I just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Eat, Pray, Love.  The story of her year long adventure through Italy, India and Bali.

I wish I had her time, patience, energy, money and scrap paper on which to write this epic journey.  I found myself jealous of her at every turn; she’s my age, dammit….why can’t I go to Bali????

But I think she has it backwards.

My book would be Pray, Love, Eat.

Prayer first. My life would be  nothing without the Divine communication I have with my God and the daily and hourly talks we have. Prayer must come first.  I cannot imagine my life or my existence without the Holy Divine, the Mysterious Spirit or the manifestation of Christ in my life. Prayer first.

Love next.  Without prayer, my love for my life, my family, my children and my husband would not exist.  Let’s get real…my love life with my husband would not exist.  Contraray to Gilbert’s experience, I make love to a man that I’ve been married to for 15 years.  I didn’t go to Bali to meet him (although Bali is an amazing place, my experiences in Penang being close to it).  My love for him and the physical we share gets deeper by the year.

Sex, (yes, people, Mennonite women have sex and like it) would not be the experience that it is.  My husband is the one ONE I have devoted my heart to and the only one to whom I’ll ever give my heart, soul and body.  The communion of two committed people has no comparison.  It might not happen as often as he’d like (I’m a sleepy chick most times) but it’s all very, very good when it does….and the prayer is part of it. God placed us together without question.

Then, the Eat part.

Come on, ladies…are you not hungry at all?  After sex I’m almost always hungry! Gilbert’s book did more for my hunger than anything. Eating Pizza, spaghetti, rotini and drinking a great bottle of Merlot at the same time is my idea of a complete evening!  Eating my way through Italy is a fantasty I’ll entertain for many years!  The first part of her book made me want to run away and just CHOW!!!

All that to say, Gilbert’s book is fantastic.  Her frank and humble admissions of vulnerability were refreshing. Not often does a woman my age admit that perfection is not in her repertoire.  I want everyone I know to read this book.  I can’t say I’d subscribe to her theology or lifestyle, but I do think that her independance and desire for truth are admirable.

I’m jealous she ate her way through Italy.

I wish I had the stamina and persistance to get up at dawn and pray through a yoga session. Her persistance in finding a higher power and spiritual grounding should be applauded.

I am not at all envious of her love though.  I have an amazingly committed man who for 15 years has put up with my crap and dealt with my foibles.  He’s watched me be pregnant, give birth and drool on my pillow. He’s watched me succeed and fail. He’s seen me sober and drunk. He’s fluctuated thirty pounds with me and moved house seven times.  I’ve had three babies and he still thinks I’m hot. He knows when my “time of the month” is approaching and he’s figured out how to make me smile.  He puts gas in my car and makes coffee at six.  He’s cut his ponytail and trimmed his beard, but he’s still the man I love. 

Eat Pray Love!  ????

No way!!!

Love, Love and Love.

The rest comes along as a side effect.

I went to sleep with ick on my tongue after reading another great news story about Barak Obama in Newsweek and now there’s ick on my hair and when I got out of bed this morning I dropped my sweater in the sink while there was toothpaste in the bottom and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad campaign day. 

At breakfast, I found another great Hilary story on the news. My son found a cool Sponge Bob sticker in his breakfast cereal box and my daughter couldn’t open her eyes long enough to eat her breakfast cereal. No Child Left Behind has these kids exhausted from taking tests. My breakfast cereal bowl is empty. At $4.00 a gallon, we can’t drink milk.

I think I’ll move to Australia.

In the car pool lane, some guy honked at me cause I drive a big SUV and guzzle gas at 12 MPG. He might have made rude hand gestures. The Prius in front of me had a license plate that read MPG-50. Good for him! He can’t fit in the seat…but GOOD FOR HIM!  The other Prius I saw had a plate that read BOO OPEC! I like that one. I said I was getting hot. I said I was getting mad. I said I was getting smushed between OPEC, George Bush, Digital Cable and reality shows! I said, GET A GRIP PEOPLE!! No one even answered.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad campaign day.

At work my boss liked my secretary’s idea for cutting costs and going greener by emailing customers instead of snail mailing them better than he liked my idea for cutting costs and going greener by working two days a week instead of five. At lunch time, he thought I ate too many carbs. At break time he wouldn’t let me take a break and at quitting time he wouldn’t say goodbye. Who needs goodbye?

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad campaign day.

I could tell, because after work, I counted 42 McCain signs in one front yard, and 67 Obama signs down by the Mission and 76 Hilary signs on the highway. Ron Paul had a couple crumpled, wrinkled paper flyers near the mall too. I don’t know what he looks like, but they like him in Australia. I said, When will all these stupid signs die? I said, I don’t care who wins, I want my TV back. I hope you sit on a tack, I said to all four of them. That way I could really tell who the real person running for president was. You can’t sit on a tack without a good reaction. I hope the next time you eat a triple, double, single watt taco at a restaurant in Arkansas while you’re campaigning away, the taco part falls off and lands in Australia.

There were six solicitations for Credit Cards in my mailbox and my husband got a call from a creditor in India and my mother said she can’t retire cause Social Security ran out yesterday. Guess who forgot to pick up the kids at day care today?

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad campaign day.

That’s what it was, because after supper my husband said we had to move. Our mortgage payments can’t be made and the sheriff will be here tomorrow. The sale is Saturday, so I better clean. I hate to clean. Call me tomorrow and we’ll fix it said Countrywide. Yeah, right, I said.  Tomorrow, I said, I’m moving to Australia.

On the way to bed, the phone rang and some lady in Minnesota asked me if I was voting for Obama. I’m moving to Australia I said. She hung up. Maybe I’ll vote for Hilary. I started crying because the phone bill is too high, the oil prices are killing my budget and I want to go on vacation in my gas guzzling SUV. My best friend called me a crybaby and when I was punching her for saying crybaby, a cop showed up and served me with papers that said my electric, cable, phone and water was shut off cause I can’t afford to live here anymore.

I’m having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad campaign day, I told everyone. No one even answered.

Hilary said nothing about my oil bill except she’d give me $30 this summer for gas.

Obama said she was nuts and I should just suck it up.

McCain says nothing about nothing and just dittos every remark Bush makes.

Ron Paul needs some new signs and a TV ad.

So then we went to the grocery store to buy some food. Joey wanted Salmon, Cindy wanted Ice Cream and Junior wanted Brie. I can’t buy those things. The salmon doesn’t run anymore, we’ve killed their water way. Ice Cream takes milk and that’s too expensive and Brie….what four year old wants Brie? We bought cereal. They sell that in Australia.

They can make me buy it, but they can’t make me eat it.

When we picked up my drycleaning they told me they couldn’t get all the stains out. They said to leave them alone; they’re busy going out of business. I was careful as could be except for my mouth which yelled at them for selfishly taking care of themselves, when consumers like me can’t stand to do laundry! My husband said don’t go there anymore.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad campaign day.

There was nothing but take out for dinner and I’m sick of take out.

Fifty versions of Law and Order on Tv and I hate murder.

My bath didn’t happen and I got a bug in my eye when I took out the trash for the guy who might show up if the township renewed his contract. I had to wear my flannel jammies to bed again cause we can’t afford the heat bill and I hate my flannel jammies.

When I went to bed I couldn’t sleep. My husband told me to chill out and not worry. The sheriff’s a really nice guy after all.

The dog wants to sleep in the hallway, not guard the door.

I’m going to write in Jesse Venturea.

My dad shook hands with Obama today. He’s so excited he doesn’t want to wash his hand.

I said, Dad, some days are like that.

Even in Australia.

 This post is satirical in nature and not intended to offend. The book I reference has been my favorite children’s book for over a decade and I own multiple copies. I apologize to the publishers, authors and readers for any violations they may feel I have committed.

I am simply frustrated with our current political campaigns and had to let it out in a way that I felt might make it humorous, light hearted and simply real.

…and I’m straddling it.

Working mothers vs. stay-at-home mothers has been an ongoing battle for many women. Hackles get raised, claws come up and tears pour. I don’t believe there is a mother alive who is not a “working mother.” Let’s get over the labels first.

My deepest desire is to be able to stay home with my children, raise them and spend all the time with them I can.

My other deepest desire is to own my own business, profit my family financially and have the independance that comes with being my own boss.

Right now, I am torn between those two things on a daily basis and, quite frankly, have been on this line for nearly 12 years.

There is no perfect model. The ultra-conservative religious (I did not say Christian) mother would say that I am not being the best I can be for my children by going to work outside the walls of my home.  She would say that my husband is letting us down by not being able to financially support the family on his own. She would say my children will be depressed, rebellious and needy.

The ultra-energetic liberal woman would say I should care for my own internal diva before becoming a slave to my family.  She would say that my husband and I are equal partners in this world, but because I pushed out babies, I should get some greater time off for myself. She would say that if I don’t do this, I will become depressed, rebellious, fornicatious and needy.

Neither of them are right and I’ve decided that I’m sick of the argument.

My internal diva is alive and well. My drive, passion and business acumen are steadily improving and my personal and family financial goals are in front of me. (Yes, this does include charity and giving because I do have a wide world view too). My children often don’t have me at the dinner table during a busy week at work, my son’s baseball games are not always attended by his mother and I do pay for daycare.

My internal mother is also alive and well. I love to cook dinner and spend time with my family. I would die without it. Over everything, I protect my family time fiercely and I don’t care who knows it. My children love me and although they miss me sometimes, they’ll be just fine. They are learning how to hang out with their dad in a way some kids never do.

So, I’m done with this argument among women.

We’re all in this together and without cooperation, support and understanding, we’ll kill each other with our judgments and that is not something I want my children to learn.

I had to run an errand this evening. Pick up milk and tea. Luckily, the Turkey Hill is close to the Wine and Spirits Shoppe…so I stopped there too. I love Red Truck shiraz.  (And the chardonnay and Stolis I bought.)

Small little outings like these make me want to keep driving and see where I end up landing. It’s a rare occurance that I’m in my car alone.

Those people closest to me know that I like to blast music in my car.

The new Cadillac commercial asks, “When you turn your car on, does it return the favor?”

YES!

With the awesome sound and Bose speakers to match…I’m a wild and crazy cruisin’ Momma!  I picked the random CD option and cranked it.

Accompanied by Alison Krauss I drove and drove. Her duets with Robert Plant are just fantastic. My husband has a secret (NOT) crush on her. 

But, it was the ride home with James Blunt UNCENSORED that made me feel better.  Former British soldier turned magical musician. He ain’t too bad to look at either, ladies. But, I will warn those of you with sensitive ears to pick his censored songs so as not to offend any of your sensibilities. The man can sing and what a poet he is! He ain’t shy and he ain’t dumb…he’s pretty real.  He sings about things people pretend not to know about. There is raw emotion and real life stuff going on in his lyrics.  We all sit around each day hoping that no one actually hears the conversations that take place in our heads and James Blunt sings about them. He does like to use “vulgar language” as some would call it.

(Personally, I think a well placed curse word now and then is cathartic. No, maybe just really really great at making you feel better. I have a favorite one that I use now and then when the time is right. You’ll have to ask my hubby what that is cause I’m never tellin’)

James Blunt, cranked to the top end of the scale, curse words and all makes me feel pretty damn good.

I sang and sang and sang and sang and sang. I’m pretty sure the lady next to me at the red light in Bridgeport thinks I’m a loon. I had the sunroof open and my window down while I belted off key. What’s the point if no one can hear you?!

The reality is that I can sing and I can dance and in my former life before this reincarnation I think I was a rock star. (Just kidding). But…I felt so great driving and singing and blasting those Bose from my big huge truck…therapy.

While I sang, I thought a lot about life, childhood, marriage, motherhood and my world. Only one thing was easily decided:  My kids are amazing.

One is absent and my heart breaks for her.

One is a ball star and amazingly sweet. I want to be like him when I grow up.

One is troubled and beautiful and fragile.

The last one is four going on 10. He’s also ready to take control of Microsoft Corp.

I thought about love.
I thought about how we take all the things we have in this life for granted and then someday someone does something to mess with it…and we’re at a loss to know what to do.
I thought about prayer and that without the privilege of talking with my God, I’d be the loneliest woman on the face of the earth!
I thought about my church and how I really probably know only a handful of people, yet they’re all there with me on Sundays and other days.
I thought about the struggles my parents are going through and how that’s only going to get worse soon.
I thought about me and how I want to be young for a long long time.
I thought, “Crap! I’m going to be forty in a few years!!!”

And I decided that Erin’s okay. She’ll struggle and so will I. We’ve cried a lot this last week together. We talked and laughed. She hugged me a lot. I hugged her back.  We also had a lot of fun. Play therapy is a great thing, ladies and gentlemen.

There is so much I want her to know.  So much I want to shield her from and keep her from doing. I want to make all her choices for her so she won’t screw up.  I want nothing but peace and joy for her and that’s not even remotely possible.
I want her to relax, breathe deep, exhale slowly and enjoy being a kid.

But, I’m going to teach her to let her hair down, crank up the tunes, open the sunroof and slide down the windows. Grab her favorite tunes, turn the key and go!!

Take it to 70 on a country road.

Drive and laugh and Sing Like You Mean It!!

I probably shouldn’t blog this stuff, but I’m not sure where else to put it. Since people we know and are close to read my blog, it’s a little bit unnerving sometimes to bare my soul. But, writing is my therapy and this is my outlet. It’s personal, private stuff put out there for the world, I know that.

My daughter turned 9 years old a few weeks ago. She had been looking forward to this birthday like never before because finally we were giving her a birthday party. I broke my promise last year to let her have a party when she turned 8 and she had never quite forgiven me. Let me tell you, this 9th birthday party was to be the bomb!

This past Saturday, fifteen little third grade girls, my sons and one friend of Liams, three adults and two ice cream cakes were scheduled for a 1:00 pm start to a swim party at an indoor water park.  At 3:00 Saturday morning, Erin came to my room with a belly ache. By 6:30 she couldn’t stop crying and was so exhausted from no sleep. At 9:45 she puked. No fever, no illness, not a sign anywhere of germs or contagions.

By party time, she was “fine.” One small episode of barfing during the party (no one noticed), otherwise she did great and we all had a lot of fun! She scored some awesome presents, including five new Webkinz. I’m a little jealous; I only have three. After the party, she slept for awhile and then went to bed early. Slept all night on the floor of my office so she could be next to our room. The belly pain began again in the wee hours of Sunday, and she stayed home from church with her dad. By lunchtime, she was pink and perky and ready to go.

This hasn’t happened to her for a long time. She has abdominal migraines/cyclic vomiting and there’s no real explanation for what precipitates these episodes. Her belly aches do seem to be worse when she’s worried or if something really exciting is coming up. Like Christmas, dates with mom or…her birthday party.

These cycles, coupled with her violent temper worry us enough that we’re meeting with a counselor this week to see what she says. Play therapy. Erin doesn’t know yet and she won’t be going with us. This is for grown ups to talk. We are actually quite concerned about the road ahead for Erin and what we’re going to find out. She frustrated, angry, worried, overwhelmed and tired. She’s depressed. I was a clinical pediatric nurse long enough to know she’s not behaving “normally” for her age.

We’ve got a few good ideas as to what’s bugging her; we may never know for sure. Nothing is simple.  I know too well what depression’s murkiness feels like.  I also know that we can do nothing to fix this. God is fully in control.

What a long strange trip it’s going to be.

My phone isn’t working. Each year, it seems, we need to buy a new house phone. For some reason, we can’t seem to find one worth anything even though we don’t buy cheapos. Maybe that’s the ticket, buy a cheapo phone and it’ll live forever. One of my friends is having the same problem too (yes, same model phone).

For right now though, the quiet in the house is nice. People can call me, I just won’t hear it ring and I can’t dial out.

It’s almost creepy being alone in the house on a Monday with no noise. I like it. I’ll likely get a whole lot of work done (which is what I’m supposed to do at home on a Monday!).

It occurred to me that God might have taken the phone calls away for a reason. Hmmm…maybe I need a little quiet time with him instead.

I have a few thoughts on this week’s sordid news flash regarding Spitzer’s adulterous relationship with expensive prostitutes. I don’t usually pay much attention to this stuff but this one really gets me. On the Today Show this week, the ex-wife of ex-governor Jim McGreevy (NJ) appeared to talk about how wives feel when their governor husbands do something stupid like have an affair.  NBC ran parallel news clips showing McGreevy’s apology speech and Spitzer’s apology speech. Both men are wearing the same red/white striped tie!!! It must be the “I’m sorry I got caught with my pants down” tie. Both wives are wearing blue suits.  What’s up with that?!

Men, if you are going to do something so amazingly stupid and selfish as hire a high priced escort, here are some rules to follow:

Don’t meet her on Valentine’s eve.
Don’t buy her online.
Don’t (for Pete’s sake) use Western Union wire transfers to pay for this crap.

If you have a few extra thousand dollars left to spend on something, your wife could probably really use a spa weekend or a new tiara!

My husband is extremely clear on what would happen if he was in Spitzer’s shoes. Or rather, what would NOT happen. He apparently told a co-worker yesterday that no way would I stand next to him on a public platform to listen to him apologize to the world for humiliating me unless I had a gun to his back the whole time. He’s absolutely right!

I do not ever expect to deal with a cheating husband. But, if I do, I will be on the first flight to a tropical beach. I will not stand around to be humiliated in public nor will I crawl in a corner and cry.

I will leave. Lay on a beach for several weeks drinking umbrella drinks and watching the waves (and the cabana boys). I will let my stupid cheating husband behind with the kids and all the chores. If I’m ever gone for awhile and come back with a killer tan and a tattoo, you’ll know what happened.

He will be very very sorry he didn’t buy me a tiara instead.
 

I wrote this little blurb for myself about two years ago. (My aforementioned soon to be teenage son was then ten years old).  Sorry, it’s outdated, but still true.

        As I tucked my ten-year-old son in to bed last night, he did a weird thing. With closed eyes and sleepy limbs he seemed to wave his hands over his stomach and chest before he pulled the covers up. There was something very deliberate about it though and it took me a minute to figure out what he was doing. I stood and stared for a minute before I asked him,

“Do you do that every night?”          

“Yes,” he replied. “I always do that. It helps me feel safe.”         

It seems that my most profound moments with this child are when he is half asleep. This is the same boy who sat and talked to God at the foot of his bed when he was yet in diapers. And last night, he did something so simple yet so subconsciously that I wondered how often and how long he had been doing it.  It is apparently part of his bedtime ritual, performed with the fog of sleep closing in, yet so meaningful to him.          

He was crossing himself. Making the sign of the cross over his body to protect him from harm and notify the world that he is the child of God.           

When will I be so entrenched in my relationship with Jesus, that even in my sleep I invite him to be with me? When will it be second nature to me to call out to him, rather than a last resort when all my attempts otherwise fail?            

When will I ever learn?

It occurred to me tonight that I will be the parent of a teenager in approximately one and a half years.  Liam and I were watching some wierd health show on Discovery and it was just the two of us.  He oughta be a pediatrician or a teacher or a OB/GYN or something that involves hanging out with kids.

I don’t know if I’m ready to parent a teenage boy.  Teenage boys and I have a very short history.  I dated a few of them and that is about it.  They were rock-n-roll “heads” full of themselves.  Skinny kids with ripped jeans and a penchant for trouble.  They loved ZZ TOP and Deep Purple. They were always getting in trouble and grinning their way out of it.  They drank wine coolers and beer, smoked cigarettes and barely passed classes.  I am sure that one of them is now gay and the others happily married complete with kids and corporate jobs.  That is my experience with teenage boys.

 My husband was once a teenager.  He fits the above discription fairly aptly.  He tried his best to get out of the house and do what he wanted.  I think he managed to break up a firehall BBQ dinner by setting a back woods shed on fire once.  The biggest loss there was the collection of beer cans that he and his cronies had accumulated.  My guess is that the ashtray didn’t burn out enough and the walls went ablaze.  He also got his head and hand busted by getting smashed with a baseball bat during a party he decided to throw at his parent’s house while they were away.  Silly man.

 My 11 year old son is already eyeing our in-law quarters and planning what great parties could be held there.  Ironically, this kid gets sick every time he gets remotely close to being in trouble!!!  I think he knows I can smell a keg from three miles out and wouldn’t tolerate too much idiocy.  He’s way too anxious to pull it off.  He’s also got a lot more respect for us and his friends than to consider it seriously.  I think.

My 11 year old son also has a girlfriend.  She is absolutely beautiful and really cool.  She’s got him “whipped already” as Andy says and Liam is really smitten.  It’s been nearly 18 months since we started hearing about Alicia.  She’s been to the movies with us, football games and basketball games.  She did this cute thing for Valentine’s Day with hearts and XXXOOO and cool metallic pen designs on it for him.

tiki tiki tembo no sa rembo char bari ruchi pip peri pembo

google it.

It’s the honored son’s name and it means “the most wonderful thing in the whole wide world.”

I can’t believe it’s been a month since I wrote anything! Not that I haven’t thought about it.

My two older kids came home from a church function last night soaking wet. A water fight apparently took place outside the doors and both of them ended up in the middle. I haven’t seen such a satisfied, carefree expression on Erin’s face for months. It was as if all her anger dissolved in a water battle; she danced to bed.

Idyllic childhood.  My husband’s childhood is not filled with laughter or craziness, magic or imagination. His parents didn’t tickle him, laugh with him or make tents under tables. He behaved. It’s hard for him to break out of that with his own kids and not get angry when they come home soaking wet from a water battle. I watched a little conflict pass through his thoughts last night before he smiled at them.

My childhood was full of imagination and stories. Warm laps and fun. I remember being dragged around the house in a blanket screaming each time I hit a table leg. I remember being high up on a tree limb, legs wrapped around a rope and just jumping out as far as possible. When the moment was right, letting go and landing in a huge mud puddle. That was joy! I am the opposite of my husband; I love the chaos and drama of wrestling children and dogs barking at them. I love mud and puddles. I really love water battles and sprinkler fights. I don’t behave enough.

When did we decide that laughter gets too loud and giggles too silly? When did we, as parents, feel the need to reign in the fun if it’s bugging us? Why can’t we go barefoot outside if it’s wet or too cold? Who cares if our clothes match when our friends are waiting for us to hurry up and come out!

Right now there are goldfish cracker crumbs in my bed and marbles under my table. There are handprints on the fridge and dirty socks in the kitchen. There’s a little booger stained boy asleep in his bed with a smile on his face cause he had fun eating those crackers in mommy’s bed.

I want to stop worrying about towing the line and start living life again to the fullest. I want my children to feel each and every ounce of the day deep inside their souls. To try something fun even if it’s messy. No one has died from going to bed dirty. Each day they watch us to see what it’s like to be a grown up. I want them to look forward to it!

We only get one chance at each day. Dragging ourselves through it and managing to collapse is no way to live. Scheduling the hell out of our families so we don’t get bored or miss something is stressful and hurried. Having dinner at 6:00 and bedtime at 8:00 every day is just crazy.

Eat pizza in your pajamas, fill the bath tub with bubbles.  Read Dr. Seuss with all the voices. Stay up late if there’s a good show on. Tuck your teenager in for once. Turn up the music really, really loud. (Best if it’s Duran Duran or The Cars).

Get up in the tree and jump!