Buttercups

On a much brighter note, the field down the way is in full bloom. The Robin hopping about looking for bugs did not cooperate, so I do not share that photo.

Happy Miscarriage to Me

I have finally realized why I've been so grumpy all week. Eighteen years ago this week, I miscarried my first child.

In the years since, I have learned to deal with it. Actually, I learned very quickly that I was the ONLY one whose life changed as a result. I guess that happens when GOD speaks to you. Exactly what GOD said is the topic for another day.

Today I just want to take a moment and remember.

I remember the pain. Physical. Emotional.

I remember the surgery. I was terrified, but I knew this was to help protect my fertility.

I also remember waking up and being asked, “So, when can you fuck again?”

Gee, the baby died and you cared so much. Is there any wonder I only refer to you as The Jerk these days?

Happy Anniversary, Jerk. Your first child died today. Some how I doubt you remembered.

I've been working in my garden...

All the live long day...

So I'm going to go to bed early. The 20 NEW tomatoes will have to just survive. They aren't getting any more attention for a few days. My hands are worn out and need to recouperate. Gravel is one thing; broken glass is quite another.

The first Early Girl Tomato is suffering along but surviving. Should I bother to go back for cucumbers? The watermelon plants beckoned, but I have to prepare a spot for growing them in a hill.

This will all wait for later. I hope Mr. Asimov will put me to sleep like he did last night. I SO hated to put down "Robots and Empire", but I was no longer digesting what I was staring at.

GOD Rest Their Souls

...and All that miss them.

Today we are all Hokies.

“Today we are all Hokies”: The Origin of the Quote?

On MySpace I noted one of my friends sporting a new icon:

“Today we are all Hokies”

I know where that quote comes from, or at least I think I do. There may be something that happened BEFORE the 1980s, but I doubt it. Feel free to chime in and correct me.

Are you old enough to remember when President Reagan got shot? (Raise your hand if you do. Thank you.) The rest of you babies pay attention.

President Reagan was shot as he lifted his arm to wave to a crowd. The bullet skimmed over the bullet proof vest and entered the unprotected arm hole. At first the President did not realize he had been hit. They were well on the way to the hospital to check him “just in case”, when they saw he was bleeding. President Reagan was healthy, but elderly. He had just taken a bullet in the chest. Anything could happen.

Once it was determined that he was going into surgery, President Reagan looked at the assembled military doctors. He was their Commander In Chief, but he joked with them, “Are you guys Republicans?”

A doctor replied to him, “We are all Republicans today, Mr. President.”

We Are All Hokies This week: The Feud

I went to see Wonderful Karen this morning. It was a spur of the moment thing. I was already in the neighborhood seeing the chiropractor and stopped to see if she could cut my hair.

While I waited I read the April 2007 issue of “O” Magazine and boo-hooed over the adoption stories. I wiped tears on my sleeve cuffs until they were both damp. (I’m NOT adopted, so don’t even go there.) Finally, Karen was ready for me and I tossed aside the magazine.

Karen hadn’t watched much of the news about Virginia Tech because she stays so busy these days. I shared a couple of news items with her, then she told me about what’s been happening at her house. Karen has two young teen daughters. One wants to attend Virginia Tech. One wants to go to University of Virginia.

For those of you outside Virginia, this is referred to as “VT vs. UVA, The Original Family Feud.” I had not lived in Virginia long before I realized this rivalry existed. Much like Clemson (CU) and Carolina (USC) in South Carolina, the rivalry takes many forms. The phrase I heard while growing up was “My favorite football teams are Clemson and whoever is playing Carolina.” It was Tigers versus Gamecocks in SC. Here in Virginia it is Hokies versus Cavaliers.

On Monday, the day of the shootings, Future Cavalier announced, “I’m GLAD I’m going to UVA!”

Future Hokie immediately retorted, “Well, I’m STILL going to Virginia Tech!”

On Tuesday morning, Karen’s husband told their girls, “Put on some Virginia Tech shirts for school.”

Future Cavalier (horrified): “What?!?”

Husband/Dad: “We need to show support for the Virginia Tech people.”

Future Hokie: "OK." (Goes to put on shirt.)

Future Cavalier: “How long do *I* have to wear Virginia Tech stuff?”

Karen: “Just for this week, honey. After Friday you can go back to UVA stuff.”

You have GOT to love these kids. The family feud might run deep, but they’re STILL FAMILY.

We are all Hokies this week.

Falling in the Garage

I decided to make spaghetti for dinner. The pasta was stored in the garage refrigerator, so I bravely struggled through the mess left from replacing the side door. Balancing on the bottom step, I reached wa-a-ay over the bucket of gardening tools and opened the freezer.

I chose to fall at this point. I thought about Crystal’s fall. Somehow, in managing to keep from falling completely in the floor, I struck my wrist on something HARD. I then remembered that Crystal’s leg had been broken. No! Not me! I NEED my right wrist…

Meanwhile, back in the house…

Hubby looked up and asked Middlest, “Did your mother just say something?”

“Yes,” she calmly replied.

“Go find out what she needs!” he yelled at her.

At this point, I returned to the laundry room. Having overheard his command, I explained the situation. “I smacked my wrist when I was falling. I’m sorry, I can’t reach the spaghetti and I don’t think I can use my wrist right now. Please try to go get it for me.” I went straight to the kitchen freezer and pulled out the bag of Japanese sweet rice. Rice, unlike green peas, doesn’t get mushy as it thaws and can be re-frozen with little problem. We use the same bag of sweet rice for all our boo-boos.

Hubby returned to the kitchen with the found spaghetti. He launched into lecture mode. “Your mother might have needed help. You should have went to see what she needed without me telling you,” he told Middlest.

“I heard what she said,” Middlest insisted quietly.

“She said, ‘Damn, that hurt!’”

Don’t you just love kids? Maybe next time I need to scream something about dying? Or hound dogs sitting on my face.

Mychelle is fine! (The grapevine works!)

I just heard, via three other people, that Mychelle is fine!

Apparently her dorm is near where the first shooting took place, but Mychelle was uninjured.

Thank GOD.

21 Dead at VT. Is the girl I know even alive?

If you have a moment to spare, please pray for everyone associated with Virginia Tech.

The child I know there is one of my MySpace friends, so I just sent her a message, begging her to post to let us know she is fine. Please pray for Mychelle, if you would. I'm sure she and her family will appreciate it.

Back to praying.

This year's garden photo

Rather than hang out my bathroom window like I did last year, I stood in the wet grass and snapped a few photos of the garden. Everything is soaked at the moment, due to the violent rain we’ve had all day.

One sacrificial “Early Girl” tomato was planted on Saturday. I didn’t know if it would survive the storm, so I only planted one. If it actually grows, that plant will have a head start of at least two days on anything else. Considering the amount of rain on top of the landscape fabric, I expect it to be way to soggy for me to kneel for at least another day.

Gardening is hard work!

This is sort of what it looks like this time. The picture is actually from last year. This year's garden is bigger. The soaker hose is under the landscape fabric. Holes are cut for tomatoes and other vegetables. The weeding is thus kept to a bare minimum. (Like I have time to pull weeds!) All I have to do is brave the mosquitoes to turn on the water or pick the vegetables.

As Dad pointed out, those living in "The Land of Fire Ants" would not be able to use landscape fabric in their gardens. The ants would camp out in the nice, shady dampness and attack humans at every opportunity. Thankfully, fire ants have not yet successfully crossed the NC/VA border. "Harboring fire ants" is a legal offense, punishable with a monetary fine.

Why did I think I wanted to move South again? I have cooler weather (granted, ALL year round) and NO FIRE ANTS. My family is the only thing I truly miss about my birthplace.

Karl Is Tired of Driving to Lowe’s

Today was the day the garage door was replaced. This was the original, wooden, pedestrian door; rather than the one you drive cars through.

We started out as a family. “Where are we going?” the kids pestered. “What are we doing? When are we going to be there?” The questions persisted until we turned into Lowe’s Home Improvement Super Store’s drive way. They were disappointed it wasn’t some place “fun”, but they rallied.

“I want a Bob the Builder book!” Youngest insisted. The girls took turns pushing the buggy with brother as rider. I picked up some pamphlets. Oldest was instructed to put pamphlets back. On it went the whole trip.

“The exterior door is 36 inches, right?” Hubby asked, confident he was right.

“No,” I burst his bubble, “it’s only 32 inches. Don’t you recall we had this discussion when we replaced the front door? IT is 36 inches. The side door is 32.”

“You are mistaken,” he insisted.

I was right.

We returned home and fed the children lunch. Hubby headed out to purchase the 32 inch steel door. When he returned and dragged it across the lawn, he discovered something else:

He needed a left hand door.

The right hand door needed to go back. I volunteered to take it. Oldest invited herself along for the ride. After much waiting, I was given a door “fresh off the truck”. The associates even had to remove staples and plastic wrap to get it off the pallet.

The correct door, Oldest, and I returned home. I hustled children into the backyard for some gardening fun. Much screaming and whining followed. The beans and peas found themselves in the dirt, in somewhat of a straight line. Hubby was making some interesting noises with power tools. The gnats had found Hubby and were enjoying their tasty snack.

Children were sent indoors to watch television. Of course, they failed to watch the channel they had been instructed to watch. Between checking on them, I helped Hubby with the final “stick the door in the hole” process. I also sprayed the grass with Malathion to annoy the gnats and other “No See Ums”. The cloud of irritating insects seemed to clear away from Hubby.

The new frame comes perfectly square. The old doorway is never square. Hubby finally shoved the door kit into place and stepped back. “That looks good,” he mused. Grabbing the level, he checked one side. “(Expletive), it’s square!” He checked the other side. He repeated his original dirty word.

“Check the top,” I suggested. It too was square.

“Where’s the lock set?”

“I don’t know. Are you sure we have one?”

Karl the Wonder Truck made his fourth trip to Lowe’s. First was the whole family, followed by Hubby getting the wrong door, then my two trips. Karl was about to show how grumpy he was getting.

I was heading to the check out when I heard music. “Sounds like someone dropped a cell phone back there. Dang! that’s close to me. Oh, crud, it’s MY phone.” It was not easy trying to look for a cell phone while not dropping the two pieces of trim board. I missed the call. When I finally got to the phone, I saw it was a call from home. “Did you call me?” I asked as soon as Hubby answered.

“Yes, your Dad called. He said you should get the new locks keyed to match the front door.”

Brilliant!

After a nice chat with the locksmith, I struggled to carry my purchases to the counter. I really should have gotten a buggy this time. I took the locks, the trim pieces, and the magnetic curtain rod to the truck. How could I get them all inside without leaving Karl’s hatch open on the Interstate? Aha! The windows! A couple of trips back and forth, and I have the ten foot length of trim board from the cab to the tail gate. The windows were hard to open. This was not good.

I got home and handed Hubby the locks. The instructions fell out of the bag and Hubby couldn’t find them. “Floor,” I said as I reached for the WD-40. The WD-40 REFUSED to spray. What the heck? So next I found the bottle of Three-In-One Oil. Much oil was spread upon the tracks and Karl decided to finally allow his windows to be closed.

Hubby managed to get the door knob installed. Small bits of wood had to be removed so stuff would fit properly. He admitted temporary defeat and went inside to warm up. After a short period of staring at the dead bolt in his hand while sitting upon the sofa, Hubby decided to try again.

The long and short of it: it’s done.

New exterior, steel, 9-pane door: $125.
New locks re-keyed to fit your existing keys: $65.
Magnetic curtain rod to hide the mess in the garage: $12.
Number of trips to “Make it Happen”: 4.
Saying “I’m done”: Priceless.

Praying for Blessings

I solemnly swear I won’t get too preachy today. Stick with me a few moments.

As a Christian, I take seriously the instruction to “pray without ceasing”. This means to me that I must, MUST pray all the time and for everyone.

Praying all the time gets easier with practice. As I get up in the morning, I simply thank GOD that I made it through the night and have one more day to try to “get it right”. This is usually followed by my request that I don’t have a reason to skin my children before breakfast. (I am only human, after all.)

As we set out to school, we pass the first crossing guard. I pray for them, as that is a job I DO NOT want and you couldn’t pay me enough to do. GOD bless them for standing outside in nasty weather to keep our kids safe. Next we pass a school bus. I pray for my favorite bus drivers: Sharon and Adric. Don’t forget Donna. We wave at Donna or whomever it is driving that YMCA bus.

Thus goes my day.

I say out loud “GOD bless you!” when someone lets me out in traffic. I ask GOD to bless the police, ambulance, or fire vehicle that passes me and “who ever they are going to try to help.” When I pass a sad, squished remnant of an animal on the side of the road, before I avert my eyes I try to manage to say “bless it”.

Everything and everyone NEEDS a blessing. Even stupid ‘possums.

If I have managed to remember to pray throughout the day, I’ve accomplished praying for a fair-sized group of people.

Have you noticed that I keep it short and sweet and mostly say “bless it/them”? My feeling is that GOD knows best what blessing will most help someone. Don’t get me wrong, I make LOTS of suggestions for the people that I know. “She needs help with X, GOD, can you make sure this works for her?” “Help this boy to be quiet and rest for a few minutes, even if he doesn’t nap.” I’ve found praying for friends is easy. I’m just loaded with ideas for how GOD could bless them.

The hard part is praying for enemies.

If I cannot think of anything else, I just say “bless them”.

Those of you that know something of me, know I have an ex-husband. (Henceforth referred to as “The Jerk”.) It took a lot of emotional and spiritual growth to be able to pray in the positive for him. “Just bless him and keep him far away from me and mine” was the best I could do for years. (I’ll leave this topic now.)

How can you pray for a dead person? What if it is someone you don’t know? MOST, but not all, of the dead people we know are happily existing in HEAVEN right now. Do they really need our prayers? I sincerely doubt they “need” anything from us, so I simply pray “GOD bless their souls and all those that miss them.”

It’s us poor people left behind that need the blessings. Bless you. Be blessed. However you say it, just say it once in awhile for the people you love.

Traveling With Children

We did it again. We traveled eight hours with three kids and survived. That would be “eight hours EACH WAY”, if you cared to know.

We have had issues in the past with Youngest. His car seat sits in the middle of the back seat. Even as a baby, he would wait until a sister would finally fall asleep against his chair, then the torturing would begin.

Hair was yanked out. Youngest sometimes jabbed a finger in their ear. He especially enjoyed SHREIKING into an unconscious sister’s ear. The girls would cry “Make him leave us alone! We aren’t doing anything to him!”

Thankfully, we appear to be beyond that stage. (Thank GOD.)

This trip I gave Oldest a book she had never read.* (Pookie’s son really enjoyed it, so I grabbed a copy for us.) Oldest became convinced we were stopping at every rest area. She didn’t realize that she was so engrossed in her book that she didn’t hear our conversations about planning our next stop. “No one is complaining; let’s plan on maybe an hour up the road?” For all she knew, we were stopping just to make her put down the book. I hid the book while at my parents’ house, so she couldn’t finish it before we returned home.

Middlest also got a new book. “The Farmers’ Almanac for Kids” is filled with facts very similar to the old record books that were popular when I was in school. Instead of just mentioning the name of the man from Virginia with the record for most lightning strikes (7 official, 8th not reported), the book spent two pages telling his story. Middlest’s nose stayed in the book most of both trips.

Youngest received a model Hummer from the Easter Bunny. The hood snapped shut with a loud click. I started to worry something was breaking on Karl the Wonder Truck, so we had to finally take the toy from him. When Hubby attempted to return it later, Youngest was still so mad that he refused to touch it. Youngest told grandparents all about his Easter Bunny truck and played with it on their living room floor. He hasn’t figured out yet that it is still at their house. On the way home, Youngest finally managed to pass out and take a MUCH needed nap.

We visited their other set of grandparents on the way home. That broke up the journey nicely and we still managed to get home before dark.

Now I just have to tackle the load of laundry.

*Post Edit: "Eragon" by Christopher Paolini

Hats

Hubby is busy on the computer, researching men's hats. He needs one for a future function. Like every other thing, he has to check styles and prices at fifteen different places.

He was busy clicking on pages while whining about how the free, never-been-worn hat offered by another man didn't fit, when he stopped suddenly.

Hubby: "Hey, Honey, tell me what you think of this one..."
Me (looks at monitor over shoulder): "Looks like a man's hat. Any other questions?"
Hubby (snickers): "No, I guess not."
Me (sweetly): "Just so we understand each other."

I'll be glad when he finally buys one. I'll let you know if he took my suggestion for "an Indiana Jones hat".

Of course, my Hubby will make any hat look GOOD.

Just Wow! I think I love Crystal

Read it and weep. Crystal is awesome.

Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper.

I'm gonna be just like her when I grow up.

Asking for help with dreams and other things

Take a big step with me. Put all doubts aside and BELIEVE there are entities concerned about your welfare. Angels abound. There are more than enough to go around. Most of us have Spirit Guides. We might not always listen, but our Guides are there. Thanks for taking this step. Let’s move on, shall we?

Think of these entities in a manner reassuring to you. Your vision will differ from mine. Whereas I might be comforted by a BIG dog, you might feel better with a tall, regal angel wielding a sword. The point is to pick some thing you can visualize.

Give him or her a name. Just like Thomas Magnum said in that long ago episode of Magnum PI, “Things are less scary when they have a name.” Magnum named the shark that was circling and checking him out for dinner. Magnum calmed down and the shark lost interest. (Note to self: When I finally purchase the series on DVD, I’ll update this with the episode name and other such junk…)

For sake of clarity, I’m just going to use masculine pronouns for the rest of this. Have you named him yet? “He” will be big and scary to others, but not to you. You just gave him a nickname. Now he’s your friend. I call my Spirit Guide “Angelo” (because he’s such an angel to watch over me).

Angelo is very helpful about finding things IF I think to ask for help. I won’t bore you with the list of lost items recovered with Divine assistance, but there’s a lot. I’ve learned to listen to the quiet Little Voice that tells me to dump my purse out to find my keys at the bottom, stuck inside the checkbook. I’ve gone back to the laundry room to “this time look BEHIND the washer” because I didn’t find the paint roller frame the first three times.

When I say my prayers, I ask for protection as well as help. I’m quite sure it was Angelo that almost screamed in my ear “DO NOT open that door! Look out the window. See? He’s NOT a pizza guy.” (I promise to publish that story another time.)

So, why have I led you on this tangent?

Is it any less important to ask for help with your dreams than it is for finding lost car keys?

As part of your going to bed routine, start asking for help with your dreams. We all talk to ourselves. (Admit it, you do it sometimes.) Instead of talking to the ceiling, remember to visualize your protective helper-friend. “Hey, Angelo,” one might say, “help me to remember my dreams in the morning. I’ve just set the alarm for 6:15. Oh, help me to wake up, too, while you’re at it!”

Don’t be discouraged if it takes more than one morning to get it right. You are now attempting to build a good habit: dream journaling. Your paper and writing instrument are within easy reach. Now all you need to do is REMEMBER.

Your Angelo will help you with that, if you but think to ask.

You don't want that. Really, you don't...

Youngest looked in the Frigidaire for more lunch. He had finished his yogurt, but wanted something else.

“See anything you want?” I asked while I fixed my lunch.

“I want the marshmallows, Mommy!”

“The what?” I turned and looked. The container of “Fluff” on the top shelf and had been a topic of conversation with Eldest yesterday. Figuring he meant something different, I instructed, “Show me what you mean.”

“This stuff, Mommy.” He pointed much lower than the top shelf.

“You won’t like that. It’s not marshmallow.”

“Yes, it IS, Mommy!”

Now was the time for fast thinking. Should I let him have it? Should I argue or explain? Time for a lesson to be learned, I decided. “Get a spoon and sit at the table,” I instructed as I grabbed the small bowl from the bottom shelf. All smug now, he happily climbed back in his booster seat. I decided this was too good to miss and sat in my regular seat across from him. Youngest shoved a big spoonful of BAKING SODA into his mouth. His frantic clawing at his mouth reminded me of when Hubby put wasabi on some tuna and the cat found it.

“The next time Mommy tells you to leave something alone because you won’t like it, maybe you’ll listen. Drink some tea.”

The baking soda had only been placed the day before, so I doubt it had any strange flavors. Even a tablespoon of baking soda wouldn’t hurt him. So far I’ve only told his father, sisters, and grandmothers. So far… ;)

Keeping a Dream Journal

In the last few years I’ve learned how to keep a dream journal. The most important part of journaling is to actually have something to write on and something to write with RIGHT BESIDE WHERE YOU SLEEP. I’ve solved my particular needs by keeping a notebook on a clipboard with a pen stuck under the clip. An attack of decadent living took me and I purchased several “light up” ink pens. Click the pen and it lights up. They are perfect for writing in the dark or the early morning gloom without waking the rest of the house with the bed side light. Just don’t try to change the ink cartridge! The little button batteries fell out the pen and I gave up trying to get them back in. I have three other pens, so there is no need to panic. Yet.

Set a regular alarm. In fact, set two. The first alarm should be close at hand and easy to smack into silence. This wakes me enough to realize I’m dreaming. The second alarm says “Get yourself up and write this down!”

When you wake and recall something, write it down as quickly as possible. The dream tends to “leak” right out of my head the longer I wait until I begin writing. There have been many mornings where the clipboard accompanied me to the bathroom for that most important first trip of the day. I tend to write some sentence fragments to get the main ideas sketched out. My favorite example that I share is:

Dinosaurs
Playing a game
Game board

Something happened that morning and I failed to write the follow-up full sentences. I still don’t know if I was playing a game WITH dinosaurs or on a game board with dinosaur playing pieces. The dinosaur game dream was just a run of the mill dream. These are great for practicing dream journaling. I feel no pressure to get the journaling “just right” for this type of dream. Most of my morning dreams are “normal”, meaning weird, convoluted, and nothing too pressing that if I get distracted (children screaming, accidents happening outside, etc.) I don’t worry about not writing the dream out.

Nightmares rarely happen to me these days. I do feel pressure to write down all the details of “frustrating” dreams. I attempt to leave the rationalizing and analyzing for later. Why exactly was that woman attacking my family with the sword? I’m still not sure, but my dream self had the presence of mind to grab a chair with metal legs to battle her! As I hastily scribbled the details, I left a lot of blank space. That was one dream that took MANY pages to get recorded with many notes scratched in the margins.

I’ve noticed that preparing for bed at the end of the day brings me closer to the mind set I need to recall my dream. I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the clipboard. What did I mean when I wrote that? Faded memories flood back. I can usually add a few more details if I want to. I note the time: “11:35 PM later same day”, to distinguish between hastily written morning notes and better considered flashes of insight by day’s end.

When I decide I’ve written enough of an update, I turn to a clean page. The notebook is placed within reach and I turn out the light. I keep a stack of 3M “sticky notes” on the head board for assorted “can’t believe I forgot blah-blah” notes to myself. Forgotten bills and things children require for school no longer make me lose sleep. If a note is extremely important, I carry it to the bathroom mirror where I’ll be sure to see it. Otherwise, between the dream notebook and the 3M notes, whatever I need to write will be remembered.

The great thing about writing down your dreams is sharing them with friends later. I have this one friend* that if he realizes I’m discussing one of my dreams, he leaves the room. Apparently I “worry” him. (Big guffaw.) I spent so many years dealing with The Jerk that I no longer allow my dreams to hurt me. “You cut me with that?!?” I ask the thing attacking me. “Now I’m going to take it from you and kill you with it!”

The mafia goons breaking in my (dream) front door didn’t fare so well, either. They really didn’t expect me to calmly reload. The third dude thought I was out of ammo… Surprise! Janie knows about keeping an extra clip or two in her back pocket when she goes to see what’s making that noise at the front door. As the last one struggled to get up, I asked if he still wanted to hurt me, because if he did, I would need to shoot him some more. Plink! went the empty magazine on the floor, just inside my newly ventilated screen door.

Yes, I’m not fun to watch horror movies with. I no longer play the victim in real life or in my dreams. I won’t tolerate it in my viewing pleasures.

Yes, I think dream journaling has really helped me get to know myself better. I highly suggest it to all my friends.

*Even Terry.


For more information, please consult dream dictionaries or guides. My personal favorite is “Sylvia Browne’s Book of Dreams”.