Things About The Weather

Ever since I was a kid, I've had this sneaking suspicion that while God probably doesn't give a whole lot of credence to my rambling, nonsensical, teenage girl prayers for the most part, He always seemed to get my weather requests. If I prayed hard enough for rain. Voila! Rain! Same with sun, snow, or temperatures over 70 degrees so that my mom would let us wear shorts. Sometimes I forget about this wizard-like-control-of-the-weather deal that me and God have, so when it reoccurs to me I have to test it out. Now don't get me wrong, I am one of winter's biggest fans. Two weeks ago I was singing Christmas Carols and still relishing the soft white blizzards. That hit every. single. day. But today I realized that half of my physical problem is that I have been wearing shoes for almost 5 months, non stop. This has got to end. Much like most of your body heat escapes from your head, most of our earthbound joy is absorbed from our feet (I totally just made that up, but let's go with it). And encapsulating all ten toes, crusty heels, paint-chipping toenails and even plantar warts, inside of fuzzy boots and warms socks and suffocating shoes has nearly killed me. It's time to wage war on winter. It's time for flip flops. 20 years ago in February I was playing soccer on a muddy field with snow and ice around the edges BAREFOOT. I know some of you were there, Pete, Amber, Em... Michael... And all of you WaterHooligans... Don't deny it. I have been so busy growing up and being smart and doing the Best Things that I have forgot how to determine my own seasons. How to reconnect with the outside world. How did I get so distracted? How do I ever expect to get better if I don't get a fracking pedicure and get back out there???

please note the footwear... this was clearly not a barefoot game - unless Justin is back there putting his boots back on?

Rise with me, army of toe-breathers. don your springtime footwear (or none at all) and claim this season as officially Springtime, come heck or higher snow lines. (It's ok if you wear a beanie with your flip flops, since most of our body heat escapes out of our heads...) Crank your car heaters up full blast on the floor setting and embrace the enlivening burn of snow between your toes. Remember being young and stupid and making bad choices that nearly caused frost bite! Live in the now that is this lionlike baby March - dominate it with your bare feet and transform it into a lamb with me!

Ok, so maybe I have been reading too much Shakespeare and Divergent and I am looking for my own French Castle Wall Held By Rational Adults to storm. But seriously. A week on the couch and what do you expect?

Things That Hurt, and Things That Don't

This morning I woke up to a phone call from a young girl in Vietnam who is coming to live with us for the next school year. I spoke to her and her parents in small and confusing sentences, about how excited we all were to meet each other.

When I got out of bed and shuffled out of my room, I found a letter from another young girl. One who already lives with me. One who is not excited about living with me and whom I have hurt and mishandled.

The letter was brutal. It was young. It was carelessly honest, spewing out words that will never be retracted, but will be remembered. The first thought that went through my head was : oh man. Did I ever say these things? To my mom? Because the sting was real. Even though I know that this is part of growing up. I know that growing pains aren't just felt by the kids that are growing, they are felt by the people growing them. I know I can not take it personally, however personally it was written. I know all too well how the lack of maturity is also the lack of a filter. I know to set the letter on a shelf and put it away, inside of me, and take out the things that I can hear: You Never Listen; You Humiliate Me; You Judge Me; and work on those things. Address them with my actions more than my words. This anger is not remedied with seven hour long conferences. It is remedied with compassionate parenting, but firm parenting. I have given all of my children, and in fact all of the people in my life, far too much liberty with me. I have allowed them to blame their poor choices and bad attitudes on me. I have enabled their excuses and I have tolerated their justifications. Me, of all people. I have spoiled them. I am an enabler. A DIS-abler. Because really, I have disabled them, thus far, to being successful in relationships and taking responsibility for their actions and attitudes and behaviors. I will try to listen, and respond with truth, even if it is inconvenient for them. I will try to discipline without humiliation. I will try to never judge, and always remember my own careless youth. There is no perfect parent. There is no manual on raising girls. Trust me, I have searched. There is only heartache and joy and learning on both sides. And I am learning. So it she. But it stings. For both of us.

One more day, home from work, endless hours to face my physical pain, my failures as a mother, a wife, a friend. Free from distractions. I have all day to read books or watch TV, and I find myself staring at the wall thinking: Ok, what next? How do I take the next step? What is the next step? Where do I go from here, other than the bar? The bar. That sounds very appealing.

Too much snow, too much gray, too much hurty couch time. I need to go for a jog in the sunshine with a keg of beer at the other end and happy dancing daughters singing my praises. Wouldn't it be loverly? Soon. It's coming. I can taste it. There was a speck of blue sky this morning when I got up that was pushing back the clouds. It lost the battle, but maybe tomorrow. Maybe winter will give up the ghost and springtime will come. Or maybe I can make my own sunshine out of hope and determination. (and a little bit of whisky?) I am ready. Or I will be, as soon as I shave my legs...

Things I Should Give Up

Everybody is yammering about Lent, and, being a Recovered Homeschooler, it is against my religion to miss out on anything that everybody is doing, so I am here to yammer about Lent as well. Last year, for Lent, a day or two after it started when I finally realized what Everybody was yammering about, I decided to give up alcohol, which went great for 4-5 days until I began rationalizing that wine isn't the same as other alcohols because it's Biblical, and started the slippery decent into wanton abandonment of self-deprivation.

This year, rather than kidding myself about giving something that I may or may not be addicted to up, I find myself forced into yielding another layer of self-image that I have fought so fiercely since I was 15 years old to establish and maintain. This lent, I sit on my ever widening rear end and I release the adamant insistence that I am Peter Pan. At least physically. I will somehow come to terms with the Peter Pan in my soul that my nursemaid nana exterior can't keep up with, and I will accept the limitations that years of abuse and neglect have put on my body. Since the lat surgery, and the accident, I have gone progressively downhill and can't muster up the gumption to take painkillers and push through. Probably because taking painkillers and pushing through in the past has taken a higher toll than I could see through my Peter Pan eyes. Suddenly I realize that if I do not heal properly, this level of immobilization could become lifelong and permanent. I am terrified of being always in this state of pain and exhaustion. And so I relinquish, this Lent, my need to be tough. My need to be be there for every drama practice, every minute of work, all of the places that I believe I am needed. Somehow I will overcome the panic I feel of missing out, and letting people down, and being forgotten when I cannot carry my share of the burden. That's the real thing. Peter Pan's greatest fear. To be forgotten. To have the nursery window closed because he was away for too long and there is no place for him. Or for Tiggger to find out that he is not the only one and that his bounce has turned into more of a geriatric wobble.  Growing old is hard, especially when denial has compromised your ability to heal, and your ever youthful mind is up against a body that has been taken advantage of. I know that I will get better. And I also know that by then, I won't be forgotten and not very window will be closed. But letting go of the burning NEED to be ever present in the lives of as many people as I can is as hard to give up as wine. Almost.

I struggle with immense guilt for not being at work. Not cleaning my house and proving myself useful. To the extent that I asked the doctor for a note, excusing me from school, errr, work, and I tried to give it to all of the office ladies so they would know that I wasn't faking or being lazy, and they all looked at me like I was... Well, homeschooled. My house is trashed. Every cell in me itches to just pick up That One Thing. And then the next, and the next, and OhMy look at that dust... But no. Tonight, people will walk in my door and I will judge myself through their eyes and think "man, she was here all day on her butt (sorry mom) and look at this mess!" when in reality, if they are like me, they are thinking, oh thank god,  I'm not the only one. This lent, I am going to work on not allowing myself the judgement. Not clinging ferociously to some image that is really not me anyway. Peeling off a layer of that ugly onion of Trying To Impress People, and just breathe. Accept where I am, plan for the future. Hope I don't lose my job and trust that I will still have value in the eyes of the people I are about. Even if I am not Peter Pan. On the outside.

Things That I Shouldn't Talk About

Let's get this out there:

I am a reluctant believer. As in, I believe in God against my own stubborn will. If you have questions about this, then read : Things That I Believe . 

I am also against politics. As in, I hate them. I think they should go away. I think people spend so much time worrying about GREAT BIG THINGS that really don't matter that they miss out on all of the Best Little Things that are really what life is all about. If I didn't face immense guilt for not voting, I would not vote, but being related to the people that I am related to, the guilt is immense and imminent. Not that the ballot doesn't occasionally slip into the envelope missing a few marks here and there. Most of the problem is that I am uneducated. And in order to feel like I am not making The Worst And Most Uninformed Decision Ever, I would need to educate myself, which would require reading a lot of things and trying to weed through the biases and getting Really Ticked Off at people who can't just Be Logical and Do The Right Thing, but have to make laws about it. Then I just start writing my own laws about death penalties for petty people and mandatory sterilizations and it really isn't healthy. So I am against politics. 

Every once in awhile though, a Facebook rampage catches my eye and I feel compelled to say Something. But once again, I am forced to educate myself, which I did a little bit this time, really by reading some heavily biased articles on both sides and trying to read between the lines to see what the issue really was, but I also went to some government websites to check things out. I was pretty proud of myself. And if you correct my incorrect referencing in this blog, I will probably block you. 

In case you aren't aware of it, I was homeschooled throughout my K-12 lifespan. I guess there were like 5 days in a Christian Kindergarten, but I only remember the potato stamps and the tape decks with headphones and Sarah T wearing a zip sweatshirt with nothing underneath which violated my accelerated 5 year old fashion sense. It was purple though. Kudos on color choice, Toed. So back to being homeschooled: I was. And I don't regret it. Not for one second, as if I had any choice. But watching my 16 year old Tigger daughter go through several public high schools is enough for me to know that homeschooling was probably not a bad choice for me: someone else's 16 year old Tigger daughter (thanks mom and dad). I am not against homeschooling. But even with aforementioned 16 year old, I wouldn't consider doing it myself for my own kids for many reasons, the first of which is the ENORMITY of information that I didn't receive and have spent years chasing (also not a bad thing), as well as the total unabashed humility to admit that I Do Not Have (really any) All Of The Answers So Don't Ask Me, and the athletic and vocational opportunities I didn't get. 

If done well, homeschooling can be a powerful thing. I have RARELY, very very rarely, seen it done well. My mom, bless her heart, was the Champion of Effective Homeschooling, and my siblings and I have her to thank for our above average communication and questionable, if subjective, reasoning skills. However, I'd venture to say that she will admit that somewhere in the middle of educating her 6 kids and the drama that life with all of them brings, some of her hardcore educational steam wore off. I personally hold Bill Gothard and his ATIA booklets from Hades responsible for her loss of motivation, along with the implosion of our family and the loss of a brother and some other cult-like dealings we faced. But if homeschooling was ever done right, my mom was on that track.

All of that being said, I see this story pop up on Facebook about this persecuted homeschooled family, the Romeike's. Of course all of my remaining Christian Home Schooling friends (some of which ARE doing it right, I believe) are posting it because, oh the horror, of seeing religious liberties, the thing this nation was founded on, revoked or withheld. My other friends, (you know who you are) of the left wing bent, anti homeschool and anti god in some cases, are posting the story because, oh the horror, of the hypocrisy of supporting immigrants with threatened religious beliefs in the face of denying immigrants who seek survival outside of their impoverished homeland. And of course, according to some, it's all Obama and his nasty administration's fault. And according to others, homeschooling is a privilege not a right and we can't support the brainwashing of children by crazy parents any more than the German government can. Strong feelings on both sides. I read the articles. On both sides. I did some hunting. Because for me, homeschooling is my heritage, and I am curious about it's ramifications; I have also been to Germany and was profoundly impacted by the governmental regulations on religious practice, where the pastors are all state employees. And so I wonder, what is the right thing? Morally, ethically, legally, in this situation. The cynic in me supports deporting over-productive families who are against Harry Potter. The libertarian in me stands staunchly in their defense. The rationalist that I would like to imagine being says that the ISSUE is very much NOT the issue. So back off, Michael Farris. 

So where did the Romeike's go wrong, and ethically, what is the right answer? Which might not coincide with the correct legal answer...

The Romeike's have found a friend and a defender in Mike Donnely, a lawyer for The Homeschool Legal Defense Association. While Mr. Donnely makes many valid points about religious freedom and the right in the US to homeschool, he is overshooting the legal issue of how the Romeike's got here: seeking political asylum. The constitution grants political asylum or refugee status to "to people who have been persecuted or fear they will be persecuted on account of race, religion, nationality, and/or membership in a particular social group or political opinion. "  http://www.uscis.gov/humanitarian/refugees-asylum . Refugee status is legally granted to "people outside of their country who are unable or unwilling to return home because they fear serious harm." While the Romeike's were denied the right to homeschool in Germany, it can be questioned whether they truly qualify as refugees. If the Romeike's had immigrated to the US for work opportunities and acquired their citizenship according to the same path that workers from Mexico or other countries would, this issue would never have presented itself to the federal court system. But the Romeike's seem intent on making this an issue of religious liberty and "persecution" they may have faced in Germany, which I am sure makes the German government feel very supportive of them, as well as Obama or any president or administration. The Romeike's would have you believe that 'serious harm' would include the mandatory public education or state approved private education of their children or having their children removed from their home. The main objection to enrolling their children in state approved public or private school is their lack of opportunity to teach their children Christian principles. Unless Germany is doing something totally weird, most school days are less than seven hours, leaving a large remaining chunk of time for parental influence. The "serious harm" might refer to the very large fines that the Romeike's were faced with paying, but most likely the thing they fear the most is having their children's thoughts directed by someone other than themselves. Which for many, is the most terrible thing. Homeschooling, in my best and most well informed and experienced opinion, is by ALL MEANS a privilege, and should probably be a right. If it is not, are parents precluded from educating their children in any religious vein that they choose during non-school hours?

For me, the legal thing is not the ethical thing, and vise verse. Sure, they should be allowed to stay and work their way toward citizenship, assuming they are "a person of good moral character, attached to the principles of the Constitution of the United States, and well disposed to the good order and happiness of the United States during all relevant periods under the law". http://www.uscis.gov/us-citizenship/citizenship-through-naturalization/path-us-citizenship But to attempt to do it through the pathway of political asylum is where, in my mind, they went wrong. If I was a judge, I would have to rule that they do not qualify under that status. Much the same as the jury who will side with the plaintiff for a giant settlement against an insurance company that was in no wise responsible, just because "they have more money than they know what to do with" (I sat on this jury, ladies and gentlemen), the court cannot grant asylum just because it would be "really great" if the Romeike's can stay. They need to find a legal pathway that has nothing to do with homeschooling or persecution, unless someone is missing some fingers....  But that is just my two sense, and what do I know?

I guess my point in saying all of this is that I shouldn't ever host political opinions, because I realize I open myself up for an onslaught of debate, and I really can't stand seeing it on my page even if I initiate it. I also openly admit that I am SURE that I am missing some facts and don't know the whole story. Do we ever? But since my Facebook page was slathered with this stuff anyway, and since anytime I see the words HOMESCHOOL, MICHAEL FARRIS, or PERSECUTION on my page I get a little bristly, I just wanted to throw out there some considerations that might not be the BLACK/WHITE that the media is feeding us. In closing, I hope that the Romeike's can stay. Not as political refugees but as good people concerned with the raising of their children in the best way that they know how. I do not hold Barack Obama or anybody in the judicial system responsible for the loss of their appeal. And once again, I hate politics, and we are missing the big picture.

Things That Are Gross*

Ringworm. There it is. I said it. I owned it and acknowledged it. It's out. The shame is made public and I no longer have to live in hiddenness and lies.

A few weeks ago, the hormone fluctuations from my recent hysterectomy overcame me and I suddenly had weird maternal-ish nesting-type impulses and I needed a kitten. Somehow I took a parking lot commission from Josh when he said that a gray one was cuter than an orange one in this totally defrauding picture on the Facebook Classifieds, and so I got both. Both gray and orange kittens, which came complete with ringworm, which now infects officially one third of the elementary school. This is not an exaggeration. Anyone who knew the first name of any of my children contracted ringworm by osmosis. The principle was so grossed out that he sent two whole families home (one of which was mine), until the doctor personally called him to calm him down. (SLIGHT exaggeration). Thanks to my stupid, hormonal cuddling instincts.

SPAWN OF SATAN!!!^^^^

In other disgusting news, I also have a wart on my toe which started long before my hysterectomy or my newest hormonal upheavals. A wart that hurts like someone is drilling into the joint of my left baby toe with an ice auger that is on fire. I didn't know that warts hurt until this one did. I have treated it with everything I can think of, including but not limited to: duct tape, apple cider vinegar, OTC wart remover, colloidal silver, oil of oregano and industrial freezing at the doctors office, and so far, it's only gotten worse. It's almost like God is just saying to me that He wants me to have a disgusting, filthy world full of warts and fungus. He wants me to know that I live in the Dirtiest House That Ever Stood, even though we just cleaned it really well on Sunday. I feel like I should have to shower three times before I am allowed to go to work, and I need to apologize for the wart on my toe to everyone that can't even see it. I blame the frogs I have been kissing. You know who you are. On the positive side of all this, the pain from my warty toe gets so bad sometimes that it distracts me from my post-surgery non-uterine pelvic pain. So that's good.

It's kind of ironic and hilarious (if you have had enough wine to make it so) that before I'd even had those darn kittens for two weeks that I was already disgusted by them. (DO NOT TELL JOSH) I am not convinced that any amount of adorable-hanging-from-the-curtains-and-the-screen-door can make up for ringworm, or the collection of little kitten potties that we found in my canning kettle, which was sitting on the dining room floor for days. Why? You ask? I have no idea. Because sometimes canning kettles just live in the dining room. On the floor. Nor do I know why kittens would poop in a canner when there is a perfectly good litter box nearby. Because kittens are foul, disgusting little entities of horridness that out on a cute disguise and then ruin your life. Our kittens, Whisky and Daisy, now live outside. ENTIRELY outside. Which worked great until they found the dog door. Now the dog door has to be locked, so we come home to the occasional puddle of unclaimed dog pee in the laundry room, near the dog door, with an imaginary note that says "I'm sorry. I tried." Anyway, I no longer drink Whisky Daisies.


*Author's note: This was originally composed in mid January. Being completely overwhelmed and disgusted with everything, I couldn't air it publicly until now. There were many things that I just couldn't choke out in this setting. And then there were so many things that I hadn't said, it was like when you don't do any laundry for SO LONG that it seems like it would just be easier to burn down the house and go shopping for new clothes because you have no idea where to begin. But then you get that first load of disgusting, moldy clothes all fresh and perky from the dryer, and it motivates you to force the kids to do all of the rest of the laundry. Except if I turned kids loose on catching up my blog, I can only imagine... Shudder to think. (so much for transparency and not living in hiddenness.)
But for the record, the ringworm is all but gone, with a few remaining traces that are there just to remind me of HOW GROSS.

Things I am Catching Up On

It's been awhile, y'all. I know that. So much is happening, sometimes I can't keep my mind in one place long enough to commit any thoughts that are connected in any way into writing. My brain is an indoor ping pong game. Like my nephew Judah, I have random floating thoughts and ideas screaming through my head at mach 4, creating a mashup of Special Ed issues and Pinterest Projects and SHOPPING impulses, with an occasional collision of philosophical dreams and physical ailments... It's a danger zone, and I wish that I shared Judah's traffic jam of superheroes and meal combination ideas, musical notes and strange noises, and the totally arbitrary lego piece or toy weapon flying through.  Mine is MUCH too grown up. Sometimes.

I realize I owe y'all a few stories. Or endings. Or explanations.

First of all, Josh went to boot camp and came home. That was 2 months of holidays and single parenting that went a lot better than I had anticipated, except for Josh, who was being screamed at while folding t-shirts with tweezers. I definitely had the better end of that whole deal, even though the  pellet stove kept breaking and I had some flat tires and surgery and blah, blah, blah.

Which leads beautifully into #2 catchup item: My surgery(s). I have had two. They were both WONDERFUL. In case you were curious about what or why I actually had these surgeries, the first was to remove my uterus which was badly engorged with Adenomyosis, and the doc (and me) sincerely hoped that yanking it out would take away the aforementioned pain. It did. For a month or so, except when I wasn't taking it easy, which was all of the time, so really, it didn't help. The doc mentioned that I had some ugly varicose veins on my left ovary which MIGHT be part of that left sided pain problem, or it MIGHT subside once the pressure from my swollen uterus was removed. It didn't subside, but it was definitely part of the problem, so two months after surgery number one, the doc went in and yanked out the left ovary. God willing, this is the fix. And if I would stop getting in car wrecks and going on hikes, twerking on the dance floor and showing Peter Pan (see item #7) how to dive off of marooners rock, or shadow how to collapse to flat and disappear on the stage, I will finally be pain free. It's just over two weeks since surgery and all of those things have inhibited my healing so I am still in pain. But after the car accident (see item #6), both the chiropractor AND the doctor told me to stay home from work, which I still didn't do, until the lawyer said that we wouldn't get any kind of sympathy from insurance if I was disobeying doctors. RARRRR. So now I am homebound. A little. Almost. Except for the Irish Dance show which is tonight and I made 6000 cookies for (with help) and Peter Pan next week, which I have replaced myself as Nana with a small, non-hurting child. I don't have time to stay.still. But I can't afford to destroy my body anymore. But back to surgery: I have decided that if I could have a surgery every week I would, for several reasons:

•  they MIGHT take away the pain that has become a routine part of my life {parenthetical pause: this pain that has lasted for 3+ years is something I am so used to that when the doc asks me to rate my pain on a scale of one to 10, I say about a 6-7 (using childbirth as the litmus) and then tell a joke, because a 6-7 is WAY better than the 8-9 I was in before I took the drugs that made me nauseous and crabby. end parenthetical pause} 
• they give me REALLY good drugs that make everything in the world seem AWESOME (cue Lego Movie Song) 
• I get to be lazy and do nothing for at least a couple of days and people do stuff for me, like make Chicken Kiev (I love you Em), and Tater Tot Casserole (I love you Andrea) and get me water. And wine. And roses. And chocolate. And take me shopping right after I get out of surgery so I can spend money at Victoria's Secret in a glorious drugged stupor, and I am so cute, nobody argues with me (thanks Josh). Or at least that's how it feels - the cute part.

• if I work it REAL GOOD, or say, get in a car accident, or tackled by a flying 18 year old partridge with Cerebral Palsy, I get to take some MORE time off because I can't walk and stuff. 

EVERYTHING IS AWESOME!!!!

Which is a beautiful transition into number #3 catch up item: The Lego Movie. Go see it. #SPACESHIP!!!!!

#4 catchup item: Hotpants. I know. I told you all about these awesome hot pants that cost a bunch of money but were going to make me skinnyrealfast. So, what happened is this: I ordered the Zagorra Hotpants, and they never came. It was only like $100 of getting nothing, so I didn't really care at first. I finally cared, when I remembered not getting them, and turns out, they got sent to my old house in Bend. Which is weird. Luckily the people in our old house are friends, so when I went down there to pick up or drop off Halle (don't remember which), I picked them up, along with some free PINK! headphones from Victoria's Secret PINK!, for being one of their best customers ever (and Josh thought all of that PINK! stuff was a waste of money. HA.) (EVERYTHING IS AWESOME!!) And some other random things that we had either left or received after we left Bend. So I got the pants sometime around Thanksgiving. The first thing I noticed was that they fit. This was very important since I measured myself repeatedly (mostly because I kept getting dizzy from sucking everything in and couldn't remember the measurements) and was right between a small and a medium. But I followed Josh's continuing advice: "get the smaller one. you don't want to get any bigger.", "don't give yourself permission to gain any weight." "in 6 months it will fit. you just have to work at it.". And so I ordered the smalls. And they fit. With a little bit of sucking in. The next thing I noticed. RIGHT AWAY, is that they are noisy. Very noisy. To the point that they made an excellent source of embarrassment for my high school junior daughter - I would rub my legs together intentionally when I passed her in the hallway, just to make her groan. I know, I wasn't wearing them to "work out", which is what they are designed for, but right after surgery, just going to work feels remarkably like a workout. So I wore them to work. And I wore them on a fun little hike in the snow that I shouldn't have gone on so soon after surgery. So my impression of them, other than the noise, is that they are very painful, but probably it wasn't the pants' fault. I am not sure if I lost any inches when I wore them, because when I peeled them off, all sweaty and dripping, I was too tired to measure myself. which is ok because I forgot to measure myself before I shimmied awkwardly into them. Shimmy sounds more cute and attractive than what I actually did to get them on. It was more like a seizure crossed with jumping jacks. And weird grunting sounds to mix with the swishing pant sounds. But they're cool, and most importantly - THE SMALLS FIT. 

Catch up item #5: The kids. 

1. Halle just swept state Nordic Ski competitions, applied for summer fire jobs and is accepted to any of the community colleges she wants to go to. 
2. MacKenzie has had a major attitude transformation, thank the Lord, and has been very sweet, but not precluding the occasional run in with, ahem, some storytelling and fudging the facts here and there. Her grades have come up considerably since Bend and she has had a lot of boyfriends. 
3. Nattie's best bunny rascal died. We were all very sad. But I think you already knew that. Her grades are awesome, her room is clean, she's playing cello again, and she's just the all around Nattie. 
4. Aspen has a big Irish Dance show tonight and then plays Tinkerbell next weekend in the school production of Peter Pan. I would like to tell you that all of this positive attention isn't going to her head, but listening to her withhold her puffy Cheetos from friends and throw little tantrums when she doesn't get her way, tells a different story. 

And about Peter Pan (catch up item #6): I voluntarily placed myself as a helper in the highschool drama class with one of our SPED students, which was probably a little selfish on my part, but somehow, and honestly completely without my interference but with my full support, they decided that they wanted to do Peter Pan. Obviously I moved in and sort of took over... Because, well, Peter Pan is my THING. I hope Mrs. Wilson doesn't hate me. But I am kind of a soldier in the defense of not destroying the IDEA of Peter Pan, so I am a little picky. Also uninfluenced by me (seriously), they held auditions and cast Aspen as Tinkerbell. I was surprised and somewhat skeptical. But she's pulling it off in true, adorable, Aspen style. I was relegated to play the dog Nana because none of the kids would, and according to the resident-15-year-old-type-A-controller of all things drama, I make a really good dog. Turns out the doctor thinks otherwise, and the really awesome costume I got didn't fit (clearly I am not a small in dog costumes), so I have replaced myself. I think it will be a very good show, even if I am not playing Peter Pan, which is a source of much bereavement to me. Not only did the kids not CLAMOR to make me The Pan, they relegated me to the nursemaid dog. Woe is me and the end of my youth! OLD! ALONE! AND DONE FOR!

Catch up item #7: The crash. Milepost 91, six miles south of Ritzville on HWY 395, in a frozen slush blizzard, a lady passed us going 80, lost control, and we played bumper cars down the road for a few hundred yards. Our car was totaled, and we didn't break any bones or tear any skin, but we're both a tied up wreck of ribs out of place and textbook whiplash injury - me to my lumbar spine and josh to his upper back. We were the only two in the rig, thank goodness, except Dagny, but I grabbed her and was probably more concerned with her not flying through the air than I was with guarding my own recent surgery sites. Poor me. I am sore. 

I know there are a lot of other things to catch up on, but I have exhausted my mental resources for today and am highly distracted by the freshly baked Gingersnaps in the kitchen. I think I will go see if I can eat myself out of those size smalls and leave you with this amazingness... 

Things You Have Missed

I've been absent for awhile, I know. And whether you actually missed me or not, I am going to pretend that you did and you have been pining for my words of wit and wisdom for the weeks I have been missing. I think a lot of those words got swallowed up in messy letters to Josh at bootcamp, and absorbed in the fiery ball of energy expenditure that has become my "work life", which comes precariously close to eating up that distant thing called my "personal life". Balance eludes me right now, but it's not all bad. I threw myself head first into a Christmas production at the school, and by head first, I mean literally, when our high school senior with cerebral palsy jumped from his ref-stand perch onto my head, knees first. It's just that he was the partridge, and apparently he confused my head with a pear tree, or something, and the guys on the rope were clearly not ready for him to fly. I am still recovering, but I need the name of a good chiropractor in Northern Stevens County. And a massage therapist. And a hot tub. And a psychologist.

I miss Josh. I do. All the time. I miss the balance he brings to my chaos. Without him, I am just unbalanced chaos. I will say that this lack of balance makes me inordinately grateful for my family and friends. The ones who fix pellet stoves, and loan me computers, and show me how to repair my washing machine that quit draining two weeks ago and smelled like one of Santa's Elves pooped in it. I am so thankful for pizza, and more pizza, and then leftover pizza. And kids who only complain a little. I am grateful for a big bag of a custom roast from Stedy's Coffee, which is best when Kizzie makes it for me. I am thankful for comfortable boots - a whole closet full. And a ferocious wiener dog waking me up in the morning. I've got it good, you guys. Real good. You should be jealous. Even though every coat we own, collectively, is on the floor right now, along with one mitten apiece from at least 500 pairs, and more snow boots than this family could possibly wear at one time. The driveway is littered with sleds broken to varying degrees, sitting abandoned at the bottom of The Best Sledding Hill we've ever had. (Hence the brokenness) The snow is falling to cover the neon plastic pieces, and it is truly picturesque. The dishes that haven't been done in days are mostly eggnog and pepsi glasses, mulled wine mugs and candy bowls. And a few empty pizza trays. Signs of good things going on here.

Irish Dance is done til January. School is done til January. Work is done til January. Now it's all The Holidays. Holiday present wrapping, Holiday dish washing, Holiday laundry, Holiday cookies. I am not even going to pretend to try to send out "Christmas Cards" until Valentine's Day. So quit holding your breath, family. We made an elderly neighbor's whole week when we baked his great grandmother's ginger cookies for him. Batch two delivers today. We lost a very special bunny, but a very special shop teacher helped to make it a little easier.

We made the whole Holiday season for an 18 year old partridge who was the star of potentially the Worst Christmas Program ever, wherein he took 2 (TWO) unplanned nosedives onto the well placed gym mats. We shopped relentlessly for two little girls from the tree of sharing and had WAY too much fun. We fed no fewer than 11 high schoolers after early release yesterday. (Something about "waiting for basketball practice" or something.) Last night, after a three hour nap, I took my one remaining child out for a burger at the Whitebird. Then we watched a terrible Christmas Movie and wrestled with the Middlesworth boys until bed time. The fact that Kizzie can still wrestle with/beat up three or four teenage boys in a non-scandalous way is pretty rad. But noisy. and Ridiculous. Nattie played cello with a community choir after a week of practice and looked like an angel (she sounded good too). We made 9 ginger bread houses with 11 kids. And nobody got killed. I have somehow miraculously been able to keep money in the bank, pay the bills, and overspend for Christmas, all at once. Aspen danced like a fairy at two nursing homes, and we weren't late for either show. As much as I feel overwhelmed with things to do, I feel overwhelmed with what I have done, and what I have received from it.

I feel a million years old and a younger than springtime all at once. I am craving Russian Teacakes/Mexican Wedding Cakes, or whatever you call them, Christmas Movies and a couch with a blanket. I am ready for snowy road trips, too much family (no such thing), long standing, much debated traditions, and new ones that will be hotly argued in years to come. I will miss Josh next to me. His well voiced opinions chiming in on the discussions as a well-informed "newcomer". He fits like he's always been there, and it's a shame to miss another year with him. Every day 17000 amazon packages arrive and I feel giddy with secretish excitement, even when I know what's in them.

It's The Holidays. It's the best time of the year. I am in love with my family, my friends, my home, my job, my world, my man. The only thing that would make this better is having him here.

Things That Keep Getting Better

Ok you guys, I have a LOT of things to complain about. For example, the pellet stove quit working again today and I had to disassemble it and clean it out. It's four days post-hysterectomy for me, and my first full day back at work. My mom/maid/entertainment committee just left me, Dagny won't quit making me throw her giant squeaky tennis ball, and I need a shower. My four little incisions hurt, and my whole body aches because I decided to try to do my SPED kid's physical therapy routine with him and it was a little too soon after surgery. I had a headache all weekend trying to hack into my ever-so-absent husband's bank accounts to pay bills because the blessed bank we use changed their entire online banking system THIS WEEKEND and rendered all of his passwords null and void. My kids are crabby as hell. I am gliding dangerously close to the glowing embers of mild pre-holiday feuds in my family and friend circles that threaten to find me even with my head deep in the sand, singing Christmas carols to myself in rebellion to cultural stigmas of time appropriateness. The very mention of feuds and carols will bring a cascading avalanche of worry down around my psyche, causing me to jump at every text tone and email ding. And I didn't lose 37 pounds in surgery. Rude. 

Since it's November, I am forcing my kids to update their Facebook statuses with thankful thoughts every day. Just to be mean, since their lives are clearly quite difficult. 

And as for me, in spite of all of the things I have to complain about, I am so stinking grateful. So grateful for my good, smart, funny friends and dear, weird, quirky, opinionated family. I am so thankful for surgery and, after four days, being THAT much better. I am so thankful for disgusting vegetable juice that makes me feel like a million bucks, and sometimes exhausting work with special ed kids, and macaroni and cheese made from a box by a ten year old for dinner, and apples in the dehydrator and piles of clean laundry on my bedroom floor for the dogs to sleep in, and a space heater by the bathroom to keep the toilet seat warm, and an iPad since my computer broke, and four badly behaved and utterly bizarre dogs. I am so grateful for a devoted husband who is getting yelled at in boot camp like a reprobate and folding shirts with tweezers and scrubbing stairs with toothbrushes. I am so grateful for insurance that feels just like magic, and a doctor who looks just like Santa Clause and enough money to pay the bills, and enough pellets to stay warm, and enough chocolate cake to stay fat (for a minute). I'm thankful that running The Mile with the kids in PE actually sounded tempting today, and that nobody had terrible gas during class. I'm thankful that sweatpants are cute and sexy in my head, so that my self esteem is regenerated every night on the couch. I'm grateful that Aspen slept with me for two nights and never once kicked me in my stitched up abdomen throughout the duration of her nightly run-in-place-sideways marathons. I am so very thankful for my house. Slightly cleaner now, after Mom's visit, and slightly warmer with the cleaned out pellet stove, the apple dryer running and my absolute inability to get my body's thermostat to function properly. I love my quirky, unfinished, violated by dogs, and kids, and lack of organizational skills, house. I am thankful for grumpy, ungrateful kids, who try hard like me, and fail, like me, and get up and go again. Kids who are smart and gorgeous, and teachers who give hugs instead of yellow slips when someone accidentally throws a fit, or a 1x4, in wood shop. I'm grateful for friends around us who are far from ideal and far from awful. They are just like us, right in the middle of humanness. I am thankful. 

To add the icing to the cake, I am attaching the poem my good buddy wrote for me, or more appropriately, for my dearly departed uterus. It is priceless, like she is ( my friend, not my uterus).

THIS UTERUS

by Tam Smith

This uterus was good to us,

She really was, you see, 

She did her job, a job well done, 

And now Liv has set her free. 

She stretched and shrunk, she shed and bled,

Pro lapsing and relapsing, 

She carried on instead.

The liver and kidneys hated her so,

The bladder thought worse of her too,

How could they know, her time had come, 

Her job in this body was through. 

4 babies she carried so well, with such care, 

No troubles, no worries, no fear.

Liv's uterus was good to us, 

And now she's no longer here. 

Let's raise our wine to this organs' past time, 

To say adios, hip hooray and cheers.

For if she weren't so, then how would we know, 

Life with those four little dears.

Couldn't have said it better myself, George. Lum!!!

Most of all, I am thankful for a cryptic, terrible letter from Josh. And I am thankful that I miss him to the moon and back. 

Things That Keep Going

Today, I handed the receptionist at my Doctor's office an insurance card so new that it still had the sticky gum from the mailing card on the back with NO hair in it. I paid my glorious little copay and I listened to the man who looks, sounds and delivers like Santa Claus, tell me how he was going to remove my uterus, the Bain of My Existence, so simply and easily that I could go back to work the next day if I wanted to be a show-off. I fell in love with my gynecologist. Not romantically, of course, that would be terrible considering that Josh was barely removed from his cell phone at boot camp and here I was, crushing on some white bearded man old enough to be my grandfather. Actually, the very minute I left Dr. Brisbois' office, Josh was being herded into a bus with thirty 18 year-old airman recruits, and handing over his beloved iPhone for ever. Or at least two months, which might as well be forever. His parting words had something to do with what I spent $180 on at Target and that he wished he could watch my surgery. I texted him frantically goodbye as I left the hospital and went to celebrate my impending surgery with my sister over soup, salad and breadsticks. And I have hope. That maybe this two year, literal thorn in my side will go away forever within the month. And all I have is a glorious little copay.  

After the Olive Garden, Em and I continued our celebration/distraction from Josh's loss of connectivity by spending all the money we had, which wasn't much. But we made the most of it. The trouble with shopping with Em is that we want the same things. You'd think, because we're radically different sizes, that this wouldn't be too much of an issue, but when there is only 1(one) hooked wool squirrel pillow in the clearance aisle at Target, things get ugly . That was our last trip to Spokane. This week she ousted me for a pair of Sorel sweater boots that just have "LIV" written all over them, but she found first at Value Village. Needless to say, I am developing a root of bitterness which could easily justify abandoning her as my shopping partner. You're on thin ice, Emily. 

I came home to a mostly cold house, and a brand new pellet stove that just didn't feel like generating any heat. I did what any self respecting, recently single, competent and capable woman would do. I turned up the germ blanket and my heating pad and a space heater in my bedroom. And i settled in for the night. I was thankful enough for the cold outside temperatures which removed the necessity of me unloading all of my groceries before morning, that I felt bad complaining about a slight chill in the air. But then, the guilt of letting poor Nattie, the lone offspring that braved the cold house with me, sleep in a cold room, especially with a snarly little cough and an adult sized dose of NyQuil. So I got online and started googling the symptoms of my renegade pellet stove. After several resetting and cleaning attempts, I turned to my angelic friend Matt, who had spent an entire day off of work to fight with his own chimney, a battle that I understand he lost (momentarily). I figured he was fresh in the middle of all of that HVAC troubleshooting stuff, and turns out, he has some experience with the very stove I was arguing with. He made a couple suggestions, and one broken fingernail, a now immobilized back and lots of pellet shoveling and vacuuming later, WE HAVE HEAT!!! Thanks Matt. May the force be with you as you reengage the evil chimney later. I will bake you cookies, if that helps. 

The house is warming up. I can tell because I can actually feel my nose running now, and before it was numb to the cold drops sneaking out wantonly. Dagny has also realized that she no longer has to dig frantically through a throw pillow on the floor (where throw pillows clearly live, hence the name) in order to avoid hypothermia, so she is chewing several of the escaped pellets into sawdust on the couch. Truck even quit telling me with his paw and his giant sad eyes how terribly cold it was in here. I feel like the savior of the world. A very small,hairy and neurotic world. But at least Nattie will be warm in her NyQuil coma. 

So here's to surviving the first real day of Joshlessness, and coming out mostly on top, minus some really rad sweater boots. Tomorrow we will schedule surgery, and the multi layered countdown to my Total Physical Overhaul, seeing Halle for The Holidays, and Josh Coming Home, becomes one day less. 

Things About Boot Camp

Josh left for boot camp today. And not a week long intensive workout routine designed to slim your hips and thighs. Actual boot camp. Basic training for the Air National Guard, which is like the Airforce, but slightly less serious, depending on who you ask. First of all, boot camp isn't for husbands. It's for 18 year olds who have no idea how to be grown ups or shoot a gun. At boot camp, unless you join the navy, you learn both of those, (if you join the navy you don't get to shoot cool guns at basic) partially. Full fledged husbands with kids and wives and jobs and a lot of dogs shouldn't be going off willy-nilly to boot camp to learn how to Properly Fold Shirts. He will be gone 8 weeks, which means 8 weeks of husbandlessness for me, which May or May Not correlate to two months of poor dietary choices and a lot of pouting. Day one of no Josh and the kids all opted to go to their dad's house for the night, which I am taking as a bad omen.

In salute to Josh's 8 week sufferage, I am dedicating myself to the complete antithesis of boot camp, to restore balance to the universe that is Liv & Josh. I got off to a roaring start tonight by turning every light in the house on and leaving them. Then I ate most of a box of Count Chocula for dinner, and only relented when the roof of my mouth was torn off. I put on my least matching sweatpants and dropped a couple Hundo on Target's website, which gives me free shipping for being So Awesome, and also one of their best patrons. I finally turned off the kitchen light so that I couldn't see the dishes that I refuse to do, and I will probably not brush my teeth before bed. Sometimes I can't remember if I am rebelling against boot camp or Josh himself, but I think maybe he will fit in there just fine, which worries me that he might bring home some new household-running ideas. All the more reason to be wantonly irresponsible before he gets back. Maybe I'll even take a shower until the hot water runs out.

Things About Things

It's not that I am depressed. Really. Fall is my favorite season. The colors and smells and sensations of chilly mornings and warm afternoons are some of the best reason to live in a place with 4 seasons. And Everything is going Really Well. Our house is beautiful. The kids are doing good - minus a little behavior hiccup here and there with a renegade 16 year old. Things are fine, as far as I can tell. But I haven't been able to pick my heart up off of the floor and find Joy. Shame on me, for all of the wonderfulness that is caramel apples and pumpkin carving and costumes and copious amounts of unecessary chocolates should be more than enough to make me giddy in the gradual build up to The Holidays, and all of my favorite everything throughout the next two months. But I am not giddy. I am exhausted. I sleep far more than any human should need to. My pain is really pretty bearable this week. I am not stressed out or overwhelmed by anything. Maybe I am underwhelmed. I feel disappointed in myself. In people, generally. In our potential and our lack of clarity to fulfill it. I feel let down by my own thoughtless choices that hurt people I care about, unintentionally, or sometimes, intentionally. I am annoyed with the easy offensibility of other people. By the energy that people can dedicate to being upset about things. I am irritated with grudges and judgements and cliques and gossip and making things into issues that really don't need to be. But then there I go, judging what is or is not important, according to the gospel of Liv. Not weighing the depth of injury to someone else as the potential for dysfunction. I am hurt by other people being hurt. We are all so silly, human beings.

We found out yesterday that Josh leaves for boot camp on Monday. 8 weeks of no Josh. He would probably have you believe that I am excited to have the bed all to myself and will only miss having someone to nag all of the time, but with MacKenzie around, I should be fine. I know that the empty space that he will leave for two months is going to be oppressive. His highly opinionated and rarely silent voice will be missed, as well as his staunch and sometimes arbitrary harping on futile rules about food in the living room and turning off lights. It will be a long two months, even though they are usually my favorite two months. As much as I like to complain about him, I know that I will miss my best friend desperately.  I've already started a filing system in my head for how I will store all of the information that I won't be able to tell him as it happens. A "while you were out" scrapbook of sorts. I'm going to try to look at it like a prolonged fire season, where the benefits outweigh the taxing distance. I can't afford to think about where he'll be or how he'll survive. I won't know, and the worrying will make me crazy. And angry. And it won't make him call me any sooner. I am putting a lot of mental preparation into this, you guys. I'm getting there. But not really.

Things About Wednesday

It's the middle. It's not the beginning. It's not the end. It's just that balancing spot - the center of gravity of the week, where the drudgery of the first part weighs itself against the relief of the coming weekend, and a chance to start all over. It's like most of my life right now. Wednesday.

My kids are halfway through growing up. They have good moments and bad moments. I am swelling with pride one minute and wallowing in despair the next. One child succeeds and lets it go to their head, another child fails and owns it tearfully in beautiful humility. Not one of them has "arrived", and Lord knows, I haven't either.

If I live to be 72, which is the exact age that my Grandma Schiffman passed away, I am halfway there. It's a good, long life. Maybe not quite long enough. But I am at the Wednesday of my life, or thereabouts, and I can tell. Because I am tired. I am a little bit bored with it, and I wish it was last Saturday. But since last Saturday has come and gone and there's no use crying over spilt milk, I am looking forward to Friday night, which I am assuming comes somewhere between my kids all starting their own lives and when I have to start worrying about grandkids and another whole generation of worries that aren't really mine but I want desperately to help fix. Those grandkids must be Sunday morning, because it's kind of an obligation, and sometimes more work than the weekend calls for, but there is something sweet and necessary and precious about it. The cool thing is, I am also a fan of Thursday, because People My Age still think that you can go do wild and crazy things on a Thursday night, like Drink Wine and Gossip, and you only have to crawl through Friday at work before you can just be done for the week. Unless somebody has Volleyball at 8 AM on Saturday. Or a Pancake Breakfast, or a Mandatory Fundraiser. My method of coping with these realities is just straight-up denial. Don't think about it. Or perhaps even block the recollection of pending responsibility. Consequences are much more meaningful when you have to endure them. And I wonder where MacKenzie gets it?

Wednesday is sweet. Sometimes, I feel like I want to savor it, because the weekend will be here before we know it, and then gone. And then it's Monday again. Monday is all of those years when I was pregnant and wearing TERRIBLE maternity clothes and getting my hair permed and forging my way through a bad marriage. I HATE Monday. Luckily, on a lifetime scale, I don't have to do that again. I hope. It's ALL good from here on out. Days I love. Nothing but relief on the other side. Not that my back won't hurt and I might not have enough money to stay at the Ritz on Friday night, but it's all downhill... right?

I guess this is the stuff that Mid Life Crises are made out of. Men are weird, because a Ferrari and a Much Younger, Hot Girlfriend doesn't sound nearly as fun as putting all of my kids up for adoption and becoming a professional tiger petter in Siberia. Siberian Tigers are beautiful. I would much rather start a Dachshund farm and eat nothing but beets than get involved with another meaningless love affair and a car that hurts to get in and out of. My midlife crisis will be manifest in the investment of copious amounts of Josh's income invested in every item of Denver Bronco's paraphernalia that Victoria's Secret produces from their child slaves in Bangladesh. Oh that sounds horrible. Ok, scratch that. My mid life crisis will be the culmination of the angst of 36 years of dodging and deflection and survival in the form of a book. I just have to figure out what my book will be about. I could really write several books. One would make you cry, one would make you laugh, one would make you ticked off and the other would send you to a loony bin, where I (hopefully) will be hanging out, with awesome drugs and padded walls and somebody telling me which pajamas to wear.

Speaking of pajamas, and mid life crises, Josh has made so many comments about my lack of "cute" jammies lately (probably due to the sheer amount of time I spend in frumpy sweatpants and his own unfulfilled penchant for frilly shorts and garter belts) that I finally got online and ordered some "cute" pajamas to wear while he is working around the house, and I am languishing on the couch. He says it will motivate him. They have nothing to do with a garter belt. But they are shorts. They are frilly. They are pink, and they are covered with wiener dogs which unquestionably qualifies them as "cute". Take that, Josh Weston. Ask and ye shall receive. And I needed jammies a few sizes bigger these days any way. *snotty look. (What???? It's Wednesday!!)

Today, Wednesday, a thousand things went wrong. I cried a little. I dumped on my sister a LOT. I yelled and I hugged and I hurt for my kids. It wasn't the best Wednesday ever. But I have my kids, even if they aren't RIGHT HERE. And they are amazing. I have my family, and they are amazing too. And I have my husband, and even if he complains about my un-cute sweatpants, he's still amazing. Even if I forget sometimes. Usually on Wednesdays. And I have my friends. The ones that can just know. And just understand. And just look forward to Thursday, and then Friday, and then SATURDAY!!!! with me. And Wednesday is a good day. Even when it's not.

Things About Girls

This morning started off AWESOME. I slept in until 9:17. American time. It was epic, and not in the junior high sense of the word. TRULY epic. Josh had snuck off to work at 6:00 or some other God-awful time that I refuse to acknowledge as existing, because people work on Saturdays, apparently. I would have thrown a fit (something I have done a lot of lately, and quite well), except it was nice to have the Whole Bed to myself and not feel guilty for not getting up at a Reasonable Hour. So 9:17 it was, when the tyrant of my body known as a bladder forced me up. And the tyrant of my soul known as Motherhood compelled me to make breakfast for the 37 girls that were sleeping in various inappropriate places around the house. Somebody, who recently had a sleepover for twelve 8-11 year olds, didn't think through the ramifications of letting Everybody have a friend to spend the night. So the female adolescent population in our house doubled overnight. Literally. It really wasn't bad, since Kizzie and her friend were making dinner for us. So after I cooked the chicken and made the alfredo sauce from scratch and found the pan for them to cook the tortellini in, and gave them detailed instructions on How To Slice Bread, Spread Butter, and Sprinkle Garlic Powder, they mixed it together and put cheese on top. It was nice to have a night off. And Kizzie only threw a little fit when I asked her to clean up "their" cooking mess and wash 1/5th of the dishes (I actually thought I asked about all of the dishes, but...).

After getting to bed a little later than I had planned, thanks to an impromptu and overdue downloading session with a buddy and a few drinks, I slept like a baby. Because I had been allowed the privilege of sleeping in, I scurried around like Mother Of The Year and made breakfast for the crew. And then it all fell apart.

The toilet flooded. And by flooded, I don't mean it reached the top of the bowl and a little spilled out. I mean an inch of standing toilet water across the bathroom floor. Lucky for me, I had just picked up the bathmat so that was one less thing to wash. After dealing with the Clog of Unknown Origin, I searched the house for 45 minutes, looking for the mop. I think after the last go round with Josh and some drywall dust, it went into permanent hiding. I finally resorted to using a Swiffer with the useless dry covers, and a very large bottle of Clorox spray. I wasn't too upset until I got toilet water on my new Minnetonkas, because I forgot that you should never walk into a bathroom unless you are wearing rubber boots. It's ok though, because when I was spraying copious amounts of Clorox, I also covered my wet Minnetonkas, so they are now disinfected, and probably ruined. I mean really, when you have 6.5 women and Josh in a house, you can't expect a toilet to not revolt. Not that Josh poops, but...

My mild but well handled frustration at the toilet and Minnetonka situation was exponentiated when I rushed to the laundry room with a dripping pile of towels, only to find a load in the washer of questionable age, and THREE PILES of dog poop. After relocating Dagny to the outside, forever, I cleaned up the poop. I dealt with the laundry crisis in the only reasonable way: denial and ignorance, and finished mopping with seven or eight Swiffer things, found my now cold coffee, and sat down. Half of the girls were gone to volleyball. The rest were hiding, in fear of facing the same fate as Dagny. I chose to ignore the cold puddle of dog pee under the kitchen table, since we ran out of pellets, it will be frozen pretty soon, and I can just chip it up.

Now my house is saturated with the sweet smells of Bacon grease (because I didn't use the Aunt Lynn method, lacking a wire rack or broiling pan), Clorox spray, and stale laundry. My plan for the day is to load up every Scentsy I own, possibly including Santa and The Easter Egg, watch part of a volleyball game, go to town and get my hair done, a pedicure and probably a whole new wardrobe, all after putting my hard boiled eggs away. Because making hardboiled eggs in the middle of German Pancakes and Bacon and Cleaning up poop just seemed logical.

And I Did This.

Things To Confess

Here's some things:

I know that my blog posts have MANY grammatical errors. Most are on purpose. The other ones are plausibly deniable as accidents since I do so many on purpose. I have a strategy. I know grammar. Especially subject-verb agreements. If I screw those up, it wasn't on purpose. But I demand grace. Punctuation wise, I figure I can do whatever I want. Poetic license, y'all.

I drink a lot of wine. Some nights a bottle even. Some nights, slightly more. Some nights, it's not enough. If I only drink a little, it only makes me keenly aware of how little I have had and How Entirely Much My Body Hurts. I have decided to err on the side of excess. It's working so far. I ran out of Prozac like a week ago and nobody is dead, that I have noticed, anyway. That means it's working.

I work in special education now. I always thought that special education was referencing the specifically designed teaching plans for kids with disabilities of all sorts. Turns out special ed is actually talking about what the people working with these kids are learning. Like how to shoot someone with a carrot out of your nose. Or how to flunk a test on purpose and nobody will make you read anything beyond a 4th grade chapter book, ever. Or how hand washing is a very good reason to run away and sit with your back pressed against a door for a Very Long Time, making your helper feel like an idiot that can't talk a kid into a little bit of personal hygiene. And coloring skills. MAD coloring skills.

I miss Halle. I sometimes cry when I think about her dragon pictures. And how they aren't here. And how nobody asks ridiculous questions except Aspen, who is young enough to justify it. And nobody eats All Of The Chili. I have been putting together a care package that can't possibly hold all of the things I want to send her, but then I get questions about What It Is That She Could Need So Badly That I Would Pay The Ridiculous Postage and I answer : ME. She needs me. She needs us. She needs stupid little pieces of her family, overdried apples and dorky hats she left. Her exorbitantly expensive Zorro costume and Aspen's instruction following test, which she failed. She needs candy corn and punkins and a lot of other stuff that wouldn't fit even if it would somehow miraculously arrive without shattering. I keep thinking I should just wait until we "go visit". But the visit keeps getting farther out of reach. Especially now that I sold my soul to the devil called A Full Time Job. I miss her.

I finally went to the doctor. I told him I finally had insurance and we should test everything, so we did. We found out that I need more Vitamin D, I have no STDs,  and that my back is not, in fact, technically broken. And then I found out that my insurance doesn't kick in until November 1st. I haven't figured out how to break the bad news to Josh, so I figured a public forum, where he can't yell at me and stare with those Big Incredulous Eyes, and make speculations about the Grave Amount Of The Bill, would be the safest. I am hoping, since the people at the clinic are nice, that they will let me make a lot of Very Small payments on the battery of useless tests that I had done. Including x-rays, which, last time I checked, weren't cheap. And before you remind me about the Affordable Care Act, or the charities that help people in our spot, I've already checked. We're too rich for charity, and even if/when I enroll in an ACA, it won't go into effect until January 1st, which is close to the time I would also be eligible for Tri-Care through the military, but by then, my new grown-up job insurance will be going strong. And I will be making Very Small Payments to NE WA Medical Group. Forever. But at least my back isn't broken, it just feels that way.

NPR released the First Listen: Magpie and the Dandelion on their website, yesterday, maybe, or the day before. Normally, when it is time for the inagural audition of a new Avett Album, I have time to sit, quietly, with wine, and deliberate on the wonder, or the disappointment (rarely, but occasionally) and listen. Not so much with this one. Here I am, two days late, with my wine, complete with an assortment of fruit flies. Dogs in my lap with drywall mud in their hair. Josh and the shopvac working merrily on the last of the living room walls (GOD BLESS HIM), and I am listening. You guys, I'll be honest: I liked I & Love & You. It was no Emotionalism. It certainly wasn't a Mignonette. It wasn't even a Gleam II, in my book. But it was good. The Carpenter was up a few ticks on my best of list. But still not Swept Me Away, Avetty goodness. But Magpie and the Dandelion, as if the name wasn't enough to win your heart forever, is good. It's old fashioned, raw Avett passion and exposure. Confession. Relatable Humanness. It is beautiful. I won't lie, I am as judgemental as the next judeo-christian backslider that can't get away from their guilt driven conscious and uneasiness about life in general, so I had a bit of a hiccup in the Seth scandal, whether he and his "January Wedding" bride split because of his TV star girlfriend or not. And truth be told, I have always been team Scott in all of my Avetteering. But I heard the first few lines of "Bring Your Love To Me", and I was done. Seth was exonerated of all potential wrongdoing. And then Scooter started into "Apart From Me" wherein Joe Kwon takes my heart out and chews it into tiny pieces, and it was all over. It's like Bush's "Glycerine", except Gavin Rossdale is a hick in this one, and the words make sense.  And the boys were back. Up on that pedestal of This Is The Stuff That Family, Community, And Life, Is Made Of. And then they sing "Souls Like the Wheels", which has been at the top of my charts since I visited Lake Tahoe with my mom in 2009. It's a good album. If you like raw, open humanness. Hurt and failure and Fixing It. I like it. Give me a hundred more listens and it might be in my top 5 albums. It's the old Avetts again. It's Seth crooning, and Scott pleading. And beautiful. And fun. Josh says it's negative. That's like saying that fall is negative. Everything is dying. But it's coming back. And it's beautiful. And it's sweet. And it's my favorite...

One more thing: I got sent home from school today for making a poor wardrobe choice. Not like Janet Jackson, more like all of the 9th graders at Northport High School, but not really. I wore a fire sweatshirt, from the Whiskey Complex, that, admittedly, has a logo that closely resembles the Jack Daniels label. A conscientious adult would have thought through the ramifications of this emblem, working in a special ed room, or any school, but true to form, I didn't. In fact, I was so desperate to just manage WALKING this morning when I woke up in Three Thousand Worlds of Pain, that I didn't care. They were kinda lucky I wasn't in Corona Beer Pajama Bottoms (half of the juniors were). Not that I own any... yet. But a parent complained that I was wearing an "alcohol shirt"; justifiably so, and I trudged home, in an aura of deja vu that threw me right back the years at Marble when I walked home from church, or dance practice, or prep school class, or drama class, or family meetings, or potlucks, or WHATEVER, because I was wearing something INAPPROPRIATE. It's like my theme. I am an adult. You'd think I would know better. But I think I spent so many years living in One Extreme, that I am not sure where the balance is anymore. AND I am a bit of a rebel anyway. AND I was told there was no dress code. AND it was cozy. AND the pain seemed more important. At the time. I might have shed a tear of injured pride on the way, but they'll never know. Unless they read this.

It's been a rough week, y'all. Compared to the week that my favorite Trent and Tam have had, mine has been a dream. I can't complain. But I do. And I will. And I am sorry.

These are my confessions. A few of them. I will have more later.

Things We Haven't Earned

Dear World:

My friends need help. They're people like me and you, so they don't DESERVE help, because they're stubborn and radically independent and proud and maybe self-involved,  but like me and you, they need it. Just a little bit of help. Just a leg up, or a kick in the rear, or an apple pie, piping hot, delivered to their doorstep (or you can deliver those here to my house, I will see that the sentiment is conveyed). They've fallen into some rough times, like all of us do, and for all of their hard work and determination and independence, they got knocked down again. They're young, and strong and healthy. They believe in providing for their own. They believe their own includes the family and friends that God has put in their way to trip over and laugh at and just enjoy life with. Three years ago they paid through the nose to help our family when we needed it. They didn't care. If it meant rice and beans for a year, they would have paid. And now it's their turn.

There isn't any fall back plan because the fall back plan fell back before they did. There isn't any insurance because the Affordable Health Care act didn't get Affordable until it was too late, and even then it wouldn't have been a lot of help. Explain to me how a family with 5 adorable kids and self employment taxes can also afford medical insurance and all of the other "necessary" things in this day and age. I have been working on this problem over for years, as a single mother and as a married one. If you work hard, you can't afford insurance. If you don't work hard, or at all, you might get free insurance, and food, and whatever, but you can't live with your self. Or some of us can't. They couldn't. They work hard. Harder probably than most of you can imagine. Maybe that's because they have five kids, including a set of twins, and working hard is the only way to avoid another episode of My Little Pony or Go Fish.

Either way, they are now faced with a mountain - or maybe a continent - of medical bills, and a long, long road to recovery that is unimaginable for most of us. For me it is. Weeks of "DO NOT LIFT THAT!" for a man who has never NOT done something to take care of his own in his whole life. He has worked through broken bones and double pneumonia and a pregnant-with-twins wife who had raging hormones that are comparable even to my own, and he never slowed down. Whether this is a diversionary tactic, workaholism or a true providers spirit, I am not sure, but he has taken care of his family of 7 with an average age of 15.666667 (this explains A LOT), thoroughly and well. He is no slacker. Neither is she. I saw the quarts of homemade salsa to prove it.

In spite of all of their domestic heroism, there is nothing so special about this family that makes them deserve help. There is nothing special about most of us that makes us worthy of the support of an entire community. Some of us might be bigger contibutors. I donate a lot of crap to Goodwill. But I can't think of anyone that I know that truly DESERVES a community to step in and pay a bill because of any misfortune. Every one of us screws up. They did. I have.  You have. Nobody I know hasn't made a royal joke out of "real life" at some point. But everyone of us is absolutely dependent on each other for moments like this. Moments when it is so far out of our hands that we don't have the right to refuse help. When our pride and our ability and our worthiness are all smashed to the same ground level of rubble. And this is their moment. They need help. Five bucks is five bucks less that they have to pay to bills that are laughably huge. No they haven't earned it. No they don't deserve it. But do any of us, when the hammer comes down, which it inevitably will, at some point for all of us? I have received more help than I can ever repay. From my family and friends and even strangers. I have been repeatedly humbled by the care that I have been provided without warrant. I don't mind when it's my turn to give, because I have received a hell of a lot. And lord knows, I don't deserve it.

Please consider supporting this family of 7 ridiculously awesome, yet undeserving people (with an average age of 15.66667) as they are faced with medical bills and living expenses that are beyond laughable. Please extend the grace and mercy that you can only hope to receive when you take a wrong step and end up on your head in the pit of eternal despair, and you know you don't deserve help, but you know you can't live without it. We've all been there, or will be, and we've all been on the other side, if we have eyes to see, and humility to share.

An account for donations to the Smith family will be set up at Key Bank this Friday. Or you can send money to them through PayPal at tandtsmith7@gmail.com . Or you can contact me if you don't like those options. Or you can mail stuff to THE SMITH AWESOMENESS, c/o Liv Weston & awesome incorporated, PO BOX 723, Northport, WA 99157. Please make all checks payable to Trent and/or Tamara Smith. Or you can deliver firewood, groceries, board games and Coors Light to their house. Contact me for details.

Please share this with your family, friends and strangers. The Smiths might not deserve it, but you never know when you won't either.

Things That God Does

It's been three years this week since I drove from Bend to Spokane in a record number of hours, to walk into Sacred Heart Hospital and see a girl that I hardly recognized as my sister, her face a shade of green that I hardly recognized as human. I am an EMT you guys, I have seen hurt people and dead people and very, very, sick people, and I haven't ever lost composure. But seeing my sister, the one who has always been as much like me as she could manage (because I am AWESOME) look so radically different, and destroyed, was more than I could take. I almost threw up. I nearly passed out. I had to put my head down between my knees and wait for my eyes to recover from a cloud of black that shut out a sight that I just couldn't process. It only took a minute, and I don't think Em saw, but if she did, she doesn't remember, and then I was fine. ish. For two weeks the majority of our family bounced around the halls of that hospital and did whatever we could to piece those Creachers back together. Even if that was just buying lattes and watching Sponge Bob. Mushed into that Stecker, Allers, Creach, Etc, Conglomeration of Helping was a pseudo sister of ours (Em and I), who is married to a pseudo brother of ours, who have been as much sibling to us as our real siblings, even if we don't look anything alike. 

Yesterday was three years to the day that we stood in the ICU of Sacred Heart and held baby Maddie - the one that got away. The ultimate loss of that horrible, horrible accident. It was her birthday, and the day she left us. I watched my sister grieve in a way I can still only imagine, but in a way that broke my heart. You learn how much you love some one when you see them suffer. When you realize that you honestly would do anything to take their pain on yourself, because it would be easier than watching helplessly. You understand what family is. And why it is so very important. And what makes life worth living. I stood there with Tam and my parents, and some siblings. And some nieces and nephews, and there wasn't a soul in the room that wasn't hurting. With Em and For Em and for our own inability to just Make It Better. 

Yesterday, our pseudo brother Trent fell off of a ladder 14 feet in the air. He landed on his head. And in spite of the questionability of how much he uses that noggin - he was hurt badly. He was moved from the ER in Colville to the ICU in Spokane. And on the third anniversary of Maddie's tiny visit to the world, and my brave sister's many hurts, we walked into the same ICU, a few doors away from that room that is burned into my memory for all of time. And there was our brother, and our sister, and Em and Phil, but this time Em was strong and standing and recognizable. And Trent, tall, tough, big, goofy Trent, was broken and bruised and looked like hell - and I told him so. Trent is going to be OK, after a long time of healing. A compound clavicle fracture and broken ribs and a bruised brain, but no permanent loss or damage so far. And we were so grateful. Em said, as we sat in the dark and listened to Trent snore (which is typical and "healthy" for him), how different it seemed, and how good, almost, to be there, in that ICU, with no loss to grieve. Nothing taken from him, from us, that would never come back. His collarbone will heal, his ribs will heal. His brain will heal - he asked if this was gonna make him stupid forever, and Tam told him that she was hoping he'd be better than before. Miracles CAN happen. He was there. His sense of humor. He was recognizable, even with a swollen head and torn up shoulder... it was Trent. Tam asked if he remembered what she told him earlier when she was giving him water from a swab. He said yes, that she had said that he had perfectly shaped lips. She reminded him that she had actually told him that he "sucked", but it was good to know that Trent is still Trent. It will be a long and hard road for him. Mostly because he is stubborn and independent and won't sit still long enough to heal a bloody nose, let alone broken bones and brain injuries. But we're all here. His family and pseudo family. To yell at him and reprimand him and distract him. And we didn't lose. 

Yeah. It SUCKS. It would be a bad thing for any family, but the Smiths - this was the Last Thing They Needed right now. Trent was already caught between a rock and a very hard place before the accident, and working his buns off to fix it. And then, in an instant, he CAN'T. It's out of his hands. It's kind of like a death sentence for an independent guy like Trent who does everything himself. He just CAN'T. Almost everybody I know has been here before. Where we just can't take One More Blow. We are at the end. And then it comes. That last hit. And the moment you realize that it's TOTALLY OUT OF YOUR HANDS. And the only thing that you can do is say, OK. Let go. Start Over. Regroup. Learn. Be humble. Be grateful. And live life One Step At A Time, because there is no other way. I've been there more times than I care to relate, because I am stubborn and I forget that I am not in control of the Entire Universe. Some of us have to be reminded more than others. Like me. And maybe Trent. 

Tam is remarkably at peace. I think she knows that it's beyond her. The impossibility of this situation is in Hands bigger than hers, or Trent's, because that's the only way. All of the fighting, struggling, working - it's like Don Quixote and his Windmill Giants. You just need to know that YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG. Give up. Move on. Be humble. Be grateful... and learn. 

We went out to dinner last night while the nurses were doing their shift change, and in addition to the restaurant being Absolutely Ridiculous, it was Ridiculously Expensive, but in a sneaky way. The hostess at the door assured us that ALL of their ingredients were directly from Italy, and, in her words: "I am not exaggerating like people that work at restaurants are supposed to." Well, hostess lady, I am fairly certain that our Pancetta and Pineapple pizza had Dole pineapple chunks on it, instead of exotic Italian pineapple rings. I am also certain that our "house red", four dollar bottle of Columbia Valley Merlot that cost $32 wasn't from Italy, unless there's a Kennewick in Italy that I haven't heard of... Anyway, it was pretty awesome, in a bad way, and Tam was disappointed that the story of a family member in ICU did nothing for the Chinese waitress to expedite our dining experience, let alone cut us any slack in the bill. This was especially hurtful after PF Changs had written off an entire dinner when Em was in there on crutches after her accident. Tam was dismayed that the clearly not-Italian server couldn't see that her heart was on crutches. It's good to know that we still have fully functional sense of humors around here.

It's one more thing that makes me entirely grateful for my family - real and pseudo, and friends, and that we are back here, where we can help by packing underwear and dropping of corn dogs and tater tots and buying lattes for people just so we feel like we are doing SOMETHING. I love this place, and these people, and sometimes, I hate the processes that we need to remind us of How Good We've Got It, but I know that we'll always be up for the challenge, and the truth of who we are to each other always wins. I love these people. 

But seriously, God, maybe next time lets do June or January, and not Sacred Heart ICU. Because we still remember. I promise. 

Things That Are AMAZING

I have insurance, you guys. For reals. All of a sudden, insurance. The tricky part is, I just started a new job. And I just felt a catch in my throat when I thought about missing time at work, especially after I have worked hard to get a smooth flow, to get "my kids" comfortable with me, in a rhythm... So more waiting. But hopeful waiting. There is light at the end of this tunnel, y'all. I am EXCITED.

I am NOT excited, however, that Josh just got an email telling him he is going to boot camp November 11th. November 11th means he misses Thanksgiving. And Christmas. Someone forgot to tell the Air National Guard how Terrible Important The Holidays are to me. I told Josh I don't know if I could stay married to someone who puts his military obligations before our Family Holidays. But he is a good drywaller. And he gives good back rubs. But another dreary, alone, sad Holiday Season? There isn't a good insurance plan that covers that one!

In addition to all of that amazement, I would also like to fill you in on a little update of my new, working lifestyle. Spending the last couple weeks in some of The Worst Pain Of My Life, which I blame on Josh for no reason in particular other than I can't find anyone else to blame, I have come to realize that even though I wake up in Quite A Lot of Pain, if I don't get something done in the God Awful Early Morning Before School, it will apparently not get done at all within that 24 hour time frame. This translates into me getting up earlier. And earlier. And even earlier. Especially when Terrible Children decide to turn ten and it rests on my pain-wracked shoulders to Make It Happen. This is the second morning in a row that I have been making cupcakes before 7 AM. Did you even know that ovens WORKED before 7 am? I had no idea. Two mornings because of course, it being the school year, and of course, me working at the school now, the only excuse that I had to not provide birthday cupcakes to her entire class was that I was too lazy and wanted to sleep a reasonable number of hours. Clearly not acceptable. So I am now on batch number two, and a massive bowl of manicotti stuffing, which she wanted last night for dinner but I somehow convinced her to have left overs - ok, I just forced her, basically, even though last night was her "real" birthday. So, to avoid the same avoidance of Doing Anything tonight, I made the manicotti this morning.

Two things about making manicotti: don't let husbands or kids make it, they will mess it up. Also: always cut the olives, in the can. If you don't do this already, you should. My friend Trish taught me the trick and then I taught her little sister and took all of the credit myself. It worked out pretty well. All of the angst that you develop when trying to slice a thousand round and rolling olives is equivalent to the amount of angst you will expel when stabbing a knife into a can repeatedly, with or without curse words and graphic visualization. It's theraputic, in a way, and it gets the olives chopped up. Without fail, one or two escapes the frantic blade, which leaves a couple whole olives for gleaning from the recipe. You might not get this, but olives and manicotti stuffing are delicious, even before 7 am. If you think I am crazy, ask my sister. There is nothing quite as delightful as eating the gooey, unmelted cheesy glory off of your fingers after mixing a bowl of manicotti with your bare hands. I tried to use a spoon today, because hand mixing seemed somehow inappropriate before 7 AM (I know, as if ANYTHING is appropriate before7), but it just wasn't working out. Tradition prevails, and I had manicotti stuffing and olives for breakfast. With a tiny bit of cherry chip cupcake batter.

Aspen wanted chocolate and cherry chip cupcakes. Or at least I think she did. I didn't really ask her, because that's what I wanted. What I really wanted was that Giant Chocolate Cake from Costco, but A) no one was going to Spokane in time, and B)Josh would have freaked if I spent $20 on Aspen's second birthday dessert this week. So I made cupcakes. I made jumbo cupcakes because I forgot to get regular cupcake papers. So I borrowed a jumbo cupcake pan from a buddy. Then when I went to make batch #2, I only had 5 jumbo papers, so I said screw it. Aspen and her friends are having decorate-it-yourself cupcakes (thanks for that idea, Kat) WITHOUT any papers. Because before 7 AM, that's just what happens. Now that I have successfully removed the need for Josh to make cupcakes OR manicotti, both of which he was volunteering for (a terrifying thought about a man who puts ketchup and hotdogs in EVERY recipe), and I can have him focus on the important things, like wrapping presents. I probably shouldn't be trusted with a pair of scissors, or any blade outside of an olive can, before 7 AM. It's just the harsh reality of Liv and mornings. Especially considering I had Just Enough cream left for my coffee, and it may or may not have been Almost Rotten, but I decided to mask and potential rottenness with cinnamon and call it good. It was pre 7 am, and I wasn't about to try to tackle anything coffeeless.

Today: Get cream so that I don't kill someone in the morning. Get frosting so that I don't make the kids decorate their cupcakes with powdered sugar and Nutella since I can't bear the thought of making frosting after work, when I am scheduled to die. Get tomato sauce so that I don't have to resort to using stewed tomatoes on manicotti again and ruin it. GET DRESSED FOR WORK!!

Things That Happen

Today I decided to take a 5 mile walk. And by decided I mean that I accidentally locked my keys in my car and had to walk 2.5 miles home to get the spare.

It was a nice walk, all sunshiny and brisk, and lucky for me I had decided to wear comfy shoes to work this morning, which I was incidentally an hour late for. I even curled my hair for the walk. Apparently the sunshine must have appreciated it because it took all my curls and left me with something resembling a cross between Rastafarian dred locks and a string mop. I hope that was a good look for work, because I rocked it.

Things That I CAN Do

I came home from my second day of work yesterday feeling like The People From Hollywood would probably be calling any second about the movie rights for my Inspirational Life Story and All of The Children I Have Touched, kind of like Mr. Holland's Opus or Lean On Me. I never got the phone call, which was a little surprising, and then my body remembered what I had done wrong that day.

One of the students I work with occasionally needs a reset, somehow, like a time out, or a call from his mom, or something that gets him out of the groove he's in. One thing that works to start him over is a walk. So, when we ran into a wall that was evidently made of 16 foot thick brick, glazed with painfully sharp shards of glass, and with a fairly strong electrical current running through it, I decided to go for a walk with him. It was chilly outside. And the best way to keep from catching hypothermia rapidly was by moving quickly. Then I got all ambitious, and I JOGGED, you guys. For like 50 yards. I really hope nobody other than my sidekick was watching, because I saw a girl about my size running across a parking lot the other day, and I think I snickered a little. It's just not graceful. Especially when you are trying to hold your swollen uterus off of your sciatic nerve with both hands. But I did it. And I felt really good. For about four more hours. But I had a breakthrough of epic proportions with my student, and then I had a stroke of absolute brilliance (for me), and invented a game that incorporated his curriculum, which would have otherwise been left by the wayside of the survival road. It worked. I had several moments of absolute clarity while I was working, that I am fairly certain were not drug or alcohol induced, unless the technology teacher's "tea" that he shared with me was spiked. I wouldn't be too surprised. These lightbulb moments happened when something clicked between me and my new kids, explaining an interesting conclusion paragraph or how to find a creative title for a closed off 9th grader, or helping to define social perceptiveness in an applicable way to a struggling senior with disabilities. Is this why teachers teach? I've always wondered...I left work feeling like I was doing something that I might not love every single day, but something that I can do - and maybe even do well.

So I came home, and then took Aspen to Irish Dance. And on the way, Aspen asked me what the very first color movie I ever saw was.... I explained to her that color television had been around since before Grandma Stecker was born, which really wasn't that long ago, but I had never lived in a black and white only world. She was slightly shocked, but impressed that color TV was THAT OLD. I realize that spanking children for being accidentally hurtful and offensive isn't good parenting form, and I was working on some of my new teaching/tolerating techniques, so I just fumed internally all the way to Kettle Falls. And then the pain started to creep in. Like it was Aspen's reminder of my elderly decrepitness that trigged my body to reject every step, especially the jogging ones, that I had taken that day. I popped a pill and continued merrily on my delusional way, all the way through dance and home, before the pain set in in earnest.

Turns out, I don't jog for a very good reason: IT HURTS LIKE ALL HECK. I took more pills, tried an ice pack, a heating pad and a goodly amount of alcohol (still working on those wine bottles). Finally I took sleeping pills and passed out, right in the middle of Newsies. If that doesn't tell you the severity of the situation, nothing will. I woke up in pain, and I pushed through the ordeal of cleaning Aspen's bedroom with her, even after the hurtfulness she hurled at me yesterday. I got that done. I bullied Kizzie into loading the dehydrator with apples - I usually have to ask her, let her throw a fit, then start doing the project myself, making as Big A Deal as possible about the pain I am in, until the guilt overtakes her and she relieves me. Somewhere around 2:30 I called it a day, loaded up on drugs and resigned myself to a couch and a heating pad for the duration of this rainy Saturday. It's not a terrible waste of a day. We did get to watch Woodland Theater's production of My Fair Lady on DVD, which never fails to delight, and eat a lot of leftovers throughout the day. I am still waiting for hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps, but someone keeps missing his cues... But I can make it. And I can work in special ed. And clean rooms. And get stuff done. But not jog. I can't do that.  

                                            

Things That I Make

So I have a confession: I love almost any recipe that calls for cream-of-something-soup. I am a sucker for tatertot casserole with green beans and hamburger and cream of mushroom gravy-like goodness. And the chicken enchiladas that my mother in law taught me to make that don't really resemble enchiladas in any capacity other than they have cheese and tortillas in them are one of our family favorites. In fact, they are Aspen's absolute favorite. She can't ever remember what they are called, but she loves them more than anything. And will ask for thirds, even when they are laced with extra roasted green chilis and are spicy enough to chap your lips, as Nattie pointed out. They were good. But I cheated this time, and in a rare switch-up, I assumed LESS guilt cheating than not cheating would have earned me. Someone had used up my entire "stockpile" of cream-of-something-soups, and in order to make enchiladas, I either had to resort to the traditional red sauce recipe that my Mexican friend who is whiter than any pasty sorority chick I have ever heard of gave me, run to the store for the sodium, chemical laden guilt trip of cream-of-something-soup, or improvise. I opted for plan C, and found a recipe for a substitute on Buns In My Oven. The title of this blog was slightly unsettling to me, but I found the recipe useful and most importantly: IT WORKED. The enchiladas didn't even taste like rip-off non-mexican enchiladas. Between the frozen-but-freshly-roasted green chilis and the homemade cream of chicken soup, they were not only yummy, but remarkably less unhealthy than usual (please note I do not make the leap to HEALTHY in this statement).

Donna's Chicken Enchiladas

1 lb boiled shredded chicken, canned chicken, or just whatever chicken doesn't have bones and is already cooked. 

1 can cream-of-something soup or make THIS substitute

1 cup sour cream

1 can diced green chilis (or if you're cool like me and visited the Price's chili farm, four or five roasted, diced chilis)

18 corn tortillas

Combine shredded chicken, soup, sour cream and chilis in a big bowl. Stir well. 

Grease the bottom of a 9x13 pan. Preheat oven to 350º

Put down a layer of six overlapping tortillas in pan, spread one half of the chicken mixture on top, cover with cheese, then another layer of tortillas, the other half of the chicken goop, more cheese, then more tortillas and more cheese. Cover with tinfoil and bake for about an hour or until it's all melty and bubbly and delicious. Serve with salsa and MORE sour cream, because there's never enough. 

This makes one pan. I almost always have to make two, and the amount are sort of best guess, because I am kind of a dumper rather than a measurer.

CREAM OF CHICKEN SOUP RECIPE

Yield: Equivalent to one can of soup

INGREDIENTS:

1 tablespoon flour
3 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup chicken broth
1/2 cup milk
salt and pepper, to taste

DIRECTIONS:

Melt the butter in a small sauce pan over medium-low heat. When melted, whisk in the flour and continue whisking until smooth and bubbly. Remove from the heat and slowly whisk in the chicken broth and milk. Return to the heat and bring to a gentle boil, whisking constantly, until the soup thickens. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Read more at http://www.bunsinmyoven.com/2011/05/04/cream-of-chicken-soup-substitute/#r78RiCcm5G3yTCWS.99