Feeling Today

A number of years ago I was washing dishes with a relative.  It was a year or so after her father had died.  While he died at a old age and had lived a full life, the final years had been a struggle for him and his children.  She had been his primary caretaker.  She was his daughter.  As we washed plates and glasses from a holiday meal, I asked how she was doing; this holiday, a year later.  In a week or two it would be his birthday.  I wondered, out loud, what the year had felt like without her father.  I meant to acknowledge the day, to honor him, to give her a moment to share her feelings.

She smiled an indecipherable smile at me.  I know she said something about her dad--a brief acknowledgment.  I remember that she said, "I just try to think of the positive."  Then it was done.  She dried a plate.  Set it down.  And asked me for the glass I was washing so that she could dry it.  The topic moved on.

I remember mentally noting that she said, "think" where I had asked about "feelings."  Our languages didn't match up.

Some days I wish I didn't feel birthdays and anniversaries and the date my loved one died.  Some days, I wish my primary language wasn't "feelings."

But it is.

Today is Carole's birthday.  She would have been 64.  Though, she wouldn't have celebrated it today.  Aging was something she lived in denial of...believing that by pure strength and positive thought (plus a lot of aerobics and some other potions and creams) she could over come it.

That wasn't the way it went.

Try as she might, keeping her cards hidden until July when her pool was open and the sun was hot, didn't put off aging...nor did it keep us from celebrating her birth.  Which was the real point.  That she lived.

Through all the emotions I have today, I am giving thanks for that.  She lived.

Running Around, Crazy.

A stainless steel stove there, a granite sink here.  Pink carpet, flocked wall paper.  Children's pencil drawings on the wall, a mounted deer head in the family "bar" area. 

The qualities and defining moments of each home we have been in, change.  They are as unique as the families that have occupied the homes.  There is one constant on our home search.

The air quality.

Apparently, each home has very poor air.  Or, perhaps they are pumping something into the air.  Whatever it is, it has a disastrous effect on my children.  Each and every house we have seen--outside of the very first one, where we had the element of the "unknown" on our side--they have behave poorly.  Well below par.

I blame it on air quality but really what they are breathing is probably more a mixture of parental anxiety and fear, all the while trying to be polite as we get to know our real estate agent.  Throw in the fact I rarely raise my voice with them in public (and see, "wanting to be polite" above) and that we go usually tour homes on the weekend, which is securely "Daddy Play Time" in the kids' minds, and it is a awful combo.

This past weekend, BB took to pulling out one of his favorite new phrases.  It is from the Wiggles.  "Something strange is going on around here..."  He says it with the comedic timing that only a boy of four or five can master. And, the first five times I wanted to laugh with him as he went from room to room muttering this phrase cracking himself up each time.  It is so funny to watch little boys develop their shtick.  But I couldn't laugh because his sister was spinning.  She spins and then takes great joy in falling down...alot of joy.  She also has taken to shrieking.  And, her mantra has become, "I do it myself."  Emphasis on 'myself.'  Then add the running.  Empty houses with multiple rooms are a huge novelty...so the temptation to run from room to room is great.  Jokes.  Spinning.  Shrieking. Running.  House hunting.

My husband and I both had alcohol with dinner on Saturday and Sunday

It is no wonder we haven't settled on what to do after this weekend's whirlwind tour.  The air quality was just so poor.

Above Average Housing

I first began to think about housing and housing/neighborhood development during college.  I spent two spring breaks on Habitat for Humanity service trips to Southern towns.  As these types of trips are meant to do, each was eye opening.  It isn't just verbiage when I say that they also changed my life.

I met people I admired.  They were inspiring and dedicated and passionate.  All qualities I hoped to be someday.  They shaped my ambiguous dreams into a plan...a blueprint, you might say, for the next two years of my life.

After typing that, now two years seems like such a short time frame.  I blink these days and two years have gone by.  But in my twenties, I faced plentiful and steep learning curves.  It was a time where I was so mailable that each daily experience left a large imprint on who I am.  Time moved slowly.  Sometimes painfully so.

After college I moved to Americus, GA to be an extended volunteer with Habitat for Humanity International.  I would spend most of my time in Georgia, with a three month stop over in West Virginia to host Spring Break trips at an affiliate there.  It should be noted that I never spent much time on a work site.  I was the organizer, the spokesperson, the cheerleader, the spiritual voice, and the logistics officer.  Back in Georgia I worked in Media Relations, writing and promoting the various nationwide build events.  I recited these facts and figures multiple times a day to reporters.  The repetition wore a grove in my soul.  Repetition, combined with my hands-on experiences and daily conversations with people who live in substandard housing around Americus, fueled a passion for housing that stays with me.

So, now I am looking for my own house.  Actually, it will be our third house (fourth, if you count a student apartment) as a couple.  The one we currently live in is the only one we've owned; (my husband is quick to point out we don't *actually* own this one either, the bank does...pish, posh I say.) our first home was a parsonage owned by the congregation.

When we moved into our current home we jokingly said it reminded us of a Habitat home.  Translation, it is a basic, usable home, without any of the bells and whistles of so many new builds today.  The rooms are adequate, but small.  It is enough.

But of course, we want more.

 

Now 14 years after my work at HFHI, I am faced with the mix of suburban peer pressure, basic common sense for our family, my desire not to disappoint my former colleagues and my own wish to be true to myself.  On my list of what I want in my next house, along side the many "wishes," I list "doesn't make me feel like a hypocrite."

I would much rather reuse an old house, than buy one of the brand new vinyl beige Mc-homes that are popping up around us.  I would rather live in an established neighborhood than on land I remember as a corn field just a year ago.  I don't want to buy more than we need.  I want to fight the urge to have shiny counter tops and appliances that are exactly like everyone else.

But I also want spaces free of kids toys, a bedroom for my daughter, a public school system that doesn't makes me consider private school, and mature trees.  I'd be lying if I didn't also list: a larger bathroom, a kitchen island, storage closets, lots of windows and wood floors.

As I write on Sunday afternoon, my husband is loading the kids in to the car to go look at a brand spanking new home.

I'll report back on whether it has everything on my list.

Republic of Congo

 Guatamala

Papua New Guinea
Photos are from the HFHI website and one from Coldwell Banker

Interrupting my house hunting series to post a link to a beautiful entry--promising God's love.  It is from Meta's blog, Tangled up in Grace.

Hunting for a House

My husband and I have accepted reality.  For now.  This.  Is where we live.  It is, and we might as well make peace with that fact.  There are many reasons this community doesn't fit, and if I focus on them, they start to multiply.  But there are a lot of things this community offers us, and when I focus on all of them, I am thankful.

We are going to focus on 'thankful' for the time being.

For the past two years EG has shared a room with us.  She has been a great roommate.  Quiet, respectful, able to sleep with the lights on or off; she is even able to sleep through quiet conversation or the blare of the morning alarms.  Sure, her decorating isn't quite my style--I'm not in favor of red crayon scribbled on green walls--but she's held up her end of the roommate pact like the trooper she is.  Like any good roommate, there is always the pull to "grow up and move on."  It is time to do just that.

I'm going to spread out my thoughts on this house hunt for a few posts.  Read along as you are so interested.

What are we fighting?

I'm not a car person.  In fact any conversation over cars--car parts, car brands, new models--bores me to tears. And, if the conversation turns too pretentious, I will internally begin to cry. (Along with the fact that the person gets a black check by their name...we've covered the fact I am a bit judgmental in earlier posts.)  Even though car brands are a regional distinction--the current state I live in is BMW central, while my home state goes for a more understated Tundra Explorer Escalade.  Did I get that right?

Cars are a practical thing to me.  They get us where we are going.  They should do their best not to destroy the environment.  They should only be as big as we need them to be.  I don't derive any ego from the car I drive.  (although, I did love my one more high end performance car...it was super fun to drive, even as a station wagon.)

It is a good thing I feel this way because, I drive a minivan.  I grew up cruising around in a minivan.  I dented my first fender in my parent's minivan (and the garage, and the mirror, and someone else's fender...it was a long learning curve.)  I do not fear the minivan.

But apparently, many do.  Both of my husband's sister in laws have vowed never to drive one.  A friend on facebook recently braced her friends for the fact she was now driving one.  This was met with a long list of people wondering what had happened to her and calls for help to straighten her out.

I read once (or heard on the news) from a "car expert" that the minivan is best designed car insofar as it does what is was created to do, perfectly.  What's not to love with that description?

What's with the fear?  Is a minivan just the final push over the parenting cliff we all fear?  As we stand there in comfortable shoes, mucus and spit covered t-shirts, with a crying or wining or arguing child clinging to us; do we really think it is our practical car that signals "Not the Cool One" to the world.

Fear not, my friends.  It is only a car.

He is Risen! He is Risen, Indeed!!

I practiced this basic piece of the Easter liturgy with the kids all Sunday morning.  EG had it down.  Too, too cute to hear a two year old shout back, "He is Risen, Indeed!"  And, then...her 'Alleluia,' it is heaven itself to listen to.**

We had a fantastic Easter with family.  At one point during the afternoon on Sunday I was so overwhelmed by the joy in my backyard.  New life was sprouting up in every direction. 
It was also one of those moments that are achingly sad for someone who lives a 12 hour car ride from family...
"This is how every weekend could be,"  I think wistfully to myself.  But life is full of these momentary glimpses of "love," "grace," "joy," and the Kingdom to Come.  I am so thankful for this Easter.  Blessings to each of you who were there to share in it.  We love you.
Some photos of the prep and festivities.

** Now, she didn't actually get to say it during worship because I thought the 9am service started at 9:30am.  oops.  I got to practice offering myself grace right away on Easter morning. 

(Maundy) Thursday Theology

It actually started last night.  In the shower was an African American Baptist choir singing  and stomping their feet along to a song that has these lyrics:  "They rolled the stone away.  They rooooolled it away.  (over and over) Jesus is aaaaalive. (over and over)."  The smell of sickening sweet fruit soap mixing with the steam, made me realize that "no", we hadn't left the doors open to a choir, but rather BB was on a roll in his nightly shower.

Today, in the car he began to speculate about that stone.  "Mom, how many people do you think it took to move it in front of Jesus' tomb?  six or eight?"
"sure."
"Maybe two...three...four...five... or eight gajillion quadiridian.  Do you think it was that many?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't know that God did it."
"Say more...did what?"
"Mom.  You know when those bad guys came and put Jesus in the tomb all dead...I don't know if God moved the stone."
"Humm.."  (traffic got heavy for a moment.)
"Why do you think those bad guys killed Jesus?  They were bad.  (he is angry sounding now.)."
"BB, I don't know if they were bad guys...I think they were afraid. I think they didn't want to do the things Jesus was asking them to do...like love people, and give up power...not get to be in charge.  I think they were afraid."
"Mom.  If God is big enough to move that stone away...ya remember, the one eight gajillion quadiridian people moved into place...can't God hold the whole world in his hands?  Or maybe the two of them...God and Jesus, they can hold the whole world in their hands."

(by this time we had arrived at our destination...)
"Yes, BB God is big enough to move the stone away and hold the whole world."
A bit of a pause and I figure the conversation is going in a whole new directions.  Nope.

"How did they kill Jesus?"
"Oh, (sigh) BB.  That is a really sad part of the story....do you really want to hear it?"
"oh.  no, I guess not today."

He looks sad and serious.  Thinking for a while.

The car is stopped, and I am out of it standing in the parking lot by BB's carseat.  I run my hands through his hair and kiss his cheeks.  This dear boy.  This dear, dear boy who I hope remembers his shower performance and learns to go through life in celebration....verses lament.  While the full story is important for all of us to hear and remember...some of us are prone to go through life forgetting the joy Good Friday was meant to bring us.

Blessings.

Palm Sunday

The door to our home and my office each have one of these on them.  My mom and I made them...a lifetime ago.  For the thousands of 'deaths and resurrections' since their creation, thanks be to God!

Pray for Them

If you happen to have a favorite pastor, remember them this week to come.  Often during Advent and Christmas, pastors are remembered with cards, goodies, and gifts.  Holy Week, while even more stressful and full, isn't often a time we remember our clergy.  Be patient, offer some kindness, bring in some healthy snacks or an Easter card, basket or gift.  (although, my personal suggestion is not to bring them the camo themed eggs/GI Joe Easter basket I saw at Walmart last week...that just might bring on more passion than any of us are ready for this Holy Week.)

And, make time to attend all these fantastic liturgies they are creating.

My Week--A List Cross Off

*Make and bring meal to family with new baby--nutty chicken, rice and cupcakes
*Make and bring snack to Mom's Group--blueberry coffee cake, oranges
*free pastry day at Starbucks
*take kids to park...break Lenten lunch fast (again)
*Go to foot doctor--otherwise known as Podiatrist--have plater facitis, which I knew.  Ice, advil, new shoe insert.  Did not answer my question of "what cute shoes can I wear come summer?"
*Write Thank you notes from EG's birthday--Whew.  Just in the nick of time: Sunday 5:pm.

*Plan and organize dinner and game night for 20-30 small group
*Host Dinner and Game night--super fun night!!
*Attend Mops--didn't happen.  Went to bed with a chill and woke up with a fever and other symptoms.  Please note what remains to work on...oops.  This is why one should plan a head a bit better.
*Write sermon for Palm Sunday--it got done.
*Practice readings the Gospel text...only as long as a usual sermon.  sigh.

*Remember to get BB to school on time.* (Day One, Day Two, Day Three-check.)

text study for Palm Sunday

Benedictine Sr. Joan Chittister, author and lecturer, lives in Erie, Pa.

Into this mix of struggle and tension, of cultural divides and future possibilities, of global unsureties and dogmatic certainties, comes the sixth question of Lent. It is a simple but a searing one: Who will cry out?
"Rabbi, stop your disciples from calling attention to you," the Pharisees demand in this Sunday's scripture (Luke 19:28-40). There is another agenda here to be attended to, after all: theirs. Or "tradition." Or it is simply any present event "at which such a [fill in the blank -- conversation, action, question, request] is improper." Everything and anything but Jesus is on those agendas, in fact. "Gentlemen," -- you can almost hear the tone of voice -- Jesus says to those who want to ignore the greater questions with which he confronts them, "if these [disciples of mine] do not speak up, even the stones will cry out."
There are some things, in other words, that are so major, so world-shaking, so morally demanding that they simply will not go away, no matter how much we try to ignore them or damp them or nicen them up or command them away. They affect so many people that they will not be minimized. They are erupting everywhere and cannot be dismissed. They may be denied the public arena over and over again but they will not be smothered. Though, heaven knows, smother them we try.
But the flow of history moves inexorably on with each issue that is disregarded in one period rising even more violently in the period that follows. In every decade and in every country and religion, the woman's movement keeps reappearing. In every nation everywhere the plight of the poor is threatening the rich. In every part of the globe every year the ongoing loss of natural resources undermines the well-being of people everywhere. So, the question persists: Who will cry out if not you, if not I?
It is a shattering moment, this confrontation with the inevitable, in the middle of this 40-day retreat into the self. Just when it would be so much more comfortable to sink into the symbolism of Lent, we are required to face reality. Just when we would like to put it all down for awhile -- all the clamor, all the dirty business around us, all the ecclesiastical arm-wrestling, all the social issues -- and concentrate simply on the "spiritual" life, on "Jesus," we find ourselves in a crowd on the noisy, sweaty road to Jerusalem, caught between the Pharisees and Jesus. Caught between the keepers of the system and the word of God. Caught between the stability of the past and the painful beginning of a new future where, deep down, we know we hear the deniers denying him and mourners crying for his absence and the question hanging in the air: Who will cry out? Who will cry out? Who will cry out?
The honest answer, the smart answer, is "Not me." And many people say it. They walk away and abandon the church to its incestuous self where only those remain who profit from the structures or who dabble in the structures for whatever social or personal placebo it might afford. They leave the political system and ignore the elections. They flee the tough conversations in the family and the office in the name of "nice." They say they have "no time for politics" and "no interest in the church." They drop out on the way to Jerusalem.
But there are those others who keep on shouting, who keep on telling the story even to those with no ears to hear. Over and over again they cry out. But is it worth it? And does it work? Did the disciples on the road to Jerusalem make any difference at all? Well, look at it this way: It got our attention, didn't it?
So whose turn is it to cry out this time?

Matthew 25

...for I was sick, and you took care of me.

Confession Friday--Take 4

I am that mom.  The one who isn't totally available to help her kids because one hand is gripping a coffee cup.  I hold the coffee for comfort.  If I wasn't holding coffee it would be a water bottle...or food.  It gives me purpose.  It protects me and gives me "something to do" while I listen to people talk or think of what to say.  It also keeps me awake.

But I am that Mom.  The one holding a starbucks cup.  I came to the realization a few weeks ago when I couldn't fully help EG up the escalator because I had hot coffee in one hand.  I notice I can't always hold both of my kid's hands through a parking lot because I only have one free hand.  The one a wee bit late for gymnastics because she had to run to get coffee before class.  The one with stained fingers because the coffee has bubbled out on to her hand while walking. (while holding bags, kids' hands, keys, etc. AND said, coffee.)

On Wednesday, I added littering to my coffee sins as well.   I brought a cup of coffee to the park, as I was finishing the coffee, one of the kids needed a boost up.  The garbage can is a bit of a ways from where we were playing so I put down my empty cup on the ground and went over to go help them.  My intent was to remember the cup and throw it into the garbage can. 

As we were driving home later, I realized I never did take that cup back to the garbage can.

Lookin' Good

Last week, while shopping at the mall with my kids, this very nice woman held the door open for us as we trooped through.  I took note that she was smartly dressed and pleasant.  We walked to our car.  She walked the parking lot to hers.  Just as I was getting EG situated in her car seat, the Pleasant Women drove by my car.  She yelled out the window, "Excuse me."  After a minute, I realized someone was calling to me.  I turned around, preparing myself for "whatever" one would through yell through the window of a car at me.  "Where did you get your jeans?  They look so good on you."  Internally, laughing (is she serious?), I shared the information and chatted a bit.  She thanked me and drove off.

I can't pinpoint when it happened, but people stopped complimenting me in day to day life.  I have to be honest, I probably stopped complimenting others, too.  People seem to look at me oddly, or are suprised.  I'm not sure if it is a geographic/cultural issue, my age, my stage in life...or, of course, I could (briefly) consider that there is less to compliment me on at this point in my life.  For a brief moment I have to admit, "I sure ain't trying that hard any more."  (While this story is about compliments on appearance, there are other things we could find to celebrate about each other as well.)

But surely there is something we could highlight about each other.  I miss the days when my friends--or random strangers--complimented each other on a regular basis.  Let's bring that back*.  Take a look around, and throw someone a compliment...even if you have to shout it out the window.


*I do not, however,  miss the Junior High 'fishing for a compliment' stage.  "I hate my hair today."  Translation:  "I worked for five hours on these bangs, please tell me they look good."   It is an annoying phase in a 14 year old; on a person 30 years or older it is just painful and embarrassing.

Friday Confession--Part 3

My first confession needs to be that I didn't confess last week. I thought about it. I didn't have anything that felt appropriate to confess.  No one wants to hear my actual yucky, slimy sins, do they? No. No, you don't.

Today's confessional happened on Wednesday and can be filed under 'S' for sloth.  I was preaching twice on Wednesday.  I hadn't started writing my sermon until Tuesday night.  I wasn't overly prepared.  I don't usually do pastoral work on days the kids have school, so it threw a wrinkle in our day.  (that can also be read:  I had to shower and get all fancy for work on a day I usually wear jeans.  Yes, I know..black pants and a collar shirt isn't exactly high fashion.)  A wonderful friend of mine was coming to watch the kids.  The house was a bit of a disaster.  Now, this said friend has seen my house in all states.  I have seen hers in all states.  But she was coming to spend time with my kids, in my house...it wasn't going to be a trip to the spa, but it didn't need to feel like a field trip to the County Landfill either.

I got most of it vacuumed, the pee cleaned up in the bathroom (argh-boys) but the kitchen pans were still out on the counter. Lasagna was on the menu the night before...lots of pans.  Instead of beginning to scrub, I took each pan and stuck it in back in the cabinet.  Noodles encrusted and all.  That's it.  Should I have died, someone, probably my Grandma, would have found five pans covered in various degrees of soggy food, grease, soap and embarrassment.

I know...you are feeling better about yourself already, aren't you?

On a side note.  My other confession should be that I broke my "no lunches out" Lenten discipline in the most offensive of ways.  The kids and I ate McDonald fries.  And, we had lunch with my parents.  And today I am going out to lunch with a friend who is town.  Other than that...we are keeping the fast.  I know you were curious.

Mid-Week Lenten Series on Luther's Small Catechism--The Lord's Prayer

One of the hardest parts of my first call was introducing myself to the home bound members and those who lived in nursing homes.  They were members of a congregation that had seen a fair amount of turn over through the years.  For some of the people, I was the third, fourth pastor to visit them since they had moved to the nursing home.  It was, understandably, difficult to keep me and my predecessors straight.  It made for very confusing conversations.  They would get stories about us all jumbled up together and I would have to weigh whether it was worth trying to point out which tales were about me and which belonged to someone else.  And, of course, their stories weren’t always clear to them any more either.  Because we had just met, I had very little to go by…one woman told me about her travels from the east and the restaurant she had started.  Some weeks the restaurant was back in New York, other times it was in Fargo, where she lived now.  Some days her stories were full of references to her four sons and other times she would rebuke me for asking about more than two.  Our visits were often confusing and filled with uncertainty about what we should talk about next.  That is until it was time to pray.  Each and every one of my visits—no matter how confused or discombobulated our conversation—ended with a firm and solid reciting of The Lord’s Prayer.

Caught

Just moments ago, BB was in the kitchen snacking and watching Bob the Builder.  I was in the office working on an upcoming sermon (and catching up on tv shows I had missed.)  BB had been eating a variety of things in the cabinet.  Goldfish crackers.  Raisins.  Pretzels.  When he came in to ask me to change the video, I noticed that his breathe smelled 'minty fresh.'  He also off handily mentioned that his tongue hurt.
Thinking nothing of it, I asked, "Did you eat some gum?"
"No."  He looked right at me.
"Really, your breathe smells like gum.  Are you sure you didn't eat some?"  I continued to finish typing and arranging papers on the desk, before standing to change his video.
"No."

I didn't really care.  Up until this point I wasn't accusatory or angry.  But now I realized he was lying. (for some unknown four year old reason.)

I walked in to the kitchen, and saw an empty wrapper sitting by his cup of juice.  There was no unwrapped gum anywhere...just a package of Extra sitting on the counter.

"Why is this wrapper empty?  Are you sure you didn't eat some gum or put it in your mouth?"  says I, again, remaining calm and casual.
"No."  Pause.  "I don't know why."  and tears begin.
Now I get a bit more firm.  "BB, you need to tell the truth.  If you can't tell me what happened you need to go to your room."

He goes to his room and dramatic crying begins.  I give him a minute and go in.

Calmly, I sit on his bed, "BB, I sent you to your room because you aren't telling me the whole story...that is a lie. I am not mad if you ate gum.  I don't even care if you ate gum.  I am upset because you didn't tell me the truth."

Very sad, earnest tears are falling as I say this.

"You can come out when you are ready to tell me the truth...but again, I'm not mad about the gum."

He's still in there.

Good grief.  My husband and I don't even chew gum.  It was left here by my parents (not blaming you, mom, just reporting facts) and I understand the allure of something new, but seriously, why choose this to lie about?  Take note of how often I noted that I was calm about it.  He had no reason to think he'd get in trouble. In fact, he fesses up with joy over all sorts of things he KNOWS he'll get in trouble about.  "How did EG get hurt?"  "I pushed her."  "Why is that chair broke?  "Oh, I jumped on it."  Things like that he fesses up to in an instant and I thank him for being honest...but GUM?  Gum is the one that he decides to lie about.

I'm trying to think of what else could have happened. But the evidence points to him.  Sigh.  Always a new learning opportunity...for me.


**Follow Up**   He fell asleep and after waking up from a short nap, BB still wouldn't say much.  He tentatively admitted to licking an existing wrapper.  Who knows.  After a brief conversation I realized the whole thing was over his head a bit and decided to let it go--mindful of how I react to him in the future.  I don't like the idea of him lying to protect himself from his mother's wrath (or, grumpy face/stern voice, as the case more often is.)

Brown Bear, Brown Bear, what do you see? I see GOLDFISH...

For the past week it has been party preparation time around here.  I had great helpers.  BB took the lead of theme and I finished off the details with the help of some great party planners.  EG did actually pick her theme.  It came from the book Brown Bear, Brown Bear...half way in, you see a Goldfish looking at you.  EG likes the fish.

My Mom and Dad came by to celebrate with EG as she turned two.  The following are some photos of the party.  Now, mind you, the only guests in attendance were the ones who did the planning and work...a very funny experience.

The baking begins.

  

Goldfish cookies...the cookie traditions lives on.  Check back to BB's birthday in December 2009 for links to the cookie recipe.

  

  

  The cake...awe, the cake.  It took on a color all its own.  Blue is a pretty ugly cake color, but blue was the color BB requested demanded the cake to be.  As the day went on, it became more green...we just assumed the fish swam deeper into the ocean bottom.

My Mom made the eyes for the fish.  In the Eric Carle book, Brown Bear, Brown Bear, the goldfish's eyes are green.

  

  

  

 

    Jello jiggles fish were a late addition to the menu.  Again, you can guess who came up with the idea.

  The table is set.

Placemats were placed. 

  

  

This is something EG actually requested:  goldfish crackers. 

From The Pionner Woman, I tried her fancy mac and cheese.  My Dad actually did the hard part and stired while I threw ingredients in and managed the heat level.  (grin)  He and I have made two meals together in the last four years...it is a hoot to watch and listen to us.  

I really liked it.  Very rich.  EG had requested noodles and cheese for her menu.  I thought this might be more classy than Kraft Mac and Cheese...but the kids didn't each much of it.  Sigh.

Happy Birthday, EG!  You are the best two year old in the whole wide world.  We love you so.

You Have Returned

This little Corduroy-esque bear has lived with us for four years.  Bought for BB by his aunt, I doubted the purpose of said bear (who comes in a removable bunny outfit) when it was given to me at a baby shower.

True to forum, BB took my disbelief and turned it in to his best friend.  What do I know?  The two have been inseparable ever since BB was about six months old.  You'll note how well loved he (she?) is.  We call the bear Bunny Bear. (or my name, The Cross Dressing Bear--which isn't as child appropriate.)  They were inseparable until one morning about a month or more ago.  Bunny Bear disappeared.  Poof.  He (she?) was gone.  Vanished before our very eyes.  All of our searching couldn't bring him (her?) out of hiding.  Most of us, frankly, suspected that EG had done something with the bear, but we couldn't prove it, so we let it go.  But we wondered.  We searched.  We torn open drawers and doors.  Boxes of toys were tossed and turned in vain.  Sheets were stripped, the pillow searched.  We even turned over the dog's bed in the basement---far away from the last known whereabouts of Bunny Bear.  But he (she?) was gone.  And we began to live with that reality.

Sadder for me, was the fact my BB seemed ok.  Once the initial tears passed, Bunny Bear was only mentioned once or twice a week, at bedtime.  Part of me was hoping for more tears.  More in consolable grief and pain.  I wanted my son to be, well, more of a baby about the whole matter.  I wasn't ready for my first born baby to give up his friend so easily.  I wasn't ready for my BB to be all grown up and ready to face the world sans security blanket/bear.

So, I don't know who was more happy when I gave the search one last effort tonight.

I lifted the mattress off from his bed frame and we pulled out the drawers that slide under the bed.  That's when I saw it.  As the second drawer was pulled out, I noticed the worn chocolate patch of Bunny Bear's paw.  Just a hint of possibility peaked at me.  Could it be?  I reached down and grabbed the paw...thrilled and amazed that we found him (her?).  I was nearly in tears, BB was giggling uncontrollably.  He hugged Bunny Bear and immediately jumped into bed to snuggle.  BB also began to share with Bunny Bear how he (she?) had missed Pajama Day at preschool today..."But its ok, you can come with me next year."

I don't know who is more happy tonight, my sleeping son, or myself?  Both of us content that the world is back as it should be.  Little boys remain just that, little boys.  Whew.  I don't know about him, but I'm not ready for a world without Bunny Bear.