Summer issue has been launched!!! This is a great one, too. The cover feature is about Lori McKenna, a beautiful and talented mom singer-songwriter. Great reviews, profiles, poetry, essays, etc. And such fabulous web design, too. :)
www.momwriterslitmag.com
Monday, June 30, 2008
Watch out boys, she’s a [blinking] man-eater!
There are many reasons besides the calendar telling me that it is officially Summer. For one, fireworks are on sale at the grocery store. I’ve also been consuming a lot of macaroni salad. We’ve all got mosquito bites and sun tan lines. And, my favorite indicator of our warmest season, the lightning bugs are back.
Whether you call them lightning bugs or fireflies, these little critters with their flashing hind ends never cease to amaze me. They have been entertaining people young and old, since that very first day when someone saw a flash of light in the woods and wondered just what it could possibly be.
Since then, we’ve been chasing them and collecting them in jars to make our own nightlights. My grandmother, who is a very sweet lady, admits that she used to smash the glowing ends onto her nails as glow in the dark nail polish when she was younger. And while I never had the “guts” to do that, I’ve caught my fair share of the illuminating fliers over the years.
No matter whether you are a lightning bug watcher, catcher, collector, or manicurist, you would probably agree that those flying beetles are some of the sweetest, most innocent that you know. But just read on…
Scientifically speaking, each species of firefly has their own blinking pattern. The males are the only ones that actually fly and blink, while the females sit on the ground and respond accordingly. Or as I explain to my kids, “it’s like the boys are driving around in big fancy cars honking the horns, and if the girls want to go out on a date, they honk back.” Biology, I find, is fairly difficult to explain to young children, and I usually end up sounding like a deranged teenager caught in a tornado of gossip.
There is, however, one fantastic biological story about my flying friend that is worth the time and effort to explain.
As I said before, each species has its own pattern so that males and females know who is who because there are a lot of different species out there. But one species, or rather the almighty female of one species, is smarter than the average bug. She is an evil genius. I think she is the kind that, if she was a human, would end up being the character on the soap operas that everyone loves to hate.
She is a man-eater.
This hungry lady hangs out in the grass where the girls who are waiting for the boys with the fancy cars would be. Only she’s really a biker chick and isn’t really into cars, so when the boys drive by and honk, she has to fake an “ooh, handsome wheels” flash right back at the male, luring him into her trap.
He blinks (honks,) then she blinks (fakes,) and before you know it, the poor sucker has honed in on her location and is pulling his Mustang convertible right up to her door.
I’m certain that the faking female then throws back her little beetle head and laughs a teeny evil genius laugh before devouring the less-than-intelligent male, who really thought he was going to go on a date.
As I see it, this tale of trickery provides a few very important life lessons. For one, it’s a nice lesson in “everything isn’t always what it seems.” Secondly, it’s a great story that might get my kids interested in science. It also gives me a good defense when arguing with my husband. (As is, “do you want me to go all lightning bug on you?”) And lastly, it gives me a nice platform for explaining the perils of dating to my kids at a young age, and teaching them that boys in shiny cars should look out for girls who honk back.
Whether you call them lightning bugs or fireflies, these little critters with their flashing hind ends never cease to amaze me. They have been entertaining people young and old, since that very first day when someone saw a flash of light in the woods and wondered just what it could possibly be.
Since then, we’ve been chasing them and collecting them in jars to make our own nightlights. My grandmother, who is a very sweet lady, admits that she used to smash the glowing ends onto her nails as glow in the dark nail polish when she was younger. And while I never had the “guts” to do that, I’ve caught my fair share of the illuminating fliers over the years.
No matter whether you are a lightning bug watcher, catcher, collector, or manicurist, you would probably agree that those flying beetles are some of the sweetest, most innocent that you know. But just read on…
Scientifically speaking, each species of firefly has their own blinking pattern. The males are the only ones that actually fly and blink, while the females sit on the ground and respond accordingly. Or as I explain to my kids, “it’s like the boys are driving around in big fancy cars honking the horns, and if the girls want to go out on a date, they honk back.” Biology, I find, is fairly difficult to explain to young children, and I usually end up sounding like a deranged teenager caught in a tornado of gossip.
There is, however, one fantastic biological story about my flying friend that is worth the time and effort to explain.
As I said before, each species has its own pattern so that males and females know who is who because there are a lot of different species out there. But one species, or rather the almighty female of one species, is smarter than the average bug. She is an evil genius. I think she is the kind that, if she was a human, would end up being the character on the soap operas that everyone loves to hate.
She is a man-eater.
This hungry lady hangs out in the grass where the girls who are waiting for the boys with the fancy cars would be. Only she’s really a biker chick and isn’t really into cars, so when the boys drive by and honk, she has to fake an “ooh, handsome wheels” flash right back at the male, luring him into her trap.
He blinks (honks,) then she blinks (fakes,) and before you know it, the poor sucker has honed in on her location and is pulling his Mustang convertible right up to her door.
I’m certain that the faking female then throws back her little beetle head and laughs a teeny evil genius laugh before devouring the less-than-intelligent male, who really thought he was going to go on a date.
As I see it, this tale of trickery provides a few very important life lessons. For one, it’s a nice lesson in “everything isn’t always what it seems.” Secondly, it’s a great story that might get my kids interested in science. It also gives me a good defense when arguing with my husband. (As is, “do you want me to go all lightning bug on you?”) And lastly, it gives me a nice platform for explaining the perils of dating to my kids at a young age, and teaching them that boys in shiny cars should look out for girls who honk back.
For the love of the treasure chest of a potato plant
You would never think potatoes could be so much fun. But here I am, singing the praises of the spud and dirty fingernails.
Ask my kids their favorite way to eat potatoes, and shockingly enough they won’t say French fries. They won’t say mashed potatoes, baked potatoes or even potato soup.
They’ll tell you that they like the “outside kind.”
I should provide some background and say that my thumbs are only partially green. Growing up, we always had a plentiful garden and I can remember canning beans and peppers with my family. I loved working in the garden and did it quite a bit, so my vegetable thumb is pretty green. But my pretty flower landscaping thumb really could use some help; I would say it is half green and half brown, which is coincidentally the color of the half dead trees in my front yard.
But veggies I can grow.
Because of how our home is situated with lots of surrounding trees, we don’t have a good place for a traditional garden. It was definitely a downside when we moved in. But as I always say, where there’s a will, there’s a way, and if there’s a way, it just might mean growing potatoes in your flowerbed.
Or at least they grow in mine. For the last three years, we’ve grown just a few potato plants right in the flowerbed next to the black-eyed susans and the lilac bush. Aesthetically speaking, they provide great green foliage in cute little bush shapes all summer long. Tastefully speaking, there’s nothing like a homegrown redskin.
This year, keeping up with our tradition, we planted six potato plants and for some reason decided to name them. Salty, Fattie, French Fry, Tater, Spuds and Willie (as in “One-Eyed Willie” for all those Goonie fans out there) were all planted with care and blessings for a bountiful harvest. We check them regularly and keep a close eye out for the blight—with a good Irish name like McAllister we think we’re suckers for a potato famine.
And hopefully if all goes well, we’ll have a hearty crop when it comes time to treasure hunt.
It always surprises me how many people I meet that don’t know the sheer and utter joy in digging potatoes. For those who don’t know how potatoes work, they grow underground like roots, hidden by the soil. So when you come across a potato plant at picking time, you never know how many you’re going to find and each potato is like a little valuable pot of gold.
In late summer, we head out the door carrying our shovels and buckets and tear up the flowerbed with all of our might. We dig and dig and then gently excavate each potato with care and precision. And we can’t help ourselves, cheering and throwing up our dirt-covered hands in excitement every time we find another one, amazed at the size of something that was hiding just a few inches below our feet all summer long.
Never really sure of the fate of the new found potatoes, I can guarantee that if my kids have their druthers, we’ll be frying them up in a cast iron skillet over a campfire, the “outside kind” as they say.
Astonishing, at such a young age they already have a refined palate for truly good food, seasoned perfectly with butter, salt, and perhaps even a little dirt.
Ask my kids their favorite way to eat potatoes, and shockingly enough they won’t say French fries. They won’t say mashed potatoes, baked potatoes or even potato soup.
They’ll tell you that they like the “outside kind.”
I should provide some background and say that my thumbs are only partially green. Growing up, we always had a plentiful garden and I can remember canning beans and peppers with my family. I loved working in the garden and did it quite a bit, so my vegetable thumb is pretty green. But my pretty flower landscaping thumb really could use some help; I would say it is half green and half brown, which is coincidentally the color of the half dead trees in my front yard.
But veggies I can grow.
Because of how our home is situated with lots of surrounding trees, we don’t have a good place for a traditional garden. It was definitely a downside when we moved in. But as I always say, where there’s a will, there’s a way, and if there’s a way, it just might mean growing potatoes in your flowerbed.
Or at least they grow in mine. For the last three years, we’ve grown just a few potato plants right in the flowerbed next to the black-eyed susans and the lilac bush. Aesthetically speaking, they provide great green foliage in cute little bush shapes all summer long. Tastefully speaking, there’s nothing like a homegrown redskin.
This year, keeping up with our tradition, we planted six potato plants and for some reason decided to name them. Salty, Fattie, French Fry, Tater, Spuds and Willie (as in “One-Eyed Willie” for all those Goonie fans out there) were all planted with care and blessings for a bountiful harvest. We check them regularly and keep a close eye out for the blight—with a good Irish name like McAllister we think we’re suckers for a potato famine.
And hopefully if all goes well, we’ll have a hearty crop when it comes time to treasure hunt.
It always surprises me how many people I meet that don’t know the sheer and utter joy in digging potatoes. For those who don’t know how potatoes work, they grow underground like roots, hidden by the soil. So when you come across a potato plant at picking time, you never know how many you’re going to find and each potato is like a little valuable pot of gold.
In late summer, we head out the door carrying our shovels and buckets and tear up the flowerbed with all of our might. We dig and dig and then gently excavate each potato with care and precision. And we can’t help ourselves, cheering and throwing up our dirt-covered hands in excitement every time we find another one, amazed at the size of something that was hiding just a few inches below our feet all summer long.
Never really sure of the fate of the new found potatoes, I can guarantee that if my kids have their druthers, we’ll be frying them up in a cast iron skillet over a campfire, the “outside kind” as they say.
Astonishing, at such a young age they already have a refined palate for truly good food, seasoned perfectly with butter, salt, and perhaps even a little dirt.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Deep fried hamburgers: When two worlds collide
Among the battles we experience here in our home, there is one constant fight that I am most positive will never be resolved. I am speaking, of course, of the battle of the television.
Naturally my children fight over which cartoon to watch or on special occasions, which movie to occupy their brains for the following hour and a half. This is no surprise. But it is the fight between my husband I and that has come to a nasty, greasy head.
He is a hunter. And every fall and spring when the game go in season, he will grab the remote and flip directly to some outdoor channel to watch yet another hunting show. In case you are not familiar with these hunting shows, let me tell you exactly what happens in every episode.
No matter the game or the season, in each show there will be a man with a goatee or at the very least, a mustache, sitting in full camouflage, whispering into a camera for a full half an hour. At the end of the show, guess what! He successfully gets the deer/turkey/whatever. Every time! I tell you, it’s downright amazing.
Meanwhile, he will tell you that I am a foodie. No matter if I’m hungry or not, I will turn on the food channel and watch yet another cooking show. He will tell you, if you don’t know how these shows work, that in every episode of every show, someone prepares a bunch of different foods. Surprisingly enough, they get it all done in a half an hour. And guess what! It’s delicious. Every time! I tell you, it’s downright amazing.
So here we are, two very different people living with one very singular television. Each of us has our own path to entertainment bliss, and it is when those paths cross that our world as we know it goes off-kilter, gets thrown out of balance, and frankly, affects our very well-being.
One day I left the food channel on while I was busy putzing around the house and my husband walked in to a show that tours the country looking for good food in small diners. This particular episode was displaying a cheeseburger that someone had battered and deep-fried. (I know somewhere a reader’s mouth just started to water…)
I don’t know if it was the juicy hamburger or the lure of the hot oil, but my husband sat glued to the television without changing the channel. One look at that fried hunk of meat and when the show was over, he ran to the pantry to dig through the top shelves to find the rarely-used Fry Daddy Jr. that we acquired at least seven years ago and has only been used once in the “let’s try to fry a Twinkie fiasco of 2001.”
And like the skilled hunter he is (who has watched many a hunting show), he carefully planned his meal. With the grace of a goateed man in a tree stand, he silently went to finding the ingredients, preparing the burger and the batter, heating the oil, and yes, he actually deep-fried a fully-made cheeseburger.
He will tell you it was delicious. I will tell you that two worlds had collided and provided us with a meal that probably included enough fat to last us through the next few winters.
Not only that, but the emerging of the Fry Daddy even inspired him to make homemade doughnuts for breakfast the next morning, in case we didn’t clog up our arteries enough the night before. I don’t know which was sweeter—the doughnuts sitting rock hard in our bellies or my husband. But I do know that as we sat there and ate them, I grabbed the remote control and turned on the news.
Naturally my children fight over which cartoon to watch or on special occasions, which movie to occupy their brains for the following hour and a half. This is no surprise. But it is the fight between my husband I and that has come to a nasty, greasy head.
He is a hunter. And every fall and spring when the game go in season, he will grab the remote and flip directly to some outdoor channel to watch yet another hunting show. In case you are not familiar with these hunting shows, let me tell you exactly what happens in every episode.
No matter the game or the season, in each show there will be a man with a goatee or at the very least, a mustache, sitting in full camouflage, whispering into a camera for a full half an hour. At the end of the show, guess what! He successfully gets the deer/turkey/whatever. Every time! I tell you, it’s downright amazing.
Meanwhile, he will tell you that I am a foodie. No matter if I’m hungry or not, I will turn on the food channel and watch yet another cooking show. He will tell you, if you don’t know how these shows work, that in every episode of every show, someone prepares a bunch of different foods. Surprisingly enough, they get it all done in a half an hour. And guess what! It’s delicious. Every time! I tell you, it’s downright amazing.
So here we are, two very different people living with one very singular television. Each of us has our own path to entertainment bliss, and it is when those paths cross that our world as we know it goes off-kilter, gets thrown out of balance, and frankly, affects our very well-being.
One day I left the food channel on while I was busy putzing around the house and my husband walked in to a show that tours the country looking for good food in small diners. This particular episode was displaying a cheeseburger that someone had battered and deep-fried. (I know somewhere a reader’s mouth just started to water…)
I don’t know if it was the juicy hamburger or the lure of the hot oil, but my husband sat glued to the television without changing the channel. One look at that fried hunk of meat and when the show was over, he ran to the pantry to dig through the top shelves to find the rarely-used Fry Daddy Jr. that we acquired at least seven years ago and has only been used once in the “let’s try to fry a Twinkie fiasco of 2001.”
And like the skilled hunter he is (who has watched many a hunting show), he carefully planned his meal. With the grace of a goateed man in a tree stand, he silently went to finding the ingredients, preparing the burger and the batter, heating the oil, and yes, he actually deep-fried a fully-made cheeseburger.
He will tell you it was delicious. I will tell you that two worlds had collided and provided us with a meal that probably included enough fat to last us through the next few winters.
Not only that, but the emerging of the Fry Daddy even inspired him to make homemade doughnuts for breakfast the next morning, in case we didn’t clog up our arteries enough the night before. I don’t know which was sweeter—the doughnuts sitting rock hard in our bellies or my husband. But I do know that as we sat there and ate them, I grabbed the remote control and turned on the news.
The Popcorn Incident (or “Why we moms stick together”)
A writer friend of mine recently asked me to write the forward to her latest book. This friend lives in San Francisco, where things are very, very different than they are here in small town Ohio. But even as different as these places are, being a mom is the same no matter where you live, which is the point I was trying to get across.
So in writing the forward, I offered up this little anecdote which I think best summarizes my philosophy on motherhood...
It all started on a fall afternoon, when I was grossly pregnant with my third child. And because the veins in my legs had had just about enough of this pregnancy stuff, they gave out and I was required by my doctor to wear full length compression hose which I mention only because they made me flammable from head to toe. I was attempting to race (read: waddle) around the house, trying to achieve some order and neatness so that the playgroup friends who would be over in a short while to celebrate my son’s birthday wouldn’t think I had totally given up on cleanliness. But I also had to pick up my oldest daughter from school. All at the same time.
At this point you may ask yourself, “why would she plan things so close together? Why wouldn’t she give herself some more time?” Let me tell you, the thought crossed my mind. But in order for everyone to be happy (read: except me), this is what had to be done.
And I also had to make “sweetie popcorn,” my son’s favorite snack, for the gathering. So there, belly bulging, I poured the oil, sugar, salt, and popcorn kernels into the pot. I cranked up the stove and began the popping process. When it came time to start shaking the pot so that the bottom kernels didn’t turn into a black burnt mess, I grabbed some potholders to protect my hands.
To make a short story long, I caught one of the potholders on fire so I had to run it to the sink which meant that I was creating that black burnt mess in the pot. So I ran back to the stove, turned it off, and whipped the lid off the pot to cool down the contents and stop the cooking process.
And then a sticky kernel shot right out and burnt a big red dot into my forehead, just above my right eyebrow.
Somehow I managed to find a moment to be thankful that I hadn’t caught my entire body on fire before I raced out the door to pick up my eldest child and back home just in time greet our playdate friends. While the kids played, I had to explain to the other moms why I looked the way I did and why I was telling them to eat the darn popcorn because I lost valuable skin (and a potholder) for my son’s special snack.
And they ate it, and they laughed, because they understood.
They understood why I did the things I did, because they do them too. We’re all just a bunch of nuts, but nuts that go together, bound by our maternal job description.
We’re women, we’re mothers. We stick together like caramelized popcorn to forehead skin because in understanding each other’s stories, we become better mothers. That’s why we need to hear the tales of other mommies’ mishaps and story-time struggles. We need to hear that we’re not the first to watch a baby fall off the bed, and we need to hear that if it happens, baby will be OK. We need to see that we’re not the only one in the world going gray over where to send our kids to preschool. We need to know, even in our weakest moments, that we do what we do because we love our kids and that most importantly, we are not alone in this, the second hardest job in the world.
The first hardest, if you didn’t know, is making “sweetie popcorn.”
So in writing the forward, I offered up this little anecdote which I think best summarizes my philosophy on motherhood...
It all started on a fall afternoon, when I was grossly pregnant with my third child. And because the veins in my legs had had just about enough of this pregnancy stuff, they gave out and I was required by my doctor to wear full length compression hose which I mention only because they made me flammable from head to toe. I was attempting to race (read: waddle) around the house, trying to achieve some order and neatness so that the playgroup friends who would be over in a short while to celebrate my son’s birthday wouldn’t think I had totally given up on cleanliness. But I also had to pick up my oldest daughter from school. All at the same time.
At this point you may ask yourself, “why would she plan things so close together? Why wouldn’t she give herself some more time?” Let me tell you, the thought crossed my mind. But in order for everyone to be happy (read: except me), this is what had to be done.
And I also had to make “sweetie popcorn,” my son’s favorite snack, for the gathering. So there, belly bulging, I poured the oil, sugar, salt, and popcorn kernels into the pot. I cranked up the stove and began the popping process. When it came time to start shaking the pot so that the bottom kernels didn’t turn into a black burnt mess, I grabbed some potholders to protect my hands.
To make a short story long, I caught one of the potholders on fire so I had to run it to the sink which meant that I was creating that black burnt mess in the pot. So I ran back to the stove, turned it off, and whipped the lid off the pot to cool down the contents and stop the cooking process.
And then a sticky kernel shot right out and burnt a big red dot into my forehead, just above my right eyebrow.
Somehow I managed to find a moment to be thankful that I hadn’t caught my entire body on fire before I raced out the door to pick up my eldest child and back home just in time greet our playdate friends. While the kids played, I had to explain to the other moms why I looked the way I did and why I was telling them to eat the darn popcorn because I lost valuable skin (and a potholder) for my son’s special snack.
And they ate it, and they laughed, because they understood.
They understood why I did the things I did, because they do them too. We’re all just a bunch of nuts, but nuts that go together, bound by our maternal job description.
We’re women, we’re mothers. We stick together like caramelized popcorn to forehead skin because in understanding each other’s stories, we become better mothers. That’s why we need to hear the tales of other mommies’ mishaps and story-time struggles. We need to hear that we’re not the first to watch a baby fall off the bed, and we need to hear that if it happens, baby will be OK. We need to see that we’re not the only one in the world going gray over where to send our kids to preschool. We need to know, even in our weakest moments, that we do what we do because we love our kids and that most importantly, we are not alone in this, the second hardest job in the world.
The first hardest, if you didn’t know, is making “sweetie popcorn.”
Putting on an addition in our side yard
Not many will deny that one of the best parts about being a parent is the privilege and the right to slip back into the magic of childhood now and then. Even in my ripe old age I find myself indulging in youth on a daily basis. I play hopscotch. I build forts. I watch cartoons. And I even eat raw cookie dough without worrying about the eggs.
But without a doubt, my favorite part about slipping back into childhood is rediscovering the magic of nature with my kids. And in between writing these columns and being CMO (Chief Mommy Officer) of our household, I do all I can to close the door to my disastrous kitchen and over-flowing laundry room and head into the backyard because simply put, there ain’t nothin’ better than playing outside. The look of my son’s face when he catches a toad or my daughter checking on her fairy house every day? Just priceless.
We don’t have a huge yard, but we’re lucky enough to have our own little chunk of new-growth woods in the back. There are just enough maples to tap in the spring and even a few old gnarly apple trees to produce wormy fruits in the fall. Between those is a killer stand of wild cherry trees and enough poison ivy to make me itch just thinking about it. So it’s not much, but we love our woods.
However, it’s not the wooded area that is making me so excited this summer. It’s the yard, and the side yard that is mostly a dirt pile, to be exact. It’s there in that weedy pile of dirt that I am fulfilling one of my own childhood dreams and, as usual, dragging my kids along the way.
It’s called a sunflower house, and the easiest way to explain it is to tell you how to make your own. In a circle of about six or eight feet in diameter, you plant a ring of mammoth sunflowers. As the sunflowers grow, they create the walls of the “house.” When they are fully grown, you can sort of guide them to grow together at the top, creating the roof of your sunflower house. And then you go inside your digs, completely constructed of what is possibly the happiest flower known to man.
Tell me that doesn’t sound super cool…
I’ve been dreaming of doing this for a few years now, every year missing the chance to plant the seeds or waiting too long to decide where to put my sunflower house. But this year I decided to do it, and arming my older children with trowels and myself with a shovel in one hand and a baby in the other, we set out to plant our ring of seeds.
I soon found out that it’s not very practical to think that young children have the patience, the strength, or the tools to dig twelve little holes in our clay and rock filled Ohio soil. So they drifted away and found colorful rocks in the gravel and squirted each other with the hose while I, donating one arm to the baby, dug the holes with the other hand (which in case you were wondering, is not very easy to do.)
But if this thing grows and I can actually sit inside a room made entirely of flowers with my children and look at those pretty rocks, it will be worth every drop of sweat.
Now as the days warm and the rains fall, I find myself taking precious care of a new total of fifteen children – twelve little seedlings and three little kiddos to watch in amazement as they grow.
But without a doubt, my favorite part about slipping back into childhood is rediscovering the magic of nature with my kids. And in between writing these columns and being CMO (Chief Mommy Officer) of our household, I do all I can to close the door to my disastrous kitchen and over-flowing laundry room and head into the backyard because simply put, there ain’t nothin’ better than playing outside. The look of my son’s face when he catches a toad or my daughter checking on her fairy house every day? Just priceless.
We don’t have a huge yard, but we’re lucky enough to have our own little chunk of new-growth woods in the back. There are just enough maples to tap in the spring and even a few old gnarly apple trees to produce wormy fruits in the fall. Between those is a killer stand of wild cherry trees and enough poison ivy to make me itch just thinking about it. So it’s not much, but we love our woods.
However, it’s not the wooded area that is making me so excited this summer. It’s the yard, and the side yard that is mostly a dirt pile, to be exact. It’s there in that weedy pile of dirt that I am fulfilling one of my own childhood dreams and, as usual, dragging my kids along the way.
It’s called a sunflower house, and the easiest way to explain it is to tell you how to make your own. In a circle of about six or eight feet in diameter, you plant a ring of mammoth sunflowers. As the sunflowers grow, they create the walls of the “house.” When they are fully grown, you can sort of guide them to grow together at the top, creating the roof of your sunflower house. And then you go inside your digs, completely constructed of what is possibly the happiest flower known to man.
Tell me that doesn’t sound super cool…
I’ve been dreaming of doing this for a few years now, every year missing the chance to plant the seeds or waiting too long to decide where to put my sunflower house. But this year I decided to do it, and arming my older children with trowels and myself with a shovel in one hand and a baby in the other, we set out to plant our ring of seeds.
I soon found out that it’s not very practical to think that young children have the patience, the strength, or the tools to dig twelve little holes in our clay and rock filled Ohio soil. So they drifted away and found colorful rocks in the gravel and squirted each other with the hose while I, donating one arm to the baby, dug the holes with the other hand (which in case you were wondering, is not very easy to do.)
But if this thing grows and I can actually sit inside a room made entirely of flowers with my children and look at those pretty rocks, it will be worth every drop of sweat.
Now as the days warm and the rains fall, I find myself taking precious care of a new total of fifteen children – twelve little seedlings and three little kiddos to watch in amazement as they grow.
Update: I also started some in pots. The toad have been killing them, one by one...
A few words on the invention of Mother’s Day
Note: Apparently some people found this offensive. If you are offended reading this, I'm truly sorry. And I'm also jealous that you don't have to endure what some of us do on Mother's Day. -klkmc
As far as holidays go, I’d venture to say that most were created by a man. On Christmas we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, a man. Easter commemorates the rising of Jesus, again, a man. The Fourth of July is an observation of a new government that was mostly, you guessed it, men. And even Father’s Day, the day when we all treat dad like royalty? Yep, pretty sure that some guy made up that one, too.
But if there were ever a holiday that was most certainly created by a man, it’d be Mother’s Day.
Now, if you are a man and you are reading this, you are probably thinking to yourself, “oh yes, we men love our mothers and our wives, and we certainly want to celebrate the wonderful things they do for us and all that they mean to us, and of course we created the holiday as a day of honor.”
And if you’re a woman reading this, you’re probably thinking, “gee, she’s on to something! No woman in her right mind would create a holiday that would require so much work, stress, sweat, and overcooked scrambled eggs.”
Let me explain this to all of the men out there. As far as mothers go, most of us have mothers of our own. Not only our own mothers, but some of us even have mother-in-laws. And grandmothers. And for us lucky ones, multiple grandmothers. And somewhere in our wedding vows when we were all too emotional to pay attention, we somehow promised that we would bear children, love our husbands, and take care of all holiday celebrations until death do us part.
So come the second Sunday in May, we are required by that vow to manage celebrating and honoring all of our mothers, on a day when most of us could use a break and a little honoring ourselves.
Still confused as to why most mothers think Mother’s Day should be wiped off our calendars and out of our card shop shelves? Still don’t understand how no woman in her right mind would create such a complicated and distressing holiday? I may best be able to convey it in anecdote. Here is a characteristic Mother’s Day for a mother such as myself…
6:30 AM. Get woken up by the baby.
7:30 AM. Told to go back to sleep because the kids (ages 4 and 6 with mediocre culinary skills matched only by their father) are going to make breakfast in bed (ie. Scrambled eggs with bits of shell and toast with two pounds of butter.) Open homemade cards.
8:00 AM. Start the day by wrapping the gifts for all of the mothers in my life, bribing the kids with gum so that they’ll sign the card nicely (instead of writing POOP), and start preparing the Mother’s Day dinner that somehow I got conned into hosting at my house.
9:00 AM. Bribe the kids with more gum to help me clean the house. Have to wash the dishes from my breakfast in bed. Call all of the grandmothers, give holiday wishes, and hope that I put their cards in the mail early enough.
1:00 PM. Host a dinner party for one set of parents to celebrate that mother and the wonderful things she does and is.
3:30 PM. Drive an hour to visit my other mother, and celebrate her.
7:30 PM. Arrive home, feed kids bed-time snacks, give baths, read books, sing lullabies, put to bed.
8:30 PM. Clean kitchen from 1:00 PM dinner party.
10:00 PM. Lay on the couch, re-read precious homemade cards, begin to dread Father’s Day, and fall fast asleep.
Happy Mother’s Day, girls!
Visit and contact Karrie at www.KarrieMcAllister.com.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Quote of the CENTURY
Says Ellen at dinner, "Moms drink a lot of coffee because, you know, they need it to stay alive."
No doubt!!!!!!!!!!
No doubt!!!!!!!!!!
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