What's Going On (thank you, Barry White and Marvin Gaye)

I haven't been blogging so much lately. There are many reasons but mostly, they involve children. Children, children, children. From the age of 18 to 3. It's an interesting age span, for sure. On a daily basis, I deal with everything from college anxiety to helping the three-year-old wipe his bottom after he goes to the bathroom. Of the two, I prefer the bottom wiping. Much easier. And just in case my 18 year-old is reading this, like she does from time to time to time, let me clarify. It's not that I actually prefer the smell of poop over your worries about college, it's just that I miss being able to help you solve your problems so easily. Like wiping your bottom.

And now she'll probably never read again. Sorry, sweetie.

Then there's my youngest daughter, who just went through her one hundred and twenty-ninth cell phone. Let's just say she's done her part to recycle as many phones as she possibly can since I purchased her first one at the age of 14. She's now 17. She's a giver, my Sara, always thinking about others less fortunate than her.

Then there are the two youngest, my five-year old stepdaughter and three-year-old grandson. I won't bore you again. You can read about these two poop-lovers here.

I just used the word poop twice in one post. As a matter of fact, the word poop seems to be the biggest part of my vocabulary these days. I think I need a vacation.

And I will get a short one soon! When the husband and I take Lyanna back home to Alabama next weekend, I get to shoot up to Knoxville and spend a few therapeutic, relaxing, Margarita filled days with Diahn and her sweet family. Where we'll most spend of our warm, late, summer evenings talking about poop. Good times. Good times, indeed.

In the meantime, here's what I've been up to this summer. In between the poop.


We've fed goats and fawns.


Some days, we just chill with our new friend below, Jack. He's so laid back and makes a mean Mint Julep. And he tells the best stories.


And then there's his best friend, Joe. He's kind of quiet. And he has a bad smoker's cough. But every now and then, he lets out a loud laugh and tells a story of his own. Or asks for water.

And then there's these guys...feisty, carnivorous misunderstood guys. They have no respect for personal space and at any given moment they might eat your face, but hey, everyone has their faults, right?

I think they're my new best friends.


Oh yeah, and in between the elaborate stories that Jack tells, and the slightly more interesting, albeit more dangerous, tales of our carnivorous friends, I visit the Shreveport Farmer's Market and buy soothing, comfort items like these....


This is a Thai Basil plant. I realize that the brick entitled "Rosemary" next to the Thai Basil doesn't make sense. In fact, it's quite confusing. When I purchased the plant and the brick, the lady behind the booth asked, "You do realize this is Thai Basil...not Rosemary?"

"Of course," I answered. Nosey woman. Like I use it everyday. I have no clue. I just liked the looks of it.

I'm like a ninja sometimes.

In Over My Head

I am old. I have forgotten what it's like to take care of a three-year-old and a five-year-old at the same time. Currently, I'm taking care of my step-daughter, 5, and my grandson, 3, during the day, while I'm trying to work. I work from home. They are here, at my home. While I'm trying to work.

I've developed an eye twitch over the last few days.

Generally, they have a "get along" time span of about ten minutes. Ten minutes before someone melts down. Ten minutes before someone gets angry and throws a punch. Ten minutes before the tears start flowing like lava from Mt. Vesuvius.

And they're loud. REALLY LOUD. They have two volumes. Asleep or loud. There is no in between. There is no whisper. When I ask them to use their inside voices, they look at me as if I'm speaking Farsi.

They are redundant. Redundant to the point of obsessive compulsivity. Seriously.

Me: Do you want to watch TV for awhile?

Brian: Yes, I want to watch "Hulk".

Me: Okay, Hulk it is.

Brian: Hulk! I want to watch Hulk! Nanny, can I watch Hulk? (desperately pulling at my shirt sleeve). Hulk! Hulk! Can I watch, Hulk? Hey Nanny, Hulk is what I want to watch. Do you know Hulk? I yike Hulk. So, can I watch him, Hulk?"

And sharing? Please. They wouldn't share a life preserver if they were drowning. Whatever object or toy one of them is playing with, the other wants. Any object. If Lyanna has a hair bow, Brian wants it. Suddenly, he loves hair bows and his very life depends on having it in his tiny, sweaty hands. If Brian is playing with a blade of grass, Lyanna simply must have that specific blade of grass, now. Never mind the millions and millions and millions of blades in the front and back yard, none of those will do. If we had a dog, which thankfully we don't because that would completely send me over the edge, and the two of them found a piece of dog poop, the conversation would go something like this.

Brian: Hey, I found some dog poop!

Lyanna: Can I hold it?

Brian: No! I found it first! It's my dog poop.

Lyanna: BUT I JUST WANT TO HOLD IT!

Brian: NO! GET YOUR OWN DOG POOP! THIS IS MINE!

Lyanna: BUT I WANT THAT DOG POOP! I WAS ABOUT TO PICK IT UP BEFORE YOU DID SO IT'S MY DOG POOP! (Tears begin to flow)

Brian: I SAID NO!!! STOP ASKING ME FOR MY POOP! (a punch is thrown)

Lyanna: (wailing) HE HIT ME! HE HIT ME! HE HIT ME! AND HE WON'T LET ME HAVE THE DOG POOP! WHY DOES HE ALWAYS GET TO PLAY WITH THE DOG POOP AND I NEVER GET TO PLAY WITH IT!

Brian: DOG POOP! DOG POOP! DOG POOP! DOG POOP! DOG POOP!

At which point I'd probably find myself saying something ridiculous like:

"Brian, you get to play with the poop for five minutes and then it's Lyanna's turn. If you two can't share, then the poop is MINE! Capeesh?"

But oh my...their superhero powers of cuteness are matched by none. They slay me every time.

Lately

This may be the longest time that I've been away from my blog. Life has been a little hectic.

1. We moved.
2. Made three college trips.
3. Stevey graduated from high school.
4. Lyanna is here.

Here's what I've been doing in between.

1. Riding my bike.
2. Reading.
3. Cleaning my yard and getting the beds ready for planting.
4. Grilling.
5. Drinking vanilla coffee.
6. Sipping Shiraz.

Pretty uneventful, and yet, completely full of life's sweetest events.





I'll be back soon...happy summer.

In Between

So you hunker down,
you dig your heels deep into the soil,
you white-knuckle it,
you smile and wave,
and you breathe while you wait.
You soak up the sun,
you smell the stinkin' flowers,
you mow the lawn,
scrape the waste from the plates,
shower and shave,
and you read.
You read a lot.
You think about what you want to say,
scream, put on a billboard,
while you wait.
You drink wine and talk,
talk, talk, talk.
You talk a lot.
You talk about the high price
of fuel and of groceries,
how busy you are and what
you would do if you weren't...
busy, that is.
But you really want to talk about
Tolstoy, and things we never say,
things we pretend not to notice,
and how you think God isn't
quite so trivial as we make him out to be.
And you want to scream.
You want to see the end times,
would relish a real challenge,
and you want to dance.
You never dance.
Never have.
You pace back and forth at night,
like a cat in a cage, and feel important.
Like you mean something.
You don't.
You live in a circle.
And you wait.
You wait for the next bad thing,
the next emotional tsunami,
the next thing that makes you feel alive.
In the meantime, you Google
and search for coupons,
and smile and wave, boys.
Just smile and wave.
And you know He's there,
somewhere, just out of reach,
so you cling to what is here,
to what you can lay hands on.
You cling.
You cling.

One Stop Poetry, recent winner at the 3rd Annual Shorty Awards, has a great Sunday challenge and this is my contribution. Go and read!

Stay

I'm reluctant to let you go.
I wonder where I will find my warmth at night.
I'll miss your extra-large t-shirts
and the pungent, smell of your deodorant.
I'll miss the way your lips look when you say "smoke"
and the way your love handles fit my hands.
I'll miss the way you pick your teeth after a big meal with your credit card,
scratch your balls in public,
and clip your toenails in bed.
Oh yes, and your foul smelling feet.
I'll probably miss those most of all, my love.
But I won't miss the way you play with my hair.
Or those sweet, salty, morning kisses.
I won't miss your hand on the small of my back,
or on the curve of my neck,
or resting in the palm of my hand.
I won't miss the way you whisper in my ear
or the way you defend me, and don't worry,
I won't even miss your unconditional love.
No, I won't miss that at all.
Not one little bit.

My Girl

I spent this last weekend in a foreign land. Panhellenic land. My daughter is headed to college at The University of Alabama in August and she wants to pledge a sorority. I wasn't that type. I've had to expand my horizons and realize that I've been somewhat close-minded. It's too much. She's amazing. In spite of my groaning and moaning about the greek system, she's stayed steady in her convictions. And I have to say, I walked away at the end of the weekend, changed. I walked away convinced that this will be a very good thing for her. I walked away being reminded that my children are individuals and that she, my middle child, is not me. Thank God.

So...Stevey is her name. Before she was born, her father and I debated on names. He wanted a more traditional name but I was leaning towards non-traditional names. Chloe, Zoe and even Scout were my choices. Scout was my first choice but in the end, we agreed on Stevey. Sure, I adore Stevie Nix and Stevie Wonder, but she is not named after these two musical geniuses. I guess you could say they were merely inspirations. It's strange, how a name means so much. I felt intuitively that she needed a strong, unique name without ever having met her. She was born, I nursed her, we spent time getting to know her and it became apparent that she was cautious, somewhat fearful, and so very shy and timid. And we had saddled her with a strange name, a name that would draw attention.

I have watched this girl grow throughout the years. We joke about her younger pictures. In every picture she always looked startled, like someone snuck up behind her and whispered "boo" in her ear. She rarely smiled. She was afraid of the dark, thunderstorms, mad cow disease, and plural possessives. She seemed sad, always. At the age of 10, I would tell her to brush her hair and she would sigh and say, "What's the point? It's just going to get messed up anyway."

But somewhere in middle school, about the time she had her braces removed, she blossomed. She blossomed in spite of her fears and anxiety. And she still has the anxiety, the panic, but she has learned to compensate. She's learned that facing your fears head on is the only way to make them vanish.

She's become the center of her circle of friends. She is responsible, she has goals, and she isn't afraid to pursue her dreams. Well, let me rephrase that, she is afraid but she moves ahead anyway. Courage. She's full of courage. She doesn't think so, but she has it in abundance.

I watched her walked away from me Saturday, after the daughters and parents were separated. I choked. My heart stopped. She was beautiful as she turned around a few times and glanced back, just to make sure I was still there. She was alone. She knew no one. She doubted her herself but still, she moved forward.

I have never been so proud of her in my life. I was never that brave. I'm still not that brave.

Her name is Stevey.

And she's going to move the world.

Dandelion Lessons

Step 1: Find and pick one fluffy, white dandelion. Smile impishly.



Step 2: Put your lips together and blow...


Happy St. Patrick's Day...why a dandelion? Because the picture wouldn't be nearly as adorable if he were blowing on a shamrock.