system? Just kidding.

It can't all be brushing and flossing. I know people who brush religiously only to find new cavities at each dental visit. And I know people who never brush…or rarely--but enough to have rank breath just the same--and have not a single hole in their teeth. My husband greatly disdains brushing. He says it is a chore and that he hates the flavor of toothpaste. Yet while he is holding out for mash-potato flavored paste, with gravy--it occurs to me that dog tooth-paste comes in chicken flavor. I mentioned this once and got an eyebrow raise. There's hope yet.

Here's the pulp of the story if you will. Del had his routine visit to the pediatric dentist last week. Except, there was nothing routine about it, he had a cavity. Not just a cavity but a giant crater in his head. We went yesterday evening for a filling only to be informed that because the cavity is in his brand new 6 year molar--a permanent tooth--that has not fully erupted (which if you look at a picture of a tooth is just as volcanic as it sounds), and he will need a specialist. This news was a double whammy. The first blow being the fact that my child--who has a lovely set of teeth and a brilliant smile--has a cavity (i.e. genetics really are a bitch sometimes). The second blow being that this is not an easy fix and I am a failure because he was not brushing the colony of bacteria poop off his teeth well enough.

So as the dentist drills away and Arthur clamors in my lap, stretching to open cabinets and pull down important items from countertops my world of smile stereotypes are sucked into the vacuum hose of Mr. Tickle. My child is either A) going to need a root canal or B) a very unpleasant extraction. My child is under "Ice Cream Gas" (a kid's version of laughing gas), while the DDS is drilling out the pulp of his tooth, which was filled with decay from Candy Fridays, and because his tooth is not fully erupted he will need to go through this again...soon... and possibly again, for the rest of his life because a damaged tooth is a life time commitment. He will need braces (which he was already destined to need thanks to his gene pool) and probably a host of other fancy falsies.

As many times as I have told him his baby teeth are important--training wheels for the permanent, grown up teeth. As many times as I reminded him to brush his teeth to guard his smile; to wash away his food and clean up after the bacteria...I didn't go behind him and re-brush his teeth. I didn't give him fluoride supplements to combat our delicious well-water lifestyle. And while I did limit his sugar intake and carefully scare him straight about soda...I didn't push the issue when his bus driver dished out candy on Fridays. In the two months between the sealants on the other three 6 year molars and the dental check up, he got a size 5 hole in his brand new tooth. So deep and wide in fact that his dentist, a friendly fellow to be sure outside of his mask, sucked air between his own teeth, tsk, tsk, tsk, at me.

It is not my tooth. I did not feel the pain. I do not have to put up with a missing bridge, a swallowed false tooth, or a cracked crown...or a second, third or fourth root canal before the tooth finally gives up and dies. It is not my smile. It is not my window.

But it is my child. A smile I adore, missing teeth and in transition. A smile that contains some small smooth teeth as well as new teeth, bullying their way in with bumpy edges. His smile is my window into his personality, his genuineness. His smile is a reincarnation of me and I know it from the inside out. And so his tooth misfortune will not be in vain. It will be the wounded soldier in his mouth left to guard the others. Every time I see his #19 tooth, either as an empty socket or a crowned relic, I will be reminded to protect the soul behind the smile.



ETA: It is possible that the tooth needing a root canal was actually decaying under its gum flap before it even broke the surface, since all three of the others were up and available for sealants at the same time. So I feel less like a failure and more that Del's poor mouth is a victim of circumstance. Just the same, after MUCH ADO over the past several days we are going forward with a RC. We tried several local offices to find an endodontist to take care of the surgery, but have been unsuccessful and the pediatric dental office is making an exception for Del because as of today his tooth is hurting. He will be seen by the owner of this practice for a surgery at SGH on July 7th. Del will be put completely under and the whole process should only take about 3 hours. The treatment plan follows his RC with a silver crown--to which mom said "Oh! He can put a diamond in it when he's older!" Thanks mom. As a mom I realize there will be many life events that mar and scar my children. Some scars will be visible and some will be emotional. While the tooth snob in me is disappointed that he has to have a silver crown, I humbly recognize, it could be worse.

Seas of Cleavage

I don't remember seeing so much cleavage when I was in high school. Yet, when I subbed at a high school this past Friday, I felt accosted by young, perky breasts. Perhaps this is because of my own self-consciousness about my changing breasts. More disappointment and worry really. I look in the mirror now and see where my pectoral muscles are and then below them a set of crepe-paper balloons…after a day or two of slow deflation.

The worry comes from the realization that my breasts have full-filled their purpose. No longer do I need them to catch a man, I'm married. No longer do I need them to nurture my children, they are all weaned to cow's milk. Because they have no function now I am worried they will continue to shrivel and flatten until they are fried eggs, slack and floppy on the plate.

Disappointment comes from how I look at myself now and how much my breasts are a part of my opinions. When I was a young girl, maybe 9 or 10, I would play dress up in my mother's maternity dresses. I would put on a dress and a hat, tall knee highs (which slumped and sagged because I was not yet a woman) heels and a training bra stuffed with tissue. I would put my dolls in an old stroller and I would take a walk around the neighborhood.

When my friends all started developing breasts I would obsess over when mine would arrive. Checking my profile in the mirror, looking at the women in my family and trying to imagine what I would look like. I only had bumps--my uncle called them sweater bumps when I was 12 and laughed at the idea that I was growing up.

Finally, the summer between middle school and high school they arrived. It was as if I had gone to bed flat and woken up stacked. My first day of high school I ran into one of the boys who used to tease me in middle school and watched with complete satisfaction while he took a quick second glance and his jaw dropped. Power. Power I toyed with throughout the rest of high school and even into adulthood.

I knew then when guys looked at me they were looking down first before they figured out what color my eyes were--some never even took the chance to look at my eyes. After the first two years of low shirts and flaunting, these head turning appendages were becoming cumbersome and uncomfortable. It was hard to run for softball and harder still to find clothes that fit properly. Girls would whisper behind their hands to each other and boys would make inappropriate and sexual comments--though at the time, this was novel and completely encouraged. I think for a period of three months the baseball team called me "Colorado Rockies". My family would even comment whenever they saw me that my chest was huge and who did I pick up that gene from…and why didn't they get it, too!

I became very modest. I started wearing shirts that covered everything. Tee-shirts, bulky sweatshirts, overalls--somehow they were still noticeable but the attention on me finally seemed less about appearance. For a period of years I considered what it would be like to have a reduction. I still consider it now.

Finally in a promising relationship with my future husband I was at peace with my appearance--when we met for the first time, he looked straight into my eyes. At a C cup I didn't think they could get any bigger. Wrong! After my first child they shot to a D. I gained 44 lbs with my pregnancy and kept the weight on into my second pregnancy. So self-conscious of my new size and the continued attention I received for my chest--from males and females alike--I started rolling my shoulders forward, slouching. My friends would comment that they were going to sign me up for "what not to wear" because I was choosing clothes that were so completely uptight for my age.

My husband loves me and has only ever been encouraging about my appearance. After my second pregnancy, I lost all the weight gained from that pregnancy, 25lbs. I didn't even have to do anything. Encouraged, I signed up for an exercise class. The weight just came off. Then, a year later, I suddenly remembered that I was an intelligent woman with youth on my side. I left my mind-numbing, butt spreading job and went back to college. I took a few more exercise classes and got more weight off. I started remembering how confident I had been at 13 with new boobs and found myself wanting to shed the layers of self-doubt, shame, and timidity.

With a good bra, my breasts could be hiked up and reined in (the thing about big boobs is the lack of control the owner has over where they move). With the help of a few very good and fashion savvy friends, I was able to find more form fitting clothing. Ones that were flattering, not flaunting. More mature now, it would be inappropriate to naively leave everything hanging out. I began showing on the outside who I was on the inside--not just a chest with a loud mouth but a whole person. It felt wonderful and freeing.

By my third pregnancy I had learned a few things. After my first pregnancy with unbalanced diet and lack of willpower to my every craving (whole packages of cookies were a delightful repast), I became calorie conscience. After my second pregnancy with more activity and more enthusiasm I became focused on fitness. So, through my whole third pregnancy I ate the recommended diet for healthy moms and participated in yoga and later a walking/fitness class. At 7 months pregnant I could do a full yoga back-bend! My baby weight was off within the first 6 weeks of delivery…but then I was still 25lbs outside of my range for a fit lifestyle. My body was changing. Curiously, even though I was losing weight, the remaining weight was proportioning itself in places that didn't seem correct.

Strangely enough, I didn't have to bend over much to nurse my third baby. I was able to just move my breast around. I needed a Boppy for nursing my first baby, but this one was able to lie comfortably in my lap. Stranger still, my cup size had moved to a DD! How was it possible that my lower set of breasts could actually fill a bigger bra? It didn't make sense and it was frustrating as well as discouraging. The weight began creeping on again.

Now, as I stand in front of a classroom filled with students ages 14-18, I am thrown back into a world of firm and lifted confidence that I see in these young girls. I am not sure if I am annoyed or more resolved to reestablish myself. In 3 months I will stand in front of 120 people. Some I know and others I do not. I will be standing next to one of my very best friends while she enters a new life as a wife and eventually a mother. As a matron of honor I want to be in the best form for her pictures. For her, I want to look like I give a damn. And then I made a promise, out loud, to her. I will be fit for her wedding.

After talking to my husband about my changing body (which he graciously remains encouraging about even now, 10 years later), he has agreed to help me achieve my goal. Then it occurred to me, I do not just want to be fit for her wedding; I want to be fit 50 years from now, too. This is a lifestyle change in the making. I do not want to hide behind clothes; I do not want to be self-conscious about my appearance. I want to be comfortable in my own skin. I want to be comfortable being me!

So, along with the regular menus and deflecting annexation of fast foods and sparing use of restaurants, we are going to be more active. Input and output of calorie goals need to be succinct. Here is where more worry comes in. I am already able to rest my breasts on my belly when sitting. It is almost like my nipples could just whisper hello to my belly button. What will happen when I lose weight? Even toning will not reshape the sagging skin that used to hold a hungry baby's feedings. What will happen when I become a fit person but have a sack of skin hanging down?!

I am going to push forward anyway. All those seas of cleavage will drown me if I do not allow myself to feel powerful again. Not over other men this time, but over my own outlook on life. There is no other option at this point. I have to move forward.

There are 10 weeks until my fitting for the wedding--a perfect motivator and launch-pad for pushing me to succeed. In this 10 week period I will be taking a Zumba (fitness) class with my husband. I want to incorporate strength training and flexibility exercises into my goals as well. I am result focused. Let's just see if gravity can work in reverse to offer a buoyant life preserver.

The highroad is paved with sharp pebbles....

Rest in Peace, Grandpa. Julie commented just a bit ago that she is losing her grandfathers very quickly. Grandpa Doug died last week and Great Grandpa Art died today. Sadness in a 5 year old is bittersweet. Does she really understand death? Does she think about not seeing these people again? They were far removed from her by the time they died. Grandpa Doug over a year and GG Art over two. The down side of living so far from family and the crux of divorce.

Just the same. I wonder when it will hit me. I have been very accepting of both deaths. Shock over Doug and peace for Grandpa Art. Will an emotional tidal wave take me under when I least expect it? Will I go on indifferently? Everyone has different reactions to death.

When I was a small child I would wake up nights in a cold sweat, worried that my parents would die while I slept. That I would never see them again. Then sometimes I would have dreams about being cooked in a boiling cauldron by my mother, she was large and black and angry. This must have been around the same age Julie is now.

Like Del I would wish out loud that I had never been born, when things weren't going my way or I was upset at my parents. I would blame my mom for allowing me to live. Del will say very similar things now; asking how to get back inside of me where he was loved and safe. I remind him that even then he was living...inside of me. The idea of him was alive inside me years before the reality...would he ask for that idea to be taken away?

At this point in my life, death is still not a jovial topic of conversation. Julie still talks about my mom's dog dying after it was hit by a car--over two years ago. She obsessed over it for months. Talking about it whenever anyone mentioned even the word "dog".

Death has always been a fear of mine. Influencing my choices for where to live, what activities I do, even how I sleep at night. When I had children I worried, like most parents, what will happen if I die? Or, "I better not make this stupid choice, who will take care of my kids if I die". All the way to thinking I can never die, the world will end if I do!

When my sister-in-law turned 18, my mother-in-law threw a huge party. Not completely a celebration of life, but in honor of the fact that she (my MiL) could now die. If my MiL had died before SiL turned 18, she might have had to go live with her biological father. Not that I blame her for such feelings. If I were to die now and my husband was solely responsible for raising our kids...who knows how they would turn out!

As I get older I am learning to appreciate life more, excited in how things flow. Even bad times are better than no times. I recognize that we are born, we struggle and survive, and then we die. Just like the reproducing cells in our body, ever cycling, until they stop...then a cell at a time...tick tick ticking until they all stop and then life stops.

My mother believes in a very complicated hierarchy of heaven. Her religion believes all righteous people will make it to heaven but not all of heaven is equal. There are different levels. Only the truly Christ-like will enter the Kingdom and again walk with Christ. Earth is apparently a level too. So where is Hell?

Hell in my mind is perspective. One of those glass half empty sorts of questions. A bloody car accident or a terrible war scene, in my mind, is pretty close to Hell. Being connected to life-support or being alert inside my mind while those around me are unable to understand me. There are a lot of things a person can live through and not die...where dying would actually be relief--that is my impression of Hell.

But where is Heaven? Another perspective question. How about the smell of a freshly washed baby, sleeping in the nook of his or her mother's neck? The feeling of elation that comes from a true accomplishment? On some days, Heaven can be getting through a public place with all three children uneventfully. Or early in the morning, when the sun is just coming out and the misty fog is lifting. Everything peaceful and still for a few precious moments before all the household wakes. On other nights, kicking back with my husband after a very long and exhausting day.

The ending of stories or sappy movies always seem to have someone explaining that a person never truly dies if we just keep their memory alive in our hearts. Seriously? Our hearts are an organ...a pump. Nothing stays in there very long and its function is so critical that I wouldn't want to complicate its task by adding the burden of holding memories. That is what my brain is for, on any given day. I am lucky that the memory section of my brain functions well...like a trap even.

At any rate. Isn't it interesting that when someone dies we forget the painful, unfortunate part about them or how they treated us? We remember the good about them and wish we could have had more time to show or tell them how much we appreciate them. Or we regret not getting to know them better and learn about them through someone else's memories.

In angry moments, wishing someone else dead, or ourselves dead is usually frowned upon. Rejoicing in someone's death is usually frowned upon. Living without appreciating life is usually frowned upon. Yet, it happens.

Del, at 7, said what no one else wanted to say when he heard that Doug died. "Good!" with a fist to the air. He was elated and has already moved on. Do not get me wrong. The kid doesn't want everyone dead and he certainly is not wallowing in his own misery day after day, waiting for his own death. Though this post makes him seem so. He was expressing exactly how he felt about the situation based on his relationship with his grandfather. Just the same as he cried when I told him G.Grandpa Art was dying. Julie was equally distraught over both deaths.

She asked me recently when Grandpa Doug turned into a "mean stupid man." When I asked her why she said that and who she heard it from she said that is what her daddy had said (before finding out about his death). She always had a very strong relationship with her grandfather, which honestly made me uncomfortable. She loved him genuinely. I told her that she is allowed to keep her good memories of Doug. She can think of him however she wants and ignore whatever she hears about him. When I asked how she felt, she said she was sad. I asked if she was angry or upset. No, she said, she was just sad.

So that is what death really is in the end. Sad. But, sad is an emotion that can be recovered from with joy. Almost instantaneously. Unlike being angry or upset, which tend to ferment and continue on endlessly.

Today I am sad. Sad for my mother and uncles who have lost their father. Sad for his wife, who has lost her life partner. Sad for my kids, who lost an important person in their lives. And sad for my youngest son, Arthur, who was named after his great grandfather, because they never actually met...we were going to do that in two months.

I am sad for my step family as they grieve for the loss of their father, Doug. For the mental anguish they might be experiencing as they settle his estate. But I am also relieved and glad, because when my mother finally recovers from her sadness, she might find peace in all this chaos. She was able to leave the marriage before the penalty of death. She was able to say good bye to her father before he died. She has a lot to find joy in...later...when she is done being angry, upset, and devastated.

Just a reminder to say good bye more often and show love and appreciation to people we care about frequently. Love always and forgive often...it saves a lot of "heartache" later.

Peace. I love you.

Dinner's served...cover your ears!

There is a reason I prefer eating from a box. I do not enjoy cooking. It is stressful and requires constant concentration for me to do well. Literally, I can feel the vertical crease in my forehead, just between my eyebrows; deepen while I stand over a stove. Usually I make things up as I go along. On the occasions when I succeed at following a recipe, I feel a sense of accomplishment, but these moments from scratch are few and far between. Tonight's Baked Mac & Cheese was no exception. Not only did it take an awfully long time to prep because of additional steps (and because I let my children help with each step), but after baking, it was still watery. Like vomit in my mouth and I ate it anyway because as I told the kids, there were no alternatives allowed tonight.

Alternatives like jumping in the car and heading to McDonald's! Sure there are other things to make at home, but unless it comes out of a box or a can, or I can prepare it on the stove top in under 15 minutes, I'll pass, thank you.

My best meal is breakfast. I can make the most delicious pancakes, palatable eggs and on rare mornings home fries. No one does bacon better than me--possibly because I painstakingly follow the package directions, flipping several times. But even my kids get tired of breakfast for lunch and dinner.

Of course there are times when I will make the whole meal, but if I can avoid it I will. Peanut butter spoons all around, cheers!

Betty Crocker really is my best friend in the kitchen. We go way back. I love to make anything with her seal of approval. Add eggs, water or milk, butter and bake. No timer necessary, I know it's done when it smells like heaven. If we could eat muffins and cake everyday, I might be tempted.

More insulting than anything is the smoke detector. It just doesn't seem fair that after I have spent my precious time trying to make a balanced and thoughtful meal that my family instantly arrives to eat at the sound of the alarm. At first it was funny. When we lived in an apartment the initial reaction was that something was on fire, we would panic and look around everywhere, relieved that it was just my cooking. Now, in a multi-story house it is like surround sound, screaming on every floor--"Kitchen's full of smoke! Time to eat!" The food is not actually burnt, (most of the time) but apparently having too many pots bubbling at once is a call for help.

Time management is also a continuous struggle for me. There is actually a process to cooking; prepping the ingredients, setting water to boil or simmering one pot while prepping for another. Too much! There was a time in my life when no one was allowed in the kitchen while I was working because I needed all my concentration to make sure everything came out ready to plate at the same time. Ridiculous. My husband is the only one I am comfortable cooking with, but baking? Even he is sent out. That is why when I allow my kids to participate it takes an extra long time to get anything done. It's not because of them, they are professional helpers, the process just creates so much confusion for me!

As a mom of three and a husband who usually works the dinner shift, I don't often have a choice--I'm in charge for dinner. This is why for the past several years we have been eating more fast food, carry out, or dining out than I ever imagined possible. Not only is driveway life convenient and cheap, they have toys! There is a price here, however, and it is steep. With our prizes and quick meals we have actually spent a great deal of money and I personally have gained an unfortunate amount of weight. Not the kids--some how I am always conscious of what they eat and how much activity follows--but I have been slacking on my own activity. The faster the meal, it seems, the less time is left for exercise. Part of this is the need to run from one activity to another--because I am officially a soccer mom after all.

All this changes now. This week actually. My husband and I decided the addictive habit of drive-thru windows and restaurants has to stop. We are making menus for the week and shopping for the ingredients. Only two days left on this menu and it has been a constant struggle not to head for the car. I keep reminding myself how much we are saving and how nice it will be when my pants aren't so tight…but then I realize I will be standing in front of the stove waiting for the dinner alarm to sound. Such a picture.

To be fair, I love the comments of contented eaters. The highest praise my son can give is going back for seconds…and for my daughter? Finishing what's on her plate is a great reward, for me. It is very fortunate for all of us, that my husband enjoys cooking. He loves planning the menu and selecting the ingredients. He loves prepping ingredients and actually encourages the kids to be involved. He loves to eat! His favorite mantra is to never trust a skinny chef--a person who cooks well, loves to eat.

Well, I am trying. I think I know exactly what went wrong with the Mac & Cheese tonight and because I want to succeed, I will try the recipe again…but next time I am unplugging the smoke detector.