Dear Santa,
I would like a REAL baby. And 70 Littlest Pet Shops. And 100 stickers that are Littlest Pet Shop-like. I would like a Pillow Pet Turtle and a REAL Chihuahua. I would also like an icecream cake. You can just put it in the freezer when you get here. And I want a little real pink fish. This year, I don't want any books. I have lots of books and getting books is too boring so bring me money instead.
Love,
Mollie
Me: Mollie, Santa can't bring a real baby or a Chihuahua.
Mollie: Ok, we can change Chihuahua to a Pug. I've always loved Pugs.
Me: I don't think Santa can bring dogs or live babies.
Mollie: But I love Pugs. And I love babies.
Me: Where would Santa get a baby from any way? It's not like the elves can make one.
Mollie: Well, if there's a girl elf that's old enough to have a baby, she could have the baby and if she can't take care of it, she could send it to me and then I'd have an elf baby and I already have clothes that would fit it because I have doll clothes. This is what I've wanted all my life: a pug, pug, pug, pug! And a real baby!
Me: Well, you can have your very own baby and your very own Pug when you grow up! But Santa just brings toys. Not live people or animals.
Mollie: It's not fair. Jolie and Sydney got puppies for Christmas when they were little.
Me: Oh, yeah. You're right.
Mollie: I already have the name picked out: Coconut.
Me: (sigh)
Friday, November 26, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Finding Hope...The Journey of a Battered Wife Part 2 (see part 1 below)
Every summer of my childhood, my return address on the dozens of letters I sent home read: “Flintlock Camps, Zirconia, North Carolina.” I was never homesick but in my earlier letters, I always wrote that I was. I missed my family but looking back, throughout my entire childhood and beyond, I have been more camp sick for the remaining eleven months every year than I ever was homesick during that one, precious month. I celebrated eight birthdays there with fifty of my best friends complete with yellow cake topped with creamy, chocolate frosting. I can still hear the squeaky screen door to the mess hall and all the picnic style benches scooting out from under the tables in one big scratch across the ply wood floor. I can hear the Happy Birthday song and see the candles lined up like soldiers across the massive sheet cake. I see the giggling girls reach for pieces of cake as it was plopped on small, white, round paper plates on top of the red and white checked table cloth.
I may have held the 1984 world record for friendship bracelets for I was showered with these as gifts. Every color of embroidery thread decorated my wrists and ankles, never to be removed as a solemn agreement of my commitment to the girl who gave it to me. Of course, by the time the month was over, too many hours splashing in the muddy lake caused each bracelet to rot off and float to the bottom, spied by curious fish, never to be seen again.
Flintlock had an outhouse with three toilets, three shower spigots, and a rustic metal trough where everyone gathered at night to brush their teeth, smear on some Noxema, while sharing a cloudy 8x10 mirror. The trough was also where we washed our socks and underwear once a week. This open air building was one of only three places which had electricity on the entire 150 plus acres of land. It was a luxury to gather at the outhouse every night to be serenaded by a chorus of crickets, katydids, and frogs before we turned in for the night to snuggle up in our blankets on our bunk beds which were on platform tents in the middle of the woods.
For several of the summers, my big sister was there with me and the summer I turned fifteen, my little sister was there too. Jennifer was a counselor, I was a Cabin Girl, which is like a counselor in training, and Rebecca was a camper.
Every summer we rode horses, swam in a cool, muddy lake, canoed, played softball, tennis, volley ball, four corners, soccer, endless card games, Indian Rock games, and capture the flag. We hiked our tails off, went tubing down the Green River, had encounters with snakes and mosquitoes, played flash light tag, and were members of The Polar Bear Club because we were willing to jump into the lake first thing every morning. (Sometimes that was our only hope of getting clean.) We built fires, roasted marshmallows, sang about twenty songs a day, read worn copies of Judy Blume books, stayed up late whispering about getting periods and boobs, performed in plays and skits, clogged, break danced, and made a million and one macramé bracelets.
I am forever grateful my sisters were there during the last camp session there ever was. It is a comfort to always have witnesses to bear testimony Flintlock really existed.
Though I wasn’t necessarily a religious person, my favorite part of camp was Chapel. We had the most beautiful chapel service in the middle of the woods every Sunday evening by candle light. There was a trail which began at the mess hall, went down several silvery slate rock steps, skimmed by the Quiet Benches, around a big oak tree, followed the round rim of the lakeside, past the canoe and kayak storage area, through a natural gate of dogwoods, and further and deeper into the woods under a canopy of hundred year old Maples, Hickories, and Elms. The tree roots offered steps up and down the slight hills and finally we would enter a small clearing which was surrounded by such magnificent fauna and flora on all sides. There were rustic wooden benches where we sat and cool, soft earth to kneel upon.
Bootie, the camp director, would read from the Good Book and we would sing. She always read the story about letting your light shine and not to put your light under a bucket. Even as a young girl, I understood what the message was and I would squint my eyes tightly, then open them, and there in the middle of the dark woods, I would see The Light.
Bootie stood before us in her plaid cotton button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a knee length denim skirt, penny loafers on her feet, and her long silver hair wound into a bun with errant wisps lightly touching her beautiful face. She appeared to be a cross between a wise, old mountain granny and a child. Though she was slender, her face was round and cherub like. She spoke with a unique Appalachian dialect and I can still see her and hear her voice in my head when I read the book of Matthew.
She would dip her candle to the one burning on the stacked rock altar beside the wooden cross. The light in the darkening woods flickered behind an old tin can of beans of which the label had been stripped off and someone had taken a hammer and nail to make the shape of a cross. Next, Bootie would light the little white candle of the oldest Camp Spirit Girl, and they would pass the light on and on until there was a small flame waving light across each girl’s pretty, pure face. And we would lift our voices high and sing to the heavens above: “Seek ye first the kingdom of the Lord and His Righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you, Hallelujah!”
In single file, we would leave the chapel and follow Bootie back down the trail careful to avoid tree roots and rocks but still singing in pitch perfect harmony with every step we took. Counselors had scurried on ahead and stopped at all the perilous areas of the trail and shone their flashlights over sharp rocks and dangerous drop offs on the trail. We collected the dripping white wax on our hands and fingernails as we sang and marched along.
When we would come to the part of the trail which followed the lakeside, I cannot tell you in words the way it made me feel to be singing with the voice of 50 young girls as our candles flickered in the reflection of the lake which mysteriously looked like glass on those nights. It was my favorite part. Fifty candles glowing in the lake with the moon. The bullfrogs were always welcome in our chorus and they merrily thumped out the bass of our songs and the crickets and tree frogs carried out the treble. It takes my breath away even now.
After trekking up and down the trail, we would eventually end our brief journey at the counsel ring where we would form a circle around a blazing fire. The camp hands (college boys who mowed the ball field and did a lot of heavy lifting and snake beheading), licked the fire pit with gasoline and would ignite the fire just as we were arriving sending the flames nearly sky high. We would sing a few more songs and then one at a time, blow out our candles, say our bed time prayers and be excused to the outhouse and then on to bed in silence.
The summer I was a Cabin Girl, I was even busier than usual. I had new responsibilities and new opportunities. We arrived earlier than all the campers and left later too so we could help get the camp ready and then clean it all up for the boys’ camp which would be taking place after the girls’ session was over. My first job was to scrub the chapel benches. I had never seen the chapel in day light before and I felt as if I had just walked in on my mother as she was dressing. Seeing the altar bathed in sunlight made everything appear smaller and simpler. Candlelight was obviously magic.
I may have held the 1984 world record for friendship bracelets for I was showered with these as gifts. Every color of embroidery thread decorated my wrists and ankles, never to be removed as a solemn agreement of my commitment to the girl who gave it to me. Of course, by the time the month was over, too many hours splashing in the muddy lake caused each bracelet to rot off and float to the bottom, spied by curious fish, never to be seen again.
Flintlock had an outhouse with three toilets, three shower spigots, and a rustic metal trough where everyone gathered at night to brush their teeth, smear on some Noxema, while sharing a cloudy 8x10 mirror. The trough was also where we washed our socks and underwear once a week. This open air building was one of only three places which had electricity on the entire 150 plus acres of land. It was a luxury to gather at the outhouse every night to be serenaded by a chorus of crickets, katydids, and frogs before we turned in for the night to snuggle up in our blankets on our bunk beds which were on platform tents in the middle of the woods.
For several of the summers, my big sister was there with me and the summer I turned fifteen, my little sister was there too. Jennifer was a counselor, I was a Cabin Girl, which is like a counselor in training, and Rebecca was a camper.
Every summer we rode horses, swam in a cool, muddy lake, canoed, played softball, tennis, volley ball, four corners, soccer, endless card games, Indian Rock games, and capture the flag. We hiked our tails off, went tubing down the Green River, had encounters with snakes and mosquitoes, played flash light tag, and were members of The Polar Bear Club because we were willing to jump into the lake first thing every morning. (Sometimes that was our only hope of getting clean.) We built fires, roasted marshmallows, sang about twenty songs a day, read worn copies of Judy Blume books, stayed up late whispering about getting periods and boobs, performed in plays and skits, clogged, break danced, and made a million and one macramé bracelets.
I am forever grateful my sisters were there during the last camp session there ever was. It is a comfort to always have witnesses to bear testimony Flintlock really existed.
Though I wasn’t necessarily a religious person, my favorite part of camp was Chapel. We had the most beautiful chapel service in the middle of the woods every Sunday evening by candle light. There was a trail which began at the mess hall, went down several silvery slate rock steps, skimmed by the Quiet Benches, around a big oak tree, followed the round rim of the lakeside, past the canoe and kayak storage area, through a natural gate of dogwoods, and further and deeper into the woods under a canopy of hundred year old Maples, Hickories, and Elms. The tree roots offered steps up and down the slight hills and finally we would enter a small clearing which was surrounded by such magnificent fauna and flora on all sides. There were rustic wooden benches where we sat and cool, soft earth to kneel upon.
Bootie, the camp director, would read from the Good Book and we would sing. She always read the story about letting your light shine and not to put your light under a bucket. Even as a young girl, I understood what the message was and I would squint my eyes tightly, then open them, and there in the middle of the dark woods, I would see The Light.
Bootie stood before us in her plaid cotton button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a knee length denim skirt, penny loafers on her feet, and her long silver hair wound into a bun with errant wisps lightly touching her beautiful face. She appeared to be a cross between a wise, old mountain granny and a child. Though she was slender, her face was round and cherub like. She spoke with a unique Appalachian dialect and I can still see her and hear her voice in my head when I read the book of Matthew.
She would dip her candle to the one burning on the stacked rock altar beside the wooden cross. The light in the darkening woods flickered behind an old tin can of beans of which the label had been stripped off and someone had taken a hammer and nail to make the shape of a cross. Next, Bootie would light the little white candle of the oldest Camp Spirit Girl, and they would pass the light on and on until there was a small flame waving light across each girl’s pretty, pure face. And we would lift our voices high and sing to the heavens above: “Seek ye first the kingdom of the Lord and His Righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you, Hallelujah!”
In single file, we would leave the chapel and follow Bootie back down the trail careful to avoid tree roots and rocks but still singing in pitch perfect harmony with every step we took. Counselors had scurried on ahead and stopped at all the perilous areas of the trail and shone their flashlights over sharp rocks and dangerous drop offs on the trail. We collected the dripping white wax on our hands and fingernails as we sang and marched along.
When we would come to the part of the trail which followed the lakeside, I cannot tell you in words the way it made me feel to be singing with the voice of 50 young girls as our candles flickered in the reflection of the lake which mysteriously looked like glass on those nights. It was my favorite part. Fifty candles glowing in the lake with the moon. The bullfrogs were always welcome in our chorus and they merrily thumped out the bass of our songs and the crickets and tree frogs carried out the treble. It takes my breath away even now.
After trekking up and down the trail, we would eventually end our brief journey at the counsel ring where we would form a circle around a blazing fire. The camp hands (college boys who mowed the ball field and did a lot of heavy lifting and snake beheading), licked the fire pit with gasoline and would ignite the fire just as we were arriving sending the flames nearly sky high. We would sing a few more songs and then one at a time, blow out our candles, say our bed time prayers and be excused to the outhouse and then on to bed in silence.
The summer I was a Cabin Girl, I was even busier than usual. I had new responsibilities and new opportunities. We arrived earlier than all the campers and left later too so we could help get the camp ready and then clean it all up for the boys’ camp which would be taking place after the girls’ session was over. My first job was to scrub the chapel benches. I had never seen the chapel in day light before and I felt as if I had just walked in on my mother as she was dressing. Seeing the altar bathed in sunlight made everything appear smaller and simpler. Candlelight was obviously magic.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Finding Hope...The Journey of a Battered Wife (part 1)
While nestled in the womb of the Appalachians directly at the foot of Hogback Mountain, I found the place where light and darkness are one. Without warning, I slipped into it and it enveloped me in its perplexing blanket. Its shadows invited me inside and then allowed me fall hard into its depths. As a small fifteen year old girl, I didn't have the ability to keep walking though it to the end. And though I physically left Zirconia, North Carolina in July 1989, I remained in the shadows, intoxicated for the next ten years of my life.
The town was named for the zircon mines which sustained the small community decades before I was there. Zircons were used as a source for the incandescent light and Thomas Edison himself visited this previously thriving mining town more than once. This place was a paradise and when I think of what my heaven looks like, I can only visualize it as my view from the Mess Hall front porch overlooking the lake and the hills. My heaven is bedecked with Mountain Laurel, Rhododendron, Crow’s Feet, Sassafras, Devil’s Walking Stick, and hundreds of towering Hickory, Cherry, Hemlock, and Pine Trees. The trees are so close together they seemed more like one rolling green swath of fabric being shaken out by some immortal goddess on top of the mountain. The waves of the fabric swept across my view with every whisper of wind.
The Green River meanders through my Great Reward, babbling over slippery, moss covered rocks and fallen trees rotting into new life. My heaven has fields of daisies and clover, bumble bees, and ant hills. According to Professor Pratt’s Geological History of Western North Carolina, he says it is clear that all the rocks there are amongst the oldest geologic formations on earth. My paradise occupies land that is more ancient than that of the Euphrates, the Nile, or the Jordan River. Flintlock Camps was my Eden.
When I drive along the dirt road to my house, I always remember driving down the bumpy road to camp and the sound of the sparse gravel crunching beneath tires with anticipation of what was in store for me at the end. When it rains in the summer, I roll the windows down and I smell it. I taste it. It tastes like the color green. The melodies of the old camp songs rock my children back and forth until they are there too, in my Eden. To their ears, it is their mother’s voice, but in my head it is a three part harmony with fifty other girls. The loblolly pines and the kneesocked girls in pigtails are always just a spitting distance away from my real life even though I haven’t stood on that sacred ground in over twenty years.
The town was named for the zircon mines which sustained the small community decades before I was there. Zircons were used as a source for the incandescent light and Thomas Edison himself visited this previously thriving mining town more than once. This place was a paradise and when I think of what my heaven looks like, I can only visualize it as my view from the Mess Hall front porch overlooking the lake and the hills. My heaven is bedecked with Mountain Laurel, Rhododendron, Crow’s Feet, Sassafras, Devil’s Walking Stick, and hundreds of towering Hickory, Cherry, Hemlock, and Pine Trees. The trees are so close together they seemed more like one rolling green swath of fabric being shaken out by some immortal goddess on top of the mountain. The waves of the fabric swept across my view with every whisper of wind.
The Green River meanders through my Great Reward, babbling over slippery, moss covered rocks and fallen trees rotting into new life. My heaven has fields of daisies and clover, bumble bees, and ant hills. According to Professor Pratt’s Geological History of Western North Carolina, he says it is clear that all the rocks there are amongst the oldest geologic formations on earth. My paradise occupies land that is more ancient than that of the Euphrates, the Nile, or the Jordan River. Flintlock Camps was my Eden.
When I drive along the dirt road to my house, I always remember driving down the bumpy road to camp and the sound of the sparse gravel crunching beneath tires with anticipation of what was in store for me at the end. When it rains in the summer, I roll the windows down and I smell it. I taste it. It tastes like the color green. The melodies of the old camp songs rock my children back and forth until they are there too, in my Eden. To their ears, it is their mother’s voice, but in my head it is a three part harmony with fifty other girls. The loblolly pines and the kneesocked girls in pigtails are always just a spitting distance away from my real life even though I haven’t stood on that sacred ground in over twenty years.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Teenagers in the Summer
I keep thinking the summer is wrapping up, coming to an end but then I realize we still have a full month to go before school starts. Excuse me while I go stick my head in the toilet and flush it. I am so sick of summer it is not even funny.
For one thing, there are just too many people in this house all day. And I believe teenagers count for at least two people at each. And when they have the letters, ya know the ones that start with P and end in S and have an M in the middle...well, I think they count for four people each if you take in account all the mood swings and personality shifts.
I swear, I know I have great children and I love them and I am proud of them but sometimes I wonder what the heck I was thinking to have five of them. And it's not because of the little ones. I just think every mother should experience parenting a child going through a complete round of puberty BEFORE she decides how many children she would like to have. I am now asking myself if I can go though puberty three more times. I am thinking not.
I really thought I would be a cool mother to a teenage daughter. I really did. I thought this because I was so cool. But it really doesn't matter how cool you were or are because your children will think you are a total dweeb-o idiot from the time they are 13 until they have children of their own. Then they will feel very sorry for how ungrateful they were.
Adrian says we should write a hard core rap song called, "Shut Up and Give Me Your Money" 'cause that is what it feels like sometimes.
And you will actually say crap you vowed never to say like: "Do you think money grows on trees?" I am serious, the first time I said that, I vomited.
But then you end up feeling sorry for them. They do something retarded and you are forced to ground them which I swear is much more of a punishment for the parents than for the little smart- ass, disrespectful brat. Honestly, every chance we have to send you off with friends for the day or evening, we take it. When you leave, Daddy and I usually high five each other and sneak into the closet to make out knowing you are not going to be raining on our parade of happiness and harmony.
But grounding you means we are stuck listening to you mope around about how horrible your life is and how much we suck at parenting and how we don't understand you and how we must not love you and how you really don't love us anymore and how unfair we are and so and so's parents let their daughter do bla bla bla.
And then we say, "Well, if so and so jumped off a bridge, would you?" And then we vomit again.
Then there are other moments which are much worse. Having two teenagers, sometimes we get tag teamed. Two against two in this scenario is almost deadly because the manipulating power of fourteen and sixteen year old girls is like way out of our league.
It really is a shame you have to grow up and become people, making a pit stop along the way as a devil's spawn. But I digress...
When teenagers stay busy, things go much more smoothly and I can say we really get along quite well. But these dog days of summer are really doing a number on me. We are home way too much staying inside because I mean, really, how can we function in 104 degrees? Little children are easy to entertain because you can play games, build forts, go swimming, fishing, hiking, make treasure hunts, play dolls, games, puzzles, let them outside in their underwear and tell them to turn on the hose, whatever, but to attempt to entertain your teenagers....HA! Forget it! They will laugh at you and start singing that hard core rap song, "Shut Up and Give Me Your Money!" Don't even try. Just leave them at home. 'Cause if you take them in the car all hell will break loose. Apparently, adolescents are very sensitive to extreme heat combined with small children who are learning to whistle and like to practice all the way to the swimming pool.
Also, in the car, there is the issue of the car stereo. Who gets to listen to what and when? Well, it's my car so you'd think I'd get to pick but sometimes I make sure my choice is what the person capable of killing me would choose. I don't want to get shanked on my way to grandmama's house just because I tried to let the 9 year old little brother listen to his favorite Mexican station so he could belt out La Coca Rocha for thirty miles.
I must say, though, when all is said and done and the day is finally over, I do tip toe to their rooms to check on them just like I always have. They look the same as they did when they were babies. So sweet and peaceful. And I take a deep breath and say, "Wow." 'Cause if you are raising teenagers, that's about all you can really say.
I cannot wait until school begins. Then, everyone will be back to their busy little selves. Even though I will have to pretty much live in my car and have no time to write or put on a bra, there will be such peace. Hallelujah!
For one thing, there are just too many people in this house all day. And I believe teenagers count for at least two people at each. And when they have the letters, ya know the ones that start with P and end in S and have an M in the middle...well, I think they count for four people each if you take in account all the mood swings and personality shifts.
I swear, I know I have great children and I love them and I am proud of them but sometimes I wonder what the heck I was thinking to have five of them. And it's not because of the little ones. I just think every mother should experience parenting a child going through a complete round of puberty BEFORE she decides how many children she would like to have. I am now asking myself if I can go though puberty three more times. I am thinking not.
I really thought I would be a cool mother to a teenage daughter. I really did. I thought this because I was so cool. But it really doesn't matter how cool you were or are because your children will think you are a total dweeb-o idiot from the time they are 13 until they have children of their own. Then they will feel very sorry for how ungrateful they were.
Adrian says we should write a hard core rap song called, "Shut Up and Give Me Your Money" 'cause that is what it feels like sometimes.
And you will actually say crap you vowed never to say like: "Do you think money grows on trees?" I am serious, the first time I said that, I vomited.
But then you end up feeling sorry for them. They do something retarded and you are forced to ground them which I swear is much more of a punishment for the parents than for the little smart- ass, disrespectful brat. Honestly, every chance we have to send you off with friends for the day or evening, we take it. When you leave, Daddy and I usually high five each other and sneak into the closet to make out knowing you are not going to be raining on our parade of happiness and harmony.
But grounding you means we are stuck listening to you mope around about how horrible your life is and how much we suck at parenting and how we don't understand you and how we must not love you and how you really don't love us anymore and how unfair we are and so and so's parents let their daughter do bla bla bla.
And then we say, "Well, if so and so jumped off a bridge, would you?" And then we vomit again.
Then there are other moments which are much worse. Having two teenagers, sometimes we get tag teamed. Two against two in this scenario is almost deadly because the manipulating power of fourteen and sixteen year old girls is like way out of our league.
It really is a shame you have to grow up and become people, making a pit stop along the way as a devil's spawn. But I digress...
When teenagers stay busy, things go much more smoothly and I can say we really get along quite well. But these dog days of summer are really doing a number on me. We are home way too much staying inside because I mean, really, how can we function in 104 degrees? Little children are easy to entertain because you can play games, build forts, go swimming, fishing, hiking, make treasure hunts, play dolls, games, puzzles, let them outside in their underwear and tell them to turn on the hose, whatever, but to attempt to entertain your teenagers....HA! Forget it! They will laugh at you and start singing that hard core rap song, "Shut Up and Give Me Your Money!" Don't even try. Just leave them at home. 'Cause if you take them in the car all hell will break loose. Apparently, adolescents are very sensitive to extreme heat combined with small children who are learning to whistle and like to practice all the way to the swimming pool.
Also, in the car, there is the issue of the car stereo. Who gets to listen to what and when? Well, it's my car so you'd think I'd get to pick but sometimes I make sure my choice is what the person capable of killing me would choose. I don't want to get shanked on my way to grandmama's house just because I tried to let the 9 year old little brother listen to his favorite Mexican station so he could belt out La Coca Rocha for thirty miles.
I must say, though, when all is said and done and the day is finally over, I do tip toe to their rooms to check on them just like I always have. They look the same as they did when they were babies. So sweet and peaceful. And I take a deep breath and say, "Wow." 'Cause if you are raising teenagers, that's about all you can really say.
I cannot wait until school begins. Then, everyone will be back to their busy little selves. Even though I will have to pretty much live in my car and have no time to write or put on a bra, there will be such peace. Hallelujah!
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Ever have that not so fresh feeling?
OK, friends. I feel the need to smile today and I thought I would share a smile with you too.
So, the other day I am snuggled up on the sofa with Sydney (age 14) and Fischer (age 9). We have just been swimming and are just sitting there enjoying a game show.
Well, a commercial came on for Vagisil Feminine Wash.
During the first few frames of the commercial, a poor woman is jilted by her friends and ignored in social gatherings. Apparently this is due to her not so fresh feeling and we assume she must smell pretty rank for her friends to give her such a cold shoulder.
Sydney and I sorta giggle at each other as we look for the remote control. Fischer is 9 so he thinks everything is funny if it concerns any type of hygiene issue. But this seems to be over his head so far.
But then, of course the woman discovers Vagisil Feminine Wash and her friends are suddenly nice to her. They laugh and go out to parties and stuff.
I said, "Watch Sydney, the next thing you'll know is they will be going on bike rides and running through meadows."
Sydney started laughing hysterically. Then, Fischer started laughing hysterically.
Sydney looked at Fischer and asked, "Um, do you even know what this is all about?"
And he said, "Yeah, those women must be getting high off that stuff."
I love my life.
So, the other day I am snuggled up on the sofa with Sydney (age 14) and Fischer (age 9). We have just been swimming and are just sitting there enjoying a game show.
Well, a commercial came on for Vagisil Feminine Wash.
During the first few frames of the commercial, a poor woman is jilted by her friends and ignored in social gatherings. Apparently this is due to her not so fresh feeling and we assume she must smell pretty rank for her friends to give her such a cold shoulder.
Sydney and I sorta giggle at each other as we look for the remote control. Fischer is 9 so he thinks everything is funny if it concerns any type of hygiene issue. But this seems to be over his head so far.
But then, of course the woman discovers Vagisil Feminine Wash and her friends are suddenly nice to her. They laugh and go out to parties and stuff.
I said, "Watch Sydney, the next thing you'll know is they will be going on bike rides and running through meadows."
Sydney started laughing hysterically. Then, Fischer started laughing hysterically.
Sydney looked at Fischer and asked, "Um, do you even know what this is all about?"
And he said, "Yeah, those women must be getting high off that stuff."
I love my life.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Where Do Babies Come From According to Mollie
This morning, Mollie worked on an art project just like she does every day. When she was finished, she presented me with a handmade card. She brought it into the kitchen and asked me if I would like her to read it to me.
"I would love for you to read it to me!"
"OK, here it goes: Dear Mommy, I bet you would like to lay an egg and give our family another baby. The end. Love, Mollie, your daughter who really, really, really, wants a baby. Thank you."
Well, after this enlightening moment, I decided to have a little sex education talk with Mollie who is five, nearly six years old. Nothing too detailed, mind you, but I wanted to make sure she didn't think I just went out back and laid eggs to give her brothers and sisters!
I know from previous experience (I have five children, so I've had The Talk several times to all varying degrees) that I should always ASK questions first to find out what they already know, what they don't know, and to figure out if simply saying "God makes babies" will satisfy their curiosity or if they are ready to hear more.
So, during lunch, I casually asked Mollie if she knew where babies come from. And boy, let me tell you, I got quite an ear full. Mollie of course had her own theory all along and I didn't really need to say much which was good because she left me speechless as usual.
"Mollie, do you think babies come out of eggs?"
"No, don't be silly. My card was kinda a joke because I wanted to draw a chicken. I know that babies come out of your tummy. And they get in there from the Third Private."
"Mollie, what exactly is the Third Private?"
"Well, you know. It is the third place no one is allowed to touch except God and when you are asleep, God just walks into your bedroom and he brings one of the babies He made in heaven and he just shoves it right up through the Third Private and leaves it in your tummy. The baby is really small at first and it can't see but once it is in its Mommy's tummy it gets bigger and bigger until one day it can see and it says, 'Get me outta here!' and it crawls right out of the Third Private into the world."
"Oh! Wow. So, God is kinda like the tooth fairy in this scenario? How does He do it?"
"Yeah, but except He brings babies and not money. And he does it with his powers. He can even do it when you are wearing pajamas and panties 'cause He is THAT powerful."
"Mollie, having babies is very special and you are right that God plays a big part in making babies but I don't think I am going to have any more babies."
"Well, that's OK because sometimes God will give you the Power to be a mother when he puts the baby in the Third Private and sometimes he gives you the Power when you adopt a baby if their mother is in jail so let's adopt a baby instead."
"Mollie, I know you love babies and I do too and this conversation is wonderful but I just need you to know that I can't have any more babies."
"How come? You just don't have the energy?"
"Yes, something like that."
"Well, don't worry about it. I am going to take care of the baby for you. I am going to be the best big sister ever. Come on, Mommy, you have to do it. I can't because I am too young and if you are too young, and God puts a baby in your Third Private, it can't come back out and you have to go to the hospital and the doctor cuts your tummy open and that is called a C-section."
After that, what could I say? I decided to end the conversation there. Fischer was laughing hysterically by this point any way.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Apple Brown Betty
Mollie was the little chef yesterday and she made Apple Brown Betty. I had a hankerin' for this simple dessert after my friend, Amanda and I reminisced about Flintlock Camp last week. Flintlock was the summer camp I went to every year from the time I was seven years old until I was fifteen. My big sister and I went together for several of those years and we would stay an entire month. Back then, in the early 80's there was no email or Internet and the only contact we were allowed to have with our family was through snail mail. Reading those old letters is such a fun thing to do. I'll post some of them when I get a chance. We were never homesick, although I always wrote my mother saying I was. I guess I wanted her to know I missed her. Flintlock was not a cushy camp. It was rugged as possible. We slept in platform tents in the middle of the woods on bunk beds with 6 fellow tent mates and one counselor. We fell asleep each night to the sound of crickets and frogs. We woke when our eyes filled with the sunrise and the sound of Revel re on the bugle. All 56 or so campers would head down to the Quiet Place by the lake and sit on wooden benches while the camp director named Bootie would read an inspiring devotional. Then we would jump in the lake for a quick dip called the Polar Bear Club. I do not know to this day a better way of starting one's day than this. After breakfast and tent inspections, we would spend the entire day doing horseback riding, arts and crafts, singing, playing games, going on hikes, learning about nature, and swimming. After lunch, we would have rest hour. The afternoons were just as busy and fun filled as the mornings and then we would all gather in the mess hall for supper. The food at Flintlock was delicious. I am not sure if it was because we were all hungry but everyone ate whatever was served. We did not have a canteen or snacks unless you found some berries or crab apples around the barn to pick. At supper, there was always a yummy dessert. My favorite was Apple Brown Betty. I am not sure what the Flintlock Recipe was, but I tried to make it from the memory of the taste and I checked out a few recipes in some old cookbooks. I don't remember Flintlock's having oatmeal in it, but several recipes I read included it. Any way, give it a try and enjoy!
Ingredients: 6 slices whole wheat bread cut crusts off and tear into bite size pieces, 3 Granny Smith Apples (peeled and sliced thinly), 1 1/2 Cups dark brown sugar, 1 stick of real butter (salted) Directions: preheat oven to 375. Grease a baking dish with butter (we used a 9 inch pie dish). Layer bread pieces, apples, and brown sugar, repeat layers until all ingredients are used. We made 3 layers. Then place pads of butter all over the top. Bake for about 20 minutes or until apples are fork tender. Serve with vanilla icecream or whip cream.
Ingredients: 6 slices whole wheat bread cut crusts off and tear into bite size pieces, 3 Granny Smith Apples (peeled and sliced thinly), 1 1/2 Cups dark brown sugar, 1 stick of real butter (salted) Directions: preheat oven to 375. Grease a baking dish with butter (we used a 9 inch pie dish). Layer bread pieces, apples, and brown sugar, repeat layers until all ingredients are used. We made 3 layers. Then place pads of butter all over the top. Bake for about 20 minutes or until apples are fork tender. Serve with vanilla icecream or whip cream. 
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