10 Minutes

I ordered an exercise tape from an infomercial that promised I would loose weight, feel great and have rock hard abs in just 10 minutes a day. In just 10 minutes a day, you can get a full body workout. Work out every major muscle group in just 10 minutes! You get the idea, you can do it all in just 10 minutes a day. I thought, "I got 10 minutes." I was so excited when it came in the mail that I ran (well, okay, walked) to the DVD player and put my new workout video in. That's when I discovered that each workout session was only 10 minutes, but you needed to do multiple sessions to achieve the rock hard abs and great body they promised. So I figured if doing 3 sessions a day can make me look good, doing 5 sessions would make me look great. My husband said, "take it slow."
"Puhh!"
. . . later that day . . .
I met my husband for coffee. As I walked into the diner he asked, "Are you limping?"
"Puhh!"

Note to self: 3 sessions a day is a good start.

God's Got Flair

So far today, I made muffins, had tea and muffins with a friend, wrote a letter to a teacher, spoke to the leader of CAP, strategized a court hearing for a friend, read a psychology report (good job honey), made plans with a friend to get cheap apples (can't wait J), called a friend's counselor on her behalf, agreed to take on another Seeing Eye puppy, washed the dishes, made the beds, cleaned the bathroom and kitchen sinks, put the shoes away in the front hall (how many shoes do 2 feet really need sweetie?), typed up an updated resume for my husband and am now blogging. It's only 1:35 p.m. But, wait, something is missing . . . too early to do the piano lesson run, too early for choir practice, too early to make dinner . . . what did I miss?? Don't you hate that feeling that you missed something, that something will fall through the cracks . . . .??? Oh yeah, I forgot to give Praise to God for all my blessings. Praise You, Lord, for the many blessings you have poured out onto my family. Thank you for the beautiful fall colors all around us, thank you that we don't live in a black and white world, but a world of color. And thank you for the snow. (Snow!!!!!?????) God, You got flair!

The Intricate Workings Of My Children's Minds - Title by Clever Daughter Number 2

So, I asked my children (the 2 at home) what I should blog about. This is what they said.

"About how I wrote an article for the school newspaper and got censored!"
"The incompetence of our health care system."
"How I want a Bass guitar." Side note: He already owns 2 acoustic guitars (named Chick Magnet and Lindsey), and 2 electric guitars (one named Black Beauty and the other named Baby Cakes) and a trumpet (named Brassy).
"How giant my muscles are."
"The Air Force rocks."
"The lack of patriotism in America."
"My level of coolness."
"My brother is gross."

Folks, pray for me.....................

Please Don't Work

When my oldest daughter was 3 I figured it was good to teach her to say thank you. I hadn't, however, taught her to say please yet. After all, she was only 3. So one day I had some ladies over from the neighborhood. They were all stay-at-home mom's with young children. My 3 year old came over and interrupted my conversation (with a certain "proper" mother) and asked for something without saying please. I was so worried that I would look like I was lacking in my parenting skills that I said, "Honey, what is the magic word?" An expression that I had never particularly liked. Why on earth was I saying this to her? She looked at me puzzled (of course) and for 4 - 5 painful seconds I wondered how she would answer such a ridiculous question. She looked at me so serious and finally answered in a questioning voice, "Abracadabra?" I laughed, gave her what she asked for and made sure I taught her to say please later that night. I said, "Honey, it's proper to say please when you ask for something."

She asked, "Please may I have a pony?"

I said, "No."

She said, "Please don't work."

Pumpkin Soup

I don't like to give too much advice (that's a lie and you know it, but humor me). But, here is a piece of advice everyone should heed. If you ever feel the urge to make pumpkin soup for a soup kitchen - DON'T. These are some of the comments I received regarding the gourmet pumpkin soup I made and served at a local soup kitchen.

"Who made this, Mr. Jack O. Lantern?"
"Is this baby food?"
"I don't eat orange food."
"This looks like baby s***."
"Who puked?"
"What else you got?"
"Thanks lady, but no thanks."
And my personal favorite.
"I'm a vegetarian . . . oh, this is pumpkin? I'm fasting."

No Rejects Here

Here is a picture of the puppy my son raised for 18 months for the Seeing Eye. This is him on his "town walk" with his trainer. We got to watch our puppy (from 20 feet away) while he navigated busy city streets, guiding his trainer with confidence and poise. It was amazing to see this goofy puppy, who we nick-named Reject, ready to do what he was born to do. His parents, grandparents, great-grandparents (and so on) were all Seeing Eye dogs. He comes from a long line of servants to the blind. My son did a fantastic job raising him and training him. He followed all the rules and went to all the meetings. He took his puppy to church and to ball games. He gave his time to teach him all he needed to know. And, now, there is success. The puppy may be matched as soon as next week with a blind person. I'm so proud of my son and the puppy. What an example they are to me. I, too, have a great lineage. I, too, can learn by following the rules. And I, too can have success. God is my ultimate Trainer. And even though most people would call me goofy and nick-name me Reject, there is still hope for me.

Beginning, Middle and . . .End?

I love telling stories (could you guess?). I always try to tell them in order; beginning, middle and end. I have friends that are very sweet, but are bad story tellers. They tell me their stories all mixed up. Sometimes they tell me the end first and mix up all details. "I want details!" I tell them. "Tell me from the beginning and was it raining? What were you wearing? What time was it? What'd you have for lunch?" My husband is horrible at details, too. When I ask him about his day, I really want to know. If his day was 8 hours long, I figure it should take at least an hour to retell it to me. Uh-uh. In 3 minutes flat he could tell me everything. Why am I telling you all this? Because I told you a story and titled the last piece, "The Rest Of The Story - It's all she wrote. . ." buuuut. . . it's not the end. Isn't it just like God to re-write a story? So, here's the thing. Pop-Pop is coming back! I don't know all details yet. It seems he woke up one morning in the nursing home and thought, "I made a BIG mistake." He'll be here next week and he'll be splitting his time between here and the nursing home. The sun is shining, it's about 75 degrees, the wind is blowing just enough to stir the brilliant yellow leaves off my birch tree. I hear people in the neighborhood mowing their lawns and the washing machine running (my daughter is home from college this weekend). We had pork chops and baked sweet potatoes with pumpkin muffins for lunch, and all is right in the world. The . . . End????

Teaching Moments

I'm a mom, a mom of teenagers. Time is short. I feel almost breathless thinking of how much I want to teach my children before they leave home. Did I teach them enough? Did my husband and I prepare them enough to go out into the world?? Will they know all they need to know??? So, is it any wonder I try to use every moment as a teaching moment? This is a typical conversation with my teenagers.

"Honey, if you wash your fork as soon as you are done eating, things won't pile up in the sink and really, it saves time because when you have a sink full of things it actually takes longer to wash everything up."
"Mom, in case you haven't noticed, I am still eating!! Do you not see the food still on my plate?"
"I know, honey, but I just wanted to use this moment as a teaching moment, while you were still sitting still."
"You mean, you wanted to ruin my peaceful meal?"
"No, I mean I wanted to teach you so that when you leave home you won't live like a slob."
"I was going to wash my fork and plate when I was done. But now I don't want to because you told me to."
"See, total rebellion. Is that what I can expect from you?"
"Yes, Mom, I am going to leave my dirty fork on the table, rebel against your rules and run out and try illegal drugs."
"I'm not amused."
"Mom, can I have some water?"
"No, all the glasses are dirty."

Change of Scenery

Kate is a good cat. I'm sorry I misrepresented her in my last blog posting. Really, those things I said were more applicable to Nina. Kate has more instinct than a log. Though Kate really did kill the stink bug, I would never call her a waste of cat flesh and fur. (Are we good now, honey?) But Kate does have her issues. She has CLD or Compulsive Licking Disorder (sorry, honey, we've been hiding this secret for long enough - it's good to talk about it). She licks . . . compulsively. It started with her paws. She licked them raw. Then she started to lick the house (I can't make this stuff up). And finally, she began to lick my husband's arms. Now, you've got to be a really sick cat if you're going to lick a 200 pound man. That's when I took her to the vet. The vet wanted to put Kate on Kitty Prozac. I kid you not. "Uh-uh!" said the 200 pound man. So we changed her diet, gave her more attention and talked very gently to her, even when she was licking 200 pound husband. Poor Kate. Maybe a change of scenery would be good for her. Like . . . a college dormitory? Like . . . the one my daughter is at? Hmmm. Sounds like a plan to me ................

Those Little Stinkers

They're baaaaaaaaaaack. Those little stinkers (no, not my teenagers). Those beady eyed, shield carrying, sticky legged, flying stink bugs. They are the skunk of the insect world and they are in my house. They only smell when you crush them. How very clever of them. If you wash them down your drain or run them through the washing machine, they crawl back out in an hour. First, we had Pop-Pop (oh, how I miss that man) and then we had the unfortunate incident with the mole that died in the wall behind our closet and now we have those stupid stink bugs. We also have a really dumb cat. She isn't a mouser, doesn't know her hat from her glove (don't you love how I cleaned that one up?), doesn't even know she's a cat. She's like a log with fur. I know she can't help it, but when I saw her about to pounce on a stink bug in my kitchen I ran down the hallway, like in slow motion - I couldn't get to her fast enough - I yelled, "Noooooooooooo, Kate, you dumb, stupid, idiotic, moronic, waste of cat flesh and fur, don't kill that stink bug!!!" Guess what? She killed the stink bug. Now my house has a lingering Pop-Pop smell, intermingled with Lysol, dead mole and stink bugs . . . does it get any better than this folks???????????

The Rest Of The Story - It's all she wrote . . .

So Pop-Pop went back to the nursing home. First, they took his money. Second, they took his wallet. Third . . . they took his dignity. And finally, they took his smile, the color from his cheeks and the twinkle in his eyes. What are we to do?!

I understand that every day he looks at a picture we took, Pop-Pop and the kids eating ice cream at an old fashion ice cream stand. The stand owns the cows that supply the milk for the ice cream. They also have goats that you can feed. He looks at the picture and smiles. He sees himself happy and strong and loved. He doesn't say anything, just smiles. Hopefully, for that moment he can taste the butter pecan ice cream and feel the sun and wind on his face and more importantly, feel the love . . . .

. . . .that's what we do, we look at his picture and feel the love. . . . . .

The Rest Of The Story - Part II

"Pop-Pop, are you okay? Can I get you something?"
"I miss my wife."
"Let's invite her over."
"Sure." *smiles*

"Mom, would you like to come over?"
"No."
"Dad misses you."
"Then he can come back."
"To your apartment?"
"No, to the nursing home."
"He doesn't belong in a nursing home. We'll help you. We'll hire someone to help you. We'll do whatever it takes. You can come here. You can be together here. There are options. We can all work together." *pleading*
"No."
"Why???!!!"
No response.

Pop-Pop is crying. He says he's in a dilemma. "What dilemma?" I ask, "you're here, you're happy, you're healthy, you're thriving."
"I love it here. You guys are perfect. This sure is something. I'll never forget it, never, never. . . but I miss my wife. She won't come here - ever - and she won't take me back to the apartment. So I'm going back." *crying*
"TO THE NURSING HOME???"
"Yes."
"I didn't think you were crazy before, but I sure do now! You're nuts!"
"I'm sorry. Jeez, 56 years of marriage and she won't come. I thought she would come. Jeez, you guys are perfect. Really. It's a dilemma. I'm sorry."

Our hearts are broken. Pop-Pop will sacrifice his freedom, his life, for his wife. A wife who doesn't care. I didn't think I could find the words to describe how I felt - but I have words alright - unkind words, bad words. . . *crying*. . . . .to be continued . . . . . .

The Rest Of The Story - Part I

It's time to tell the rest of the story. It's a sad story. It's hard to tell the story because in an attempt to hide some ugly truths, I left facts out of the story of Pop-Pop's move here. Pop-Pop was in a nursing home. There he was very, very sad. He is a man with high intelligence, a great sense of humor and very social. His wife felt she could not (would not) take care of him. He was 2 hours away from us, so our visits were never enough. He asked to be moved out of the nursing home, said he wishes he were dead, there must be someway out. We offered many reasonable solutions, many. We faced harsh criticism at every turn. Finally, Pop-Pop asked, "Can I come and live with you?" "Yes, but what about Grammy?" "She will come and visit, maybe she'll even move up, too." (not a chance) "Are you sure you want to come?" "Yes, please, I won't be much trouble, I'll eat whatever you make, I just do whatever you do, please. But sometimes I fart." *laughter* "So does your grandson, you can sit with him at the dinner table." *more laughter* "Thank you, I promise, I won't be much trouble." "Okay, Dad. We'd love to have you."

That's when the letters and emails started. "He's a sick man. You can't do it. He's weak. I do not support this in anyway. He belongs in a nursing home. He's in the best possible place. He's got dementia. I know he says he wishes he were dead, but so does everyone else in the nursing home. He'll be at that nursing home until he dies. Blah, blah, blah . . . ."

Pop-pop thrived here. He gained 5 pounds (after losing 40 at the nursing home), got much steadier on his feet, told jokes, laughed, went to the mall, out for ice cream, church, the diner, Panera Bread . . . he did whatever we did and ate whatever we ate and only farted once at the table. Once he laughed so hard his teeth fell out. He smiled all the time. He said, "I love it here. You guys are perfect. This sure is something. I love my new computer (which he played games on). I'll never forget it, never, never. (why is there sadness in his voice?) . . . to be continued.

Read My Lips

When I was in the 3rd grade at Our Lady Of Mt. Carmel School, my class was in the Christmas play. Our class (all 45 of us!) were to sing the last 3 Christmas Carols. During one of our rehearsals Sister Superior pulled me aside and told me that during the rehearsals it was good to sing out, but on the night of the play I should just move my lips and not sing. I didn't think much of it. When I got home, my Aunt Eleanor was over and I told her and my mother what Sister Superior said. My Aunt Eleanor said, "Honey, during rehearsals you don't have to sing at all, save your voice for the night of the play. I'll be there, but I'll be all the way in the back and I want to be able to hear you. You sing out loud and clear for your Aunt Eleanor, okay?" "Okay." I was a pretty dumb kid, I had no idea that Sister Superior was dissing my voice. So, on the night of the play, I spotted Aunt Eleanor in the back of the auditorium, right under the big clock, and I sang out - loud. There was some pointing and laughter, but as I said, I was a dumb kid so I didn't know then that people were laughing at me. When I figured it out, like 5 years later, I was traumatised. It was a delayed trauma, but a trauma never the less. That's when I began to lip sync. So every once in awhile, when I open my mouth to pretend to sing in church and I hear a beautiful sound, I am confused. But, alas, the sound is coming from my daughter - she sings like an angel. I wonder if Sister Superior can read my lips................

How The House Got Heated

I was freezing last night - okay, not freezing, but cold. I needed a blanket. It was a chilly 50 something during the night and now it's a chilly 60 something during the day. Earlier this week it was a balmy 80 something - my little feetzies are cold (and confused). But it doesn't matter - nothing matters because my daughter is coming home from college this weekend (YAY!). I'm so excited, I baked a cake (if you think this will help mask the smell of a dead mole, a whole can of Lysol and an old man's medicine . . . uh - gas. It won't). Anyway, here is how it went.

I gathered all the ingredients, pre-heated the oven and greased the pan. I mixed the ingredients in perfect measurements (well, define perfect), poured them into the pan and put it in the oven. I baked it to perfection (well, define perfection) and set it on the counter to cool. Then the phone rang, my computer alerted me to an email, my husband asked me to make a call, I ate lunch, I lost my glasses, found my glasses, made lunch for Pop-Pop, took out the garbage, spruced up my daughter's room (well, define spruced up) and started to break a sweat. Boy, it must be getting warmer outside . . . . . . or maybe when I put the cake on the counter I didn't turn off the oven. Ooops. And so, this is how the house got heated.

What's That Smell?

A few days ago we smelled something funky in the hallway. I was kind of thinking it was Pop-Pop because he told me that now that he takes so much medicine and that he is getting old (getting? I say) that he has . . . uh - gas. But after a few hours it started to smell worse. I asked Pop-Pop if needed the bathroom. "No." I asked my son if he needed the bathroom. "No." I asked my husband if he needed the bathroom. "No." Then what is that smell??? After some sniffing around we determined that something must have crawled into the wall behind the closet and died. We (when I say we I mean my husband) sawed a hole in the wall. There we found a dead mole. That mole stunk so bad. I sprayed everything with Lysol. Now everything smells like dead mole and Lysol (and a little like . . . uh - gas). It's a gross combination! We can't do anything to cover up that stink. We just have to wait until the closet airs out. Here's the application. Sometimes we have stink (sin) in our life. We have to sniff out that stink, expose it, air it out and never try to cover it up. Covering it up only makes it smell worse. So, where's the stink in your life?

He's Got Wit

Boy, was I wrong - about being ready that is. I mean how does one ready themselves for the arrival of an almost 82 year old man with a little dementia, but a lot of wit. I've been told that dementia patients become very clever at fooling you into a false sense of "everything is just fine with me, but if you're having a problem maybe you should go see someone." We played tic-tac-toe at the diner while we waited for the food and Pop-Pop wants to keep score and says to my daughter, "What's your name?" She tells him and he writes down an abbreviation of her name. So I asked, "Dad," you know, as a test to assess if he indeed does not know his 16 year old granddaughter's name, "What's her name?" He gives me a concerned look and tells me if I didn't know the name of my daughter after 16 years that maybe I should write it down and put it in my pocketbook. My first instinct is to recite the names of all my children, my cousins, my grade school teachers, my neighbors, my church members and the Gettysburg Address to prove to him that my memory is indeed intact. He smiled - he knew her name but he was too tired to call it from his brain that was a bit weary from the day. He's not hiding his weakness or trying to fool anyone. He was pulling my leg in a subtle joke that showed me I need to lighten up. The subtle joke was remembered and continued 1/2 an hour later when Pop-Pop went into the room we prepared for him and he said with a 'cat that just ate the canary' grin, "Tell that 16 year girl to stay out of my room!! You got that!" Yeah, I get it, I just let a man with mild dementia make sport of me. Dang - he's good. It's the first real laughter we've heard from Pop-Pop in months, so we all laugh and relish in it - even me - I laugh until I cry. And now I'm not so scared tonight as I go to sleep with a baby monitor humming in my ear, listening for any sign of trouble from Pop-Pop from below. His breathing is slow, but strong and his dreaming is deep and calm. And all is right in the world. Amen.

Pop-Pop's Room

This is Pop-Pop's room. This is what we did to set it up. We moved the upstairs furniture downstairs and the downstairs furniture upstairs - don't even ask, just trust me when I say it's a better fit. To our home we added a bed, a dresser, a TV (btw, we had cable TV for exactly 72 hours before the kids fought over the remote and got grounded for 48 hours from the . . . the . . . evil viewing box. I watched a news program that followed the trial of a husband whose wife was "accidentally" shot in the back with a hunting arrow - yeah, the jury didn't buy it either - and an episode of Wife Swap . . . there goes 2 hours of my life that I'll never get back. . .) and soon (tomorrow) we'll add a man. We've added grab bars, lights, curtains, shades, a bookcase and a coffee pot. We washed the windows - inside and out - cleared the yard of all sticks and twigs and debris that could be tripped on. We stocked the kitchen with healthy foods and dusted off the board games. It has been a labor of love and we are ready . . . I think.

He Said, She Said

He said, "Do you want to go by yourself?" She heard, "I don't want to go with you."
She said, "That's not necessarily so." He heard, "Yes, I want to go by myself."
He said, "What time will you be back?" She heard, "I don't care if you take all day."
She said, "Why don't you want to spend time with me - waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?" He said, "Huh???"
She said, "You said you didn't want to be with me and then I said I did want to be with you and then you said stay out as long as you want and I said . . . waaaaaaaaaaaaa."

He said, "Huh??????? Whose conversation is that?" She said, "That's exactly what happened and you don't even care that you hurt my feelings - waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

He said, "Sorry, honey."

She heard that.

Coconuts

When my kids were younger we had this cat - Coconuts. He was a wild stray that was hanging around our house, scrounging through our garbage, peeing on our house (that's what un-neutered males do - male cats, that is). So I trapped him, sent him to the vet, had him neutered, and released him back in our neighborhood. I left food out for him everyday, and during the winter, we made an outdoor hut for him on our front porch. It took three seasons before we could approach Coconuts (named before he was neutered - sorry, it's the truth). When he finally let us pet him, we coaxed him into our house. He found it to be lovely and decided he would stay. He was a good pet. He purred loudly, never scratched the furniture, preferred the great outdoors to the litter box (a small, but appreciated blessing), loved the children and got along great with the 3 other cats in our home. Then one day he developed a tumor which grew in size daily. We knew he would need to have it removed. We prepared the children by telling them that he would be shaved and have an exposed wound that would look gross. We said that even though he would look horrible they needed to love and care for him. He was a good cat and deserved our love and respect. He would have ugly stitches and shaved cats were not very pretty. When I left to pick him up I reminded the children that no matter how he looked, they needed to love him. I walked through the door with Coconuts in his carrier and the children gathered around with wide-eyed terror . . . only to see a 4 inch square of fur gone and 14 neat stitches. "Gee Mom, I thought he'd look worse than that!!" they said in disappointment. So, when I tell them that they will need to help care for Pop-Pop and love him, no matter what, is it any wonder they ignore me?