Moving and Hardwood Floors

A few years ago a new neighborhood was being built about 2 blocks away from my house. The houses were beautiful! Hubs was helping some home-buyers purchase a home there and when he went to preview the homes, he fell in love with one of the models. He came home and said, “Do you want to see an awesome house?” Well, sure, who doesn’t? So we went to LOOK. LOOK as in with your eyes, not your checking account, or so I thought. The second I completed the tour and agreed that it was, indeed, a great house, Hubs said, “I knew you’d like it—let’s move here!” And so the whirlwind started—to move two blocks away.

(I have moved about 24 times since I left home for college. Moving is NOT my favorite thing to do.)

(I also had nightmares during that time…it was always the same: Hubs would drive away, waving out the window that he was late for work while I put one box at a time into Joy’s little red wagon, perched her on top, and transferred our stuff from one home to another, 2 blocks away.)

Things kept going wrong with this planned move, however, and finally I said, “Enough. We’re going to stay put”* (even though our ENTIRE house except for the very basic basics was packed in boxes and sitting in the garage). And so that was that—except that we had purchased flooring for the new home already. It was sitting in the garage next to all of our other worldly possessions. So we decided that the next best thing to getting a new house was getting new flooring in our existing house. Every last thing we owned stayed in the garage (except for our cars) and we had the flooring installed in our home.

Our entire downstairs is dark hardwood (entry, office, living room, dining room, and family room) and slate tile (entry inset, kitchen, bathroom, and laundry room). And I have to admit, they are beautiful, but not very practical. Right after they were installed, the real estate market stalled. All spending came to a screeching halt. We did not even have any extra to spend on area rugs. And so, now that we have Child #2, I am a bundle of nerves during her every waking moment because I am afraid she’s going to hurt herself. And don’t get me started on the cleaning! I sweep, dust mop, vacuum, and mop almost every day, but you can’t tell. Nope. You’d think I didn’t own a single cleaning tool or was too lazy to get off my rear end to do it. Sometimes I think I’ve done it, that they are really clean—and then the sun shines through the back window, with light glaring across my dusty, dirty floors.

So here I am again, back at the top of the list of nominees for Worst Mother of the Year and here’s why: (a) not only have I covered every square inch of my home with hard surfaces that can cause serious bodily injury to a little person just learning to master the art of walking, but (b) the same ‘every square inch’ is also consistently dusty/dirty/gross, and (c) I complain about the beautiful flooring in my home. (Incidentally, this also puts me in the running for Worst Housekeeper of the Year and Most Ungrateful Person of the Year. Don’t hate me because I’m multi-talented!)

*This decision single-handedly kept me out of the running for “Dumbest Financial Decision of the Recession”. Don’t worry, though—I still have time!


Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Mid-Hill Farm

I live near a farm. It used to be a dairy and crop farm, but times are a-changing. The owners have sold most of their land. Part of it has been turned into a driving range. The fields where they used to do corn field mazes every October has been sold to the county to be converted into a park. The family lives at the top of a small hill in a sprawling ranch-style home which I would love to live in. It is beautiful. The family is amazingly friendly and welcomes visitors.

A few years ago we were at an event that our community holds every year called the Fall Festival. They used to hold this at the farm. At this event I met the man in charge of taking care of the machinery. His name is Marvin and he is a cross between Santa and Merle Olsen. This gentle giant told me that the dog that normally ran loose in and around the property was harmless and so it would be perfectly safe for me to bring Joy to see the animals. The dog’s name was To-Be because he “just wants TO-BE loved.” And loved him Joy did.

And so, for the past 3 years, we have visited the mid-hill farm to see the animals. There are donkeys, alpacas, watusi, deer, ducks, and geese. We take apples and carrots and bread and cereal and peanuts to feed the animals, probably every two or three weeks. Joy especially loves the donkeys. They are loud and bold and their teeth make her laugh. She gets a little skittish at the very last second that they are taking food from her hand and she usually drops it on the ground. They don’t mind in the least.

The alpacas are very curious, but very shy and easily scared. Marlo likes them the best because they are quiet and gentle and calm. They never eat any of the food we try to feed them—at least not while we’re there—but it doesn’t stop Marlo from trying. If I forget to give her some “pet food” to give to them, she doesn’t mind. She shares from her personal stash of gold fish or graham crackers. The kid’s got quite an arm.

The ducks are very animated and the geese are mostly just mean. It is fun to see them fly away, honking…and we always know when they return from their trips. The deer named Spike is easy to feed because he is missing teeth and he can’t bite. That’s always a plus.

We always come home, reluctantly, from our visit to the country in the middle of our city with wind in our hair, fresh air in our lungs, and sunshine in our hearts. What an amazing gift to give the girls—an up close and personal look at these animals. And what an amazing family, these former farmers, who own this land. They welcome visitors onto their property to enjoy their animals. They invite the community to church and community sponsored events that they hold in their “yard”. In this day and age, they certainly don’t make neighbors like that anymore

And To-Be? Marvin told us that To-Be kept running out into the street and was finally picked up by animal control, never To-Be seen again. Joy remembers him every time we go to the farm or pass it on our way to some other destination. Both girls wave at their “friends” and Joy says, “Mom, remember To-Be?” I’m dreading the day that the girls might say, “Mom, remember the animals that used to live here?”

There just isn’t enough stuff like this anymore, at least not where I live: generous neighbors, green fields, farm animals at our fingertips, and friends that just want to be loved. I know the day will come that the farm house will disappear and the animals along with it. I’m hoping it won’t be for a long, long, long time. When that day arrives I will have to just recall the words of J. M. Barrie…”God gave us memory that we might have roses in December.”

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

The Felony Couch

Why does it seem like when you have the least amount of money everything starts to go downhill? For example, all within the last two months our dryer went out, our toaster broke, Hubs’ car desperately needs a tune up, my cell phone fell apart into two separate pieces, my computer is on its last leg, and my couch, oh my couch.

We got our couch about 6 years ago. We replaced a sofa and a love seat with this couch which is a sectional. It’s awesome because it seats so many people. It runs the length of our family room and there is a detached ottoman at the end, separating the family room from the kitchen. It’s green, which is fine, because it blends in with our décor. The polk-a-dots on the couch, however, are not original. They have accumulated over the past 6 years. It has withstood two babies, three children, one cat, one puppy, one very crumb-droppy, spilly Hubs, countless birthday parties, karaoke nights, 5 Super Bowl Sundays, play dates, sippy cup malfunctions, and a well-intentioned washing of the pillow and cushion covers.

I warned Hubs that washing the covers was not a good idea. I even thought that if I refused to participate it would deter him from wanting to go through with it. It didn’t. To make matters worse, I told him to replace the freshly washed seat cushion covers FIRST (because as we all know, these are the hardest to do) but of course, what do I know? He started with the pillow covers and was extremely pleased with his handiwork, and it was so EASY. But, of course, when he got to the cushions, it was another story. After about an hour of grunting and sweating and mild cursing, he finally conceded that he should have listened to me. And, of course, I got roped into helping him finish the job, which, of course, was most of the job since he had only succeeded in getting half a cover back onto the first cushion. For about a week the covers were, indeed, cleaner, but the couch now looks like we put the whole in its entirety into the washer and dryer. Somehow one of the zippers even managed to break, so that cushion looks especially droopy.

Even so, our couch is the envy of all of our friends because it is SO comfy. It is so comfortable, in fact, not a single friend who has spent more than an hour on our couch has been able to resist falling asleep on it. (And no, we are not boring—people fall asleep on it in the middle of LOUD parties, during out of tune karaoke crooners who could make your ears bleed, and Fourth of July fireworks even.) Hubs and I usually fall asleep on it every single night before we sleepily stumble up to bed in the middle of the night. Our friends call it the Felony Couch—because it’s a crime how comfy it is. I guess that makes it easier to overlook the decorations that have been added over the years.

The couch is on my list of things that need to be fixed/repaired/refurbished/deep cleaned. And when this darn economy picks up, I think we will have it reupholstered. It would be a crime to get rid of a piece of furniture that has so completely proven its worth. We will be smarter this time, however. The “face lift” will include micro-fiber somewhere in its definition and a Scotch-guard treatment—probably everything just short of plastic covers.

I am sitting on the couch as I write this. I think I need to go…I’m getting a little sleepy!




Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Ballet Revisited

When I was three Gigi put me in ballet. I loved it. It was fun and interesting because my teacher had a Spanish accent and I had a lot of trouble understanding her. Gigi would ask me after class how I liked it and how the class had gone for the day. I would tell her, “It was fun, but Miss Blanca likes to clean a lot. She’s always talking about Lysol.” Gigi was very confused, until she heard Miss Blanca say ‘Let’s all’—which (in my defense) did sound a lot like ‘Lysol’.

I loved the leotards and tights and ballet slippers and tutus. I loved the bar exercises and all of the moves and music. I loved it all—at least that’s how I remember it.

I do remember that there were parts that were VERY challenging for me. Skipping almost put me over the edge. I could do one knee up, but not the other one. Gigi had to walk me to class and home for a couple of weeks to help me learn how to skip—with both legs.

And then there’s the whole left-right thing. I have always had trouble remembering my left from my right. It’s very tricky when it comes to a lot of things like following directions, driving, dancing—and when I was three, it was very tricky for ballet. It made it even more complicated for the recital. I was really worried about messing up because of this problem. And so Gigi came to the rescue. She made me a wrist band, out of a ribbon, Velcro, and a flower, to put on my right wrist so I could remember. It’s a good thing, too, because when the recital rolled around my class of 12 or so dwindled down to 2 and the other girl refused to go on stage. My teacher stood behind the curtain and did our “I’m a Little Tea Pot” routine with me. If I hadn’t had that wrist band, I couldn’t have remembered which was my handle and which was my spout.

That was the end of my ballet career. Other things came up, there wasn’t time or money or whatever and I just never took classes again. And I guess that’s why it’s so much fun to watch Joy in her class. She was DYING to take ballet for the longest time and we finally got her into a class in January. We got her the required attire, we prepped her (mentally) as best we could, and took her to class. And she was very serious and dedicated for the first class and a half. And midway through the second class she decided that there was more to ballet than just being a serious student.

Parents are not allowed in the room, but we can watch through the window. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can see her talking—almost the entire class. And I see the teacher saying, “OK, now let’s…” and then Joy starts talking again. I think she talks more than the teacher. And then they start their warm ups and exercises. Joy must think that flinging herself onto the floor or making wacky faces is a way to show the teacher (and probably me) how passionate she is about ballet. She spends more time falling on the floor than she does doing plies. (And, mind you, I only get to watch the class in 20 second intervals because I am chasing Marlo around the studio.) But in those 20 second snippets, I see Joy doing belly flops on the floor, eating her snack, spilling her drink, whipping her hair around, and hanging on the bar “I Love Lucy” style.

There are a few things that remind me of my former dancing days. For one, she gets confused with her right and her left. Miss Kris has to get her to do her individual exercises (usually) more than once because she’s on the wrong foot. That doesn’t bother her in the least—just ask her, she’ll talk you through the whole thing, and give you the play by play, then recap it about 20 times just in case you missed something. Another thing that brings back some memories is that there are certain things she has trouble doing—not skipping, because they don’t skip in her class, but other things cause her problems. And I smile because I know eventually she’ll get it.

Sometimes when she’s acting like a goof I am thankful that I have to run around after Marlo because I can pretend that I don’t see what she’s doing. Other times I try to get her attention to get her to stop messing around and pay attention to the teacher, but she catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye, and then she purposely ignores me. There really are no words—what can I say? She’s 4 and she loves life and she loves to dance. And I love her.

What else is there to say?


Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Polished Off

The problems of aging are many and one is the problem of perception. Things are not always viewed with flexibility and adaptation, but are structured by the past.

I usually just wear clear fingernail polish. This is one step above the example set by my mother who never wore polish. Last week, I took off my old polish and then neglected to replace it. On the way to Busybody’s I looked down and observed my hands and thought, “Oh, well. No one will notice.” We had been there about twenty minutes when Joy came over and whispered, “Gigi, if we get through in time this afternoon, I will polish your nails for you.” Good. A four year old noticed. Either she has much more time in her schedule, is more perceptive OR every adult I have encountered has noticed but been too polite to comment.

When my Mom was just entering the shadows of Alzheimer’s, but still able to walk around and attempt some limited tasks, she needed a full-time caregiver but resisted much of the help offered her. Through the week, I would pop in and out to check on her (and the caregiver) and deliver stuff, but Sundays were our days together. I would do many of the things that she refused to have the caregiver perform. Her nails seemed to always need care. I couldn’t stand that little –sometimes-bigger—line of grime that she wouldn’t submit to letting the caregiver remove. On Sunday afternoons, we would sit with a pan of warm, sudsy water on one our laps and chitchat until her nails were Mom clean again. Even from me, however, she balked at any attempt at manicuring, and it was a real challenge to keep her looking cared for.

One Sunday, I thought it would be fun, because the quest of life is for the good, the true, the beautiful and the fun, to take Mom out for a real manicure. She was always mistrustful of leaving the house because I might be tricking her into doing something she had specifically instructed me not to do, but then again, we might be going out for ice cream or pie or boxed candy (from a candy store) and so she went with me, but made it as difficult as possible. At least, I thought it was as difficult as possible until we reached the nail salon, and then I encountered what as difficult as possible really was.

She didn’t want to extend her hands to the manicurist but would turn towards me and grab my dress with both hands and, being far too ladylike to raise her voice, would entreat me with the most pathetic of looks to pleeeaaassseee, get her out of there. The manicurist had to firmly hold one hand while I held the other while she took off a snippet of nail. Mom then forgot being a lady and yelled, “ouch, ouch, ouch.” “Did you feel that?” “Well, no, but I thought I was going to”, she explained to me—the manicurist was either invisible to her or so far beneath her contempt that she would not talk to her. “Well, just wait until you do feel it, please don’t yell about “going to’”, I requested. My request went unheeded. As the snippets came off the second hand (it had to be snippets because Mom was jerking her hands so spasmodically, that the poor girl was afraid to do more) I said, “ Just dry her hands and slap on one coat of polish, we’re leaving” with a glare at the misbehaving mother. As I outrageously tipped the frazzled manicurist, Mom found her inside stage whisper and instructed me, “Don’t give her money for trying to hurt me.” The door had barely shut behind us when she burst out crying with huge crocodile tears running down her cheeks. I was truly fearful that someone would make a 9-1-1 call for elderly abuse while I was trying to get her back into the car.

I clicked her seatbelt with finality thinking I might leave her in for there for the rest of my Sunday visit, tried to cool off as I went around the car and got into my seat and turned to her and said, “What was that all about?” She was too absorbed with her sobbing to tell me. Her little, stooped shoulders heaved with the utter sorrow of her plight and I was helpless to be with her in it or to remove her from the immediacy of the situation. I had cooled down: There was ice around my heart and my hands were ice. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FUN!

Finally, she said, “I don’t want to die this soon.” I tried to keep my voice normal, “Why do you think you are going to die soon?” She said, “Well, aren’t you trying to make my hands look nice for when they’re folded?” Ohhhhhhhh, I exhaled that as an eight-syllable word. All her opposition to basic hygiene had really been, to her, her fight for life.

Last week, we didn’t finish playing restaurant, or school or talent show in time for Joy to polish my fingernails, but tomorrow when I get there, we are going to spend a blissful few minutes letting her tend to me while I can still refrain from grimacing, grabbing and downright yelling. I may, however, sneak into the bathroom and remove the polish that goes onto other areas than my nails. Grandmas, you know what I’m talkin’ about!


Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Asphalt Dudes

There is a man-hole cover in front of my house. Usually we don’t even notice. Usually it’s a non-issue. But for some reason, last week, the county decided that they needed to dig a circular trench around the cover. Then they needed to make the trench about a foot deep. The trench then sat for a few days, exposed, with the only safety precaution being an orange cone to mark the location.

Yesterday, they came back out after their 2 day hiatus to finish the job. First they made the circle a little wider. Then they shoveled some asphalt into the trench. Then they brushed off the very top of the man-hole cover. Then they smoothed the asphalt in the trench with a shovel. Then they swept the street and pushed the extra asphalt into the filled-in trench. Then they used a thing that looked like a small lawn mower, but apparently it’s a steam iron to iron the asphalt flat into the hole.

And how many men do you suppose it takes to do a job like this? Well, I’ll tell you. It takes one to drive the truck and then he hops out to widen the circle. (Impressive multi-talented dude.) It takes one to stand in the bed of the truck and shovel the asphalt into the trench. (We’ll call him asphalt thrower guy…as. thrower for short.) One is in charge of the brushing (as. brusher), one is in charge of the smoothing (as. smoother), one is in charge of the sweeping (as. sweeper), and one is in charge of the ironing (iron as.). Then two more pull up in another truck. One was the as. foreman, maybe? The other one was just there to talk, apparently. So, the answer is, it takes 8 men to do this job. Each one some sort of as. generalist. (Not one of those jobs looked very specialized.)

I suspect there was one more worker who did not show himself yesterday. And his job is to spy on the home that the man-hole cover is in front of. He watches and observes and studies until he knows just when it would be the most obnoxious time for them to do their slow, noisy work. And he makes a detailed report for the rest of the as-es, and that’s when they work in front of our house. In our case, they came every morning at nap time (and of course, Marlo’s room is at the front of the house…no amount of white noise loud enough to drown out their racket) and they stayed the length of her sleep “window”. When she was beyond tired and could no longer go to sleep, then they would move on.

Bitter? Yes, I am because now I have a cranky, teething 18 month old who is off her nap schedule. If they come back because they didn’t do the job right, guess what? One of those as-es is going down the man-hole—and before he can get back up I will then show them how ONE person can do the job in 10 minutes…all courtesy of the lady of the house.

(8 men, 6 days, 1 man-hole—my a$$!)

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Project Runway Meets Romper Room

I love to watch “Project Runway.” I find it fascinating that designers can come up with an idea based on a challenge and put it all together in such a short amount of time. I wish I was that talented. But almost as much as I love the content of the show I love the lingo. I love Tim Gunn’s little phrases, like, “Make it work.” That’s a good motto for life in general I think.

Anyway, this week the challenge was to make an outfit for a little girl and then they had to make a matching outfit for an adult. As you can imagine, neither the designers, nor the models were very good with kids—although they tried to put up a good front. One of the designers said, at one point, “The work room was a little like Romper Room on crack.” I thought it was a little dramatic—the little girls were just being little girls. But I can totally relate to that statement.

Sometimes when I get home from work and I walk in the door, the house is quiet. The kids are upstairs playing with Gigi and the Norwegian. For about 5 seconds I just drink in the peacefulness. And then when they realize I am there, the insanity starts. Either they get a rush from me coming home and it gets them all hyped up, or my presence changes the whole magnetic field of the house and everyone has to act crazy. From the time they realize I am home until they get into bed they are “a little like Romper Room on crack.” They scream and howl and run around and act like little wild things. After a long day at work, and just a long day in general, sometimes it’s a little much. It makes Hubs a little crazy himself.

It is what it is, though—they are kids and they go crazy about funny things. Right now I am going to take it as a compliment. They are happy to see me and they are showing it by acting like little addicts. I am going to encourage this addiction as long as I can. I get a high from reuniting with them, too. When they get a little older and need to act “cool” these days will be a distant memory, and so I will enjoy it while it lasts…because one day you’re in and the next day you’re out!

Auf wiedersehen!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Word Talk

Here, on our blog, where our communication is so dependent on words alone, without the help of facial expressions and body language, words take on significance not always present in the rapidity of conversation. Most of the time, I feel I am understanding what is being said and am communicating what I need to say, but there are always exceptions to the rule. I usually write with time constraints and hope I am conveying the right meanings. I first learned southern, and then English vernacular, and then childese, and I do realize I am still learning language.

My four-year-old granddaughter will learn a new word and overuse it until it becomes a familiar part of her vocabulary. A couple of weeks ago, the word was “depressed”. I have to admit that I still don’t know her meaning of that word.

Example 1:.) She was on the couch in the living room that shares a wall with the home office. The door to the office was closed. She jumped up and down on the couch for a while, then lay down on her back and then turned to her stomach and then piled the couch cushions and then pushed off from the coffee table to backwards jump on the couch. I watched while she was obviously being impatient and antsy and then called from the next room, “What are you doing, little missy?” “Oh, I’m waiting for Daddy to finish a phone call in the office to a client… then he might have to send a fax, because the client is so depressed.” (?!?)

Example 2.) The next day, her babies (dolls, animals, etc) were jumping on the bed and since they couldn’t do it by themselves, she had to help them. I told her to stop before she got hurt and she said it wasn’t her, it was them: And so I said, “If they don’t stop that, they’re going to get a time out.” She replied, “They can’t.” “Can’t what? Stop it? Or be given a time out? ” “They can’t stop. They’re too depressed.” (?!?)

Example 3.) She wanted to play Memory and thought of a way to ensure that I could not say I didn’t want to play. She put out all of the cards in very neat rows and worked diligently for quite a long time. Just as she got them all organized and was ready to enlist my help with the actual game, her little sister was cruising the play room and reached over and with one swipe of her elastic arm, messed up all of the cards. In a fury, she yelled, “Gigi, don’t you need to put her down for her nap? She needs to be depressed!” (?!?)

I tried to connect the dots in those usages, but didn’t get very far. It did make me think of some of the words that I have contended with in the past. When one of my daughters was just about four, we had a record album of children’s Bible stories that were told in song. There was a song about Daniel in the lion’s den and to explain why the lions didn’t eat Daniel, it said, “God gave them all lockjaw.” The daughter was singing it, “God gave them all slockjahl.” I asked, “What is slockjahl?” She said, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something like sloppy joes, but with chicken.” On another children’s collection, an attempt was made to explain being born again. The song went, “Bullfrogs and butterflies, they’ve both been born again.” This time, the daughter sang it (quite frequently and quite loudly) “Bullfrogs and butterflies, they won’t bimbo again.” I was afraid to ask what that meant…And so you see, psychology, theology and sociology all out of the mouths of babes. What will they say when they get older? (Read this blog to find out) No wonder communication is such a challenge.


Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Sky Diving

When I was in sixth grade my teacher did a lot of projects—and made us do a lot of projects as well. One of her favorite things was to have us present oral book reports dressed up as the main character. I have NEVER been a fan of public speaking so I found this very annoying. And I always read books that didn’t have “normal” main characters—especially when it came to biographies. The one biography I can remember in particular was about Amelia Earhart. I LOVED reading about her. She was a very interesting character, indeed. (I also loved Amelia Bedelia books—maybe it was just the name????) But I digress…

Of course, we did not have an Amelia Earhart costume. My mom (Gigi) always LOVED getting into the projects with joyful enthusiasm, much to my dismay. For my Amelia book report she decided that we should go to the Army surplus store. She got me some goggles, earphone set with a microphone, and a parachute. I had a jacket that could pass as an aviator’s jacket and we tucked some pants into boots and topped the whole thing off with a white scarf. Thankfully we did not take a picture. But I have to say, as mortifying as the whole experience was, I looked pretty authentic (for a school book report) and the goggles helped me to feel like I was covered up, so all in all, it was not as entirely embarrassing as it could have been. I think we only had to do 19 of these throughout the school year. Miss Clements had quite an imagination, God love her!

Gigi recently (recently as in about a year ago) brought me the costume box for Joy and Marlo to play dress up in their many adventures in Playland. At the bottom of the box was the parachute and headgear from my book report. Joy and Marlo are deeply entrenched in the fairy princess phase of their dress up life, so the aviator stuff is usually at the bottom of the box, forgotten and ignored.

A few nights ago I received an unexpected break in my very busy life. When we got home from work, Hubs gallantly offered to make albondigas for dinner. I didn’t have to do anything except play with the kids. I bathed them first, just to get it out of the way, and then we headed to the loft to play. After a few minutes of general chaotic excitement, they settled in to play dress up. Joy put on the former flower girls dress…Marlo put on a tutu. They started playing music and dancing, and I looked down into the bottom of the box and there was Amelia’s parachute.

I took the parachute out of the box and looked over it. I don’t think I had ever really done that before. But that night, in the midst of two magical fairy princesses dancing their hearts out, I decided that this parachute warranted a second look. I pulled all of the fasteners off and moved all of the belts and buckles. There was not parachute inside. There were rubber band looking things at the ends and the parachute lines had been cut. And then I turned it over and there was a little place right in the middle that said Data and Information. As I looked closer I realized it was a pocket. I reached inside the pocket and there was a little card—with handwritten entries on the card! The chute holder had been manufactured in 1943 and was used until 1964. And the most interesting part of all was that the owner of the chute was a man who lived in the next town over from me! (If they put stuff like this in history books, I might have enjoyed history a little bit more.)

The next item on my very busy agenda is to look this man up and find out if he or his family still live at that address. And then if I can locate him, I’m going to take him his parachute holder and have a chat with him. And hopefully learn a lot more than I learned for my oral book report. And thank him for his service to our country.

This story reminds me of an email someone once sent me. I remembered the title of the story and looked it up online. It’s a good story with a great message:



I packed your parachute!

Charles Plumb was a US Navy jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent 6 years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from that experience!
One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table came up and said, ' You're Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down! 'How in the world did you know that?' asked Plumb. 'I packed your parachute,' the man replied. Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude. The man pumped his hand and said, 'I guess it worked!' Plumb assured him, 'It sure did. If your chute hadn't worked, I wouldn't be here today.'
Plumb couldn't sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb says, 'I kept wondering what he had looked like in a Navy uniform: a white hat; a bib in the back; and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said 'Good morning, how are you?' or anything because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor.'
Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent at a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he didn't know.
Now, Plumb asks his audience, 'Who's packing your parachute?' Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day. He also points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when his plane was shot down over enemy territory - he needed his physical parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual parachute. He called on all these supports before reaching safety.
Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say hello, please, or thank you, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason. As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people who pack your parachutes.

And so there it is… a great big thank you to everyone (in this story) who has packed my parachute, including, but not limited to, Amelia Earhart, Gigi, Joy and Marlo, Miss Clements, and Mr. Ward, the parachute owner. Oh, yes, and Hubs for making dinner so I could learn something new from a 6th grade lesson…and be reminded of all of the blessings in my life who provide what I need to make it through the day.

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

The joy of talking

My oldest, Joy, started talking at 9 months and I swear she hasn’t come up for a breath since. She falls asleep mid-sentence, she wakes up mid-sentence, and if she doesn’t have anyone to talk to, she talks to herself, makes up stories, or begins a conversation with her toys. Most of the time it is ultra-cool to have a child who can communicate better than most adults, sometimes it’s exhausting, and sometimes it’s just downright funny. I especially love her little sweet 4 year old voice saying words that she mis-hears. (OK, on a side note, I think it’s genetic, this ‘hearing’ of certain words incorrectly. I guess the one I will own up to is a Boyz to Men song…Down on Bended Knee. If you know the song you know it’s all about some guy apologizing for something stupid/guyish that he did to his girl. There’s a part where he really belts it out and says, “I’m gonna swallow my pride, say I’m sorry, stomp on your fingers, the blame is on me…” Whoa! Hold the phone! Stomp on your fingers? How is that going to make anything better? I’ve never had my fingers stomped on, but if it feels anything like your toes getting stomped on, it is no bueno. I am pretty sure that won’t restore any guy to any woman’s good graces. And then my sister, laughing in my face set me straight. It’s not stomp on your fingers, it’s stop pointing fingers. Oh. Well. That makes more sense, I guess. If you have any spare time on your hands, go listen to the song and you tell me what it sounds like.) But back to Joy’s mispronunciations… I rarely correct her because she usually only mispronounces them 3 or 4 times, and then corrects herself. (And the way she says it is so much more fun—sometimes ‘insterical’.)

Little Miss Loquacious loves Alvin and the Chipmunks, except they aren’t Alvin and the Chipmunks (Simon and Theodore)—they are Almen, Simon, and Eeyore. She loves the part where ‘Almen’ is in the ‘oven’ (the dishwasher) and he is singing, “Don’t you wish you ganny Y Ha! Like me…” (Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me) and then he says, “I’m waiting for the minse (rinse) cycle.” Then she proceeds to say that you should never get into the oven because the fire could kill you, but always wants to know if our oven has a ‘minse’ cycle. (Our oven doesn’t usually have a minse cycle, but lately I don’t think our dishwasher does, either. In fact, we might actually have a Chipmunk (or a herd of them) who has a membership to shower in our dishwasher because I think our dishes come out dirtier than they go in.)

Last Christmas she saw a Nativity scene and wanted to know why the baby was lying in the bed with all the animals looking at him. So after about 972 times of telling her the nativity story, complete with a loud rendition of “Away in a Manger” at the end (each and every time), she finally decided to tell it herself. This is her version: “God told Mary she was going to have a baby and she had to name him Jezuh so then Mary and her husband Josuh went to Befleham which is also known as the City of David (like David and Wendy David?) but there was nowhere for them to sit down so they went into the barn with the cows and donkeys and alpacas and Watusi with the long horns and Mary had a baby and she named him Jezuh and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in the manger and then the angel went to the shepherds in the hills who got really really scared, but the angels sang to them so they wouldn’t be afraid and then they went to go see the baby in the barn and then the smart men followed a great big star to see the baby in the barn and they took him presents of gold, Frank and sense, and myrrh.” We have a tree decoration that is a wooden carving of the nativity scene. She points to and names Mary, baby Jezuh, (the angel) grandma Josuh, and the manger (Joseph). (Just to clarify: David and Wendy are our neighbors, there is a farm down the road that has alpacas, donkeys, and long-horn cattle called Watusi, we have a Grandma Josie, and an Uncle Frank—who really doesn’t have much sense at all.)

When she was 2 she got a doll for Christmas. I asked her what the doll’s name was and she said she didn’t know. So we tossed a few around, but none of them were the right names for the doll. So I just called her ‘Cupcake’. Awhile later we were leaving to go to Grandma’s house and she started asking if she could have Pancake with her. In our rush to get out of the house I was confused as to why she wanted to have pancakes. After all, the table and frig were full of homemade tamales and all kinds of holiday dishes and treats. I think she ate half a pound of budge (fudge) by herself every time she thought no one was looking. When we were actually walking out the door she went back in to grab her new doll and insisted that Pancake had to go with us. Other dolls and stuffed animals get new names and identities almost daily (I am expected to remember all of them) but Pancake never changes. Pancake is always Pancake. A few months ago, she dressed Pancake up in a little pink frilly dress. We were playing hospital or school or something like that with the dolls and I remarked how cute Pancake looked in her pretty little dress. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Mommy, Pancake is a BOY!” Oh. Really? Really?!? Yep, Pancake is and always will be a boy. Just like the Cabbage Patch doll someone gave her—his name was Manny Moe, but has been changed to Nanny Lo. Boy. Now and always. Now, the owl that sits by our pool to discourage pigeons from hanging out by the pool, drinking and carousing as pigeons will do, has been named Patrusty. Sometimes Patrusty is a boy (when he scares the pigeons away) and sometimes she is a girl (when she takes care of other little birds who just want a quick drink and then fly away).

My little one year old does a lot of talking for her age, too. She says Mama, Dada, dance, ghost, more, all gone, what’s that, woof woof, cheese, yes, no, this, hi, bye, shhh, yay, please, ear, twinkle, A…and I’m sure there are a few others that I am forgetting. (It’s hard for me to remember anything with the 4 year old walkie talkie’s constant chatter!) But Marlo’s joy does not come from talking, like Joy. No, Marlo derives her joy from eating. Anything that I give her, she eats with gusto. I have to be careful with her, though. If we go out to eat I have to give her a snack first. (And no, I am not worried about her losing her appetite!) If I don’t give her a snack, she acts like I have been starving her since she came out of the womb! She shovels fistfuls of food into her mouth at lightning speed, nearly chokes herself, spits part of it out, then stuffs it back in again. Sometimes she leans down and sticks her whole face in the plate. It gets rather embarrassing. She was chubby for quite sometime, but now that she’s walking, she has thinned out, but her appetite is as voracious as ever. I have to change, bathe, dust-bust or sponge bath her after each and every meal. You can tell, just by looking at her, that she LOVES her food. No spoon for her soup? No problem. She is just as efficient at eating soup without a spoon as she is with one. She even helps us out by not needing a napkin. Don’t you know it’s just as easy to wipe your hands on your hair? It’s true. She is like a little squirrel. (Not the pants wetting kind of squirrels, the food storing kind.) I guess she thinks that we might not feed her again, because I find food hidden everywhere: between the high chair seat cover and the seat, inside DVD cases, inside pumpkin shaped candle holders, in Barbie purses, in the trunk of her little scoot-along car, folded up in doll clothes, frittered away in play kitchen dishes, on the shelves of the lower cupboards, in the waistband of her clothes, etc.etc. She is devilishly delighted when she “re-discovers” these hidden treasures. And apparently it doesn’t matter how long it’s been there or how stale it might be, she wolfs it down like it’s her last meal. Bless her little heart—or maybe I should say her stomach—and thank heaven I don’t have a picky eater on my hands!

Just recently we went to Denny’s for breakfast. She ate the following: oatmeal, fruit, hash browns, pancakes, scrambled eggs, milk, orange juice, bacon, sausage, and toast. In between bites, she would gleefully throw a handful of food into the air to shower over her head—and not wanting to waste the food, she would look up, open her mouth, and catch some of the food in her mouth. Needless to say, this attracted a lot of attention from the other diners. Fortunately our waitress was very busy and not very attentive. We strategically staged our exit to coincide with her being in the kitchen so that we wouldn’t have to apologize profusely for the edible carpet Marlo left beneath our table. I guess our strategy wasn’t so well thought out—we left a trail from the table to the car…and probably down the street and all the way home.

And so my life goes, the enduring theme being good food and stimulating conversation. I love my two little girls and the unique qualities they each bring to the table (literally!)—a voracious appetite and a bountiful vocabulary. I thank Jezuh for them every day.

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

(and, from the length of this post, we can see the apple didn't fall far from the tree in Joy's case)

On a reflective note:

Being born in this country at just that time, in such a place, gave me a position of opportunity and yes, wealth that is unique in history. Moderate means was able to accomplish what great fortunes could not provide in other times. I am able to read, write, ponder and know the joy of freedom. With that foundation, I am able to fully experience the abundance of my life. I am grateful that we have access to so many different areas of thought and that we are able to see the validity and integration of them into our lives. I am also grateful for the ever-learning process. My journey continues…thanks for traveling with me.

Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Armpits, the windows to your body, or something like that

I have a confession. I haven't used deodorant in over two years. Why, you might wonder, or maybe you are clicking away right now...? Or maybe you can't click away now, so read on... Actually, after Samantha was born, I got on a natural kick to eliminate chemicals from our house. Have you ever tried to do this? Some Google internet research indicated personal care products are some of the worst offenders to our endocrine systems. I worry, a lot. About my health, my husband's health, my children's health and all the toxins and contamination in our food sources. So usually, I just do the best I can--buy organic when it's available, minimize junk food, take vitamins, and exercise and rest.

But, about two years ago, I eliminated shampoo and deodorant. Have you heard of no-poo? Check out this popular post. It worked well, I just haven't converted the rest of the house, yet.

As for the deo, I cringe when I think of the years and years and gobs and gobs of the commercial stuff applied usually on freshly-shaved armpits. Busy Body and I were both on spirit squads in high school and one of the many mortifying things that could happen to us in our sweater uniforms was to stink like B.O. So we kept our lady speed stick baby powder scented deodorant: in the glove compartment and slathered away at will...there is aluminum in it, you know. And, they say, aluminum has been linked to Alzheimer's and I really don't want to go there, ever.

So, I switched to something else, applied sparingly, and never after shaving.
It is (embarrassingly) called "Stinky No More" and is available here. It works pretty good, even in the worst of the Southeast Texas summers with high humidity. Interestingly enough, it works better when I don't consume too much sugar. On weeks where I drink a lot of sugary sodas or eat lots of desserts, it doesn't work so good (translation: big stink). But, your underarm glands are there for a reason--to eliminate things your body doesn't need. So, it really isn't a bad thing after all, just a signal to me to curtail the sugar and then I smell sweet again. And now, you've probably read more than you ever care to about my 'pits, but if you're still reading, give your own 'pits some thought, if you haven't already.

Posted by The Editor.

A late postscript: Which 7 cities have the worst B.O.? Find out here.

A girl can dream.

Prior to the recession the area I live in was one of the fastest growing areas in the country. That is a good thing on many levels. (Not, necessarily that I live here, but the growth part is good, I mean.) It had created a lot of jobs, an influx of new residents and visitors, a lot of attention, and a lot of traffic (to the local businesses). It also created a lot of dust and dirt!

Where I live used to be primarily dairy farms. Every year the smell lightens a little. I am hoping the flies get the hint and take a hike, too. (This is my favorite dream.) I am hoping that the city planners, in their infinite wisdom, leave some of the green grassy areas instead of just filling in every square inch of earth with homes, sidewalks, and stores. (Still dreaming here.) Anyway, every once in a while I will deviate from my normal travel route and a former dairy farm will have suddenly vanished. The cows—gone…the farm house—gone…the barn and other milk structures…gone. And all that is left is a big pile of rubble. All of the concrete and other hard materials from all those years of life, toil, struggle is all that remains. Sooner or later one of those big machine trucks comes and pulverizes it into gravel. It’s amazing and sad and interesting and exciting and strange all at the same time.

I passed one of these ghost farms the other day and there was a hand-painted sign out front that said, “Clean Dirt Wanted.” It made me laugh out loud. Me, too! I want some clean dirt! I want it on the floors in my house, on my furniture, in the laundry basket, on my front porch, on my windows—I want it everywhere my dirty dirt usually is! I think it would save me hours and hours of time wasted on cleaning. Because I don’t know about you, but when I clean my dirty dirt (none of your business how often or seldom I clean)--it always comes back. Not that I really get rid of it—I just displace it. It goes from my furniture to the dust rag to the washing machine to the lint screen to the trash, to the floor to the dust pan to the trash, to the mop to the bucket to the sink or outside—and then someone tracks it back in again.

Hubs had to burst my bubble and tell me that ‘Clean Dirt’ is not what I think it is. He gave me the whole explanation of what it is and why it’s needed and where to get it. I prefer to pretend that there really is something known as Clean Dirt and that it could make my life so much simpler if I could only find it.

A girl can dream.

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Mother Scouts

It’s Girl Scout Cookie season. No matter where we go or what I do it seems that someone we know is selling Girl Scout cookies. And don’t get me wrong—I love Girl Scout cookies. But that’s the problem. I love Girl Scout cookies. They are tasty and little so it seems like you aren’t eating that many. But after a few short minutes with a little box of GSCs, that’s all that’s left—the box! And at $4 a pop, those are some expensive treats! My favorites are the Samoas which I guess are not called Samoas anymore—they are called Caramel Delights. Oh, my heart! I can make those disappear in 4 minutes flat. That’s a dollar a minute. Too bad the Girl Scouts don’t pay me to eat them. I’d be rich!

I do feel like I have a lot in common with the Girl Scouts except I am not in the Girl Scouts and I never was. (I am probably a tad bit too old.) I’m more in the universal “Mother Scouts” troop and I have badges that I have to earn.

First, there was the pregnancy badge. 9 months of fatigue, invasive doctor visits, and growing out of successive clothing sizes at an alarming rate. You earn that badge on Delivery Day. The badge is a wrinkled, stretched out stomach—stretch marks for the over-achievers.

The next one is the D-Day badge. This one is earned by going through the pains of labor. Some go the C-section route and their badge is an abdominal scar. Over-achievers have scars that get infected. Some go the alternate route: labor, back labor, epidural or no epidural, breathing, bearing down, pushing. The badges are broken blood vessels, excessive bleeding, and/or exhaustion.

Other badges aren’t as serious. You get one for the first time your baby vomits down your back and in your hair, one for the time they have an explosive diaper in public, one for the baby mouth marks on your shoulder that you didn’t realize were there and you walked around all day displaying.

Some are on-going—they upgrade to bigger and fancier for each time you do the required task: staying up all night to nurse a sick baby/child back to health, wiping a nose that is running like a faucet for the 11th day in a row, putting a band-aid on a boo boo.

As the kids get older, the badges can get trickier. Teaching your kids to drive—then watching them drive off the first day they get their license. You get one for having your heart broken when they have their heart broken. You get one for all the hours of worry when they go out with their friends and are late getting home. You get one for stressing through tests, papers, projects, SATs, applying for college, going away to college. The badge for these is usually a single gray hair—for each separate event. When you have a full head of them, now that’s a badge of honor.

Apparently you keep earning these badges as long as you are a mom. You even get them as a grandma. Last week Gigi was watching Joy and Marlo while I was at work. Joy was tired, a little under the weather, having a very bad day, but wasn’t afraid to verbalize it. I hadn’t been gone even 30 minutes when she called on my cell phone. She was crying, asking me to send Gigi home and get her a new baby sitter. No amount of reasoning with her could change her mind or placate her. (She was begging me to call someone, anyone to come watch her—she just did not want Gigi in her house anymore.) This went on ALL DAY LONG. I got the red-face badge (for being embarrassed that my child was being so insensitive to her grandmother). Gigi got her “I thought this phase of my life was over” badge. Hopefully Joy’s feelings about the situation will resolve themselves before next week. If not I might have to have a bake sale and try to raise some funds for “Mother Scout” cookies to send my child to full-time child care outside our home.

OK, I’m going to go polish off the Short Bread GSCs. (It’s my final badge of the day. You get it by finishing off anything the kids don’t like/want/are too full to finish. The actual badge is extra pounds.) Maybe tomorrow the little angels will help me out with my fitness badge. All I have to do is run around after them all day long, jump for joy, lift any weight off their shoulders, and laugh my bottom (spelled B-U-T-T) off.

Here’s to earning your Mother Scout badges today!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Work with me here!

I got a client from our company’s referral service. Who cares, right? Well, I haven’t had a client of my own—ever. All of our clients belong to me AND Hubs. Since someone has to watch the kids while we are showing properties he usually takes the clients and I take care of the kids. This client, however, specifically wanted a female agent. So between me and Hubs, that would fall to me.

And so in a sort of “Freaky Friday” role reversal, Hubs stayed home to watch the kids and I went out to do the whole Realtor thing. This, of course, meant that I had to get ready and dressed like a realtor and not a mommy—jeans, tee shirt and Ugg boots were not going to cut it. Hubs, on the other hand, was jazzed about the Mr. Mom attire. BUT, being a little out of practice for watching the kids while I get ready, Hubs wasn’t being as attentive and watchful as he should have been. It took me twice as long to get ready as it should have.

I’m not gonna lie, I was a little stressed. There was a list of 28 properties that my client was interested in. We decided to focus on one city at a time, so that narrowed it down to 24. Of the remaining 24, 6 were not longer active. So I called on 18 properties to set up showing appointments. Of the 18 that I called, I was able to set up 9 appointments. Then I had to figure out the most logical order to map out our route. Then I printed out the agent information sheets, printed out buyer home viewing scorecards, and put everything into a folder for her. I was ready about 10 minutes early. (I was only done early simply because I did all of this from the office. If I had done this from home I would probably still be setting up appointments now!) My client arrived and we set out. It went relatively well. Out of the 9 properties we looked at, it took us 3 ½ hours, and she only really liked one of them. (This was not the stressful part—keep reading…) We’ll be going out again…maybe

I only say maybe because apparently watching the kids is not as easy as it looks. This was evident when I got home. Let’s start with the house. There were toys and clothes strewn about like a small interior tornado had hit our family room. No beds were made. Remnants of lunch (El Pollo Loco take out, because how can you possibly cook AND watch the kids at the same time?) were still on the table. And there were about 7 sippy cups in the kitchen sink. (???) I didn’t ask.

Joy’s hair (which is down to her waist) was still in the messy pony tail she was wearing when she went to bed last night. Her face was not visible—she looked like Cousin It. She was wearing denim capris with tennis shoes and no socks. The shirt she had on belongs to my 16 month old. Joy is 4. The shirt looked like a “Girls Gone Wild” crop top. I asked why she was wearing it. Hubs said that he asked her if it was hers and she answered, “I’ll wear it.” (Try checking the tag for a size?) I suggested that she change into something more comfortable, meaning something that actually fit, but she told me, “No, Mommy—I wore this all day. It’s good. I even wore it when we were outside in the front yard.” (Oh, yes, that is good…let all the neighbors see that we can’t properly groom or clothe our children.)

Marlo was marginally better. She had on a dress--no matching bloomers (that I am pretty sure were on the same hanger as the dress) but at least she had on a diaper. Half of what she ate was still on her face. The top portion of her face was covered by her hair. Her socks didn’t match, but at least she had some on!

When I got home, Hubs turned the reins over to me. In about 2 minutes flat he was snoring, loudly, on the couch. During that time I cleaned the girls up, combed their hair, put weather-appropriate, matching, correctly-sized clothes on them, and took them for a walk with the dog. When we got home, Hubs had not moved.

After dinner, baths, and bed for the girls Hubs asked me, “Does Marlo not like Sprite?” (OK, well, let’s forget the fact that she’s 16 months old, has never had any kind of soda…ummm—NO!) In the calmest voice I could muster I said, “No, dear, we don’t give the baby soda.” And he said, “Yeah, I kinda figured that when she took a swig of my drink and spit it out all over the floor.” (That explains the big sticky spot in the kitchen.) He then told me, “Wow! It’s fun spending time with the girls, but they can really wear you out.”

Bless his heart—at least he tried. I am hoping that when he has recuperated he will still retain some of the lessons of the day…the most important one being: Just because you stay at home with the kids does not mean that you don’t put in a full day’s work.

Welcome to my world, Hubs! Take your coat off, stay awhile…

What if...

A seven-year-old child gets medical attention after being pulled from the rubble of the Carib Market on Sunday.

Carlos Garcia Rawlins / Reuters

I had to tell my children today about Haiti. We don't watch the news in our house and, generally, they are uninformed about current events. BUT, they were fussing over toys and food and who would play what and when...typical squabbles amongst siblings who are 7, 5, and 2. But, what if this were my son in the picture above--five days buried in the rubble of the market? How would he fare? I was tired of the whining here and ashamed that they fuss over so much when so many have so little. I want them to be grateful, compassionate and caring wherever they are, with whatever they have. I don't want to raise them to feel entitled, because, really, the circumstances we are born into are beyond our control, there but for, and all that. So here is what I said and what I showed them:

This is a country called Haiti. They do not have a lot of money. They do not have a government that takes good care of its people. A lot of people that live there do not bother with following the rules and doing the right thing. When they built their buildings, they did not follow the rules to make strong buildings that could survive an earthquake. So, when they had an earthquake, almost everything was destroyed. It looks like this now--these are their shops and their homes:

Gregory Bull / AP

See all these people. How many are there? How many hands are reaching? They don't have any food and they are reaching out to get some. They have no homes anymore. They are sleeping in the streets. They are hungry and tired and scared.

Win Mcnamee / Getty Images

This is one of their stores where they used to buy their food. See what the earthquake did? Now they have nowhere to get food. And that boy (at the top of the post), he is seven years old, just like Bubba. He was in the market when it collapsed. He was just rescued today--five days later. Five days of waiting to be rescued, alone, scared, hungry and now he is injured and needs a doctor.

Carlos Garcia Rawlins / Reuters

If you think about fussing again about your toys or crackers or play, please remember these pictures and don't. Look around. See how much you have and be grateful. If you continue fussing, I will get some boxes and pack up some of your things and your food and send it to these people who really need it and would be grateful to have it.



Posted by The Editor

Note from The Editor: Dispositions improved greatly after the talk.
All photos from msnbc.msn.com, we don't own them, originals can be viewed here: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/34845446/ns/news-picture_stories/

A Day in the life of Busy Body

OK, so my day goes something like this…Marlo wakes up anytime between 5:30 and 6:30 (usually). So I go get her out of her crib and bring her into bed with me. she will usually snuggle for half an hour or so. Then we get up and go downstairs. She has a sippy (lovingly referred to as a pippy in our home) cup of milk and some “Os”. (That’s what she calls Cheerios.) Then we play downstairs until Joy gets up around 8 or 8:30.

When Joy gets up she wants me to check to make sure she stayed dry through the night. (That’s been a great big YES! for the past 2 months! Hurray!) Then we (as in she) go potty, and put on some BGPs (that’s what we call Big Girl Pants, but Joy often calls them PGPs, so would that make them Pig Girl Pants?). Then all three of us go back upstairs to the loft. About 30 to 45 minutes of rigorous playing ensues. About that Time Joy is hungry and so is Marlo because the appetizer of pippy and Os has worn off. So we head back downstairs.

Marlo goes into her high chair, Joy parks it on the couch. (Marlo goes to the high chair because she can find the loophole in any child-proofing that I attempt.) Marlo has another appetizer, usually sliced fruit. We usually watch a Sesame Street episode (Glory hallelujah for DVRs!) while I make breakfast. Joy eats at the table, Marlo eats in her high chair and I usually eat half sitting and half standing because one or the other is constantly in need of something and I am not psychic enough to know what that is ahead of time. A plate goes into the microwave for Hubs.

Around 9:28 I wash Marlo’s hands and face and attempt to make a few swipes at her hair (which she usually uses as a napkin) and then it’s time for Nap #1. I pass Hubs on the stairs on the way to put her down. I put her down for Nap #1 after Nap Ritual (turn on the background noise, close the blinds, turn off the light, sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, put her in the crib, tuck a blanket around her). I leave her room and go directly into Joy’s room. If she has miraculously remembered to make her bed then I straighten it up. I put away any toys that “jumped” out of their box, open the blinds, pull the curtains back, lay out an outfit for Joy to wear for the day. (In the meantime, Hubs has gone to the microwave, sleepily smiles when he sees the “magic” has worked yet again, then parks himself on the couch to eat breakfast, listen to his voice mails, look at emails, and watch the news.)

I then go down the hall to my room. I make the bed that is still warm from Hubs rolling out of just moments prior. I open the blinds, I put away any toys that have mysteriously migrated into my room during the night and early morning hours, I plug in my flat iron, choose some clothes to wear, and turn the shower on to get warmed up. Joy has usually joined me at this point because she is afraid I will leave without saying good-bye and hugging and kissing her 52 times. (I’m not gonna lie, I don’t mind the 52 xs and os at all.) Joy then finds all of my make up that she has smuggled away and sits on top of my vanity and does her make up for the day.

I shower, get dressed, brush my teeth, dry my hair, flat iron my hair, find what little make up Joy has not “borrowed” and try to remember how to apply it, put my shoes on, straighten up the bathroom, put Joy’s mess away and send her to get her clothes. Then I help her get dressed, wipe off her face (with much protest), help her brush her teeth, and do her hair. Then we head back downstairs. At the landing we pass Hubs who is on his way up to shower.

I try to collect my thoughts while cleaning up the breakfast mess and decide what I am going to throw in the crockpot for dinner. All the while I am helping Joy with a project or with coloring or with playdough or I am playing ‘Jalexa’ to her ‘Angela’ (alter egos she has created for us when we play Pretend). Gigi and The Norwegian (Gigi's husband, The Editor's and Busy Body's father, Joy and Marlo's Grandpa, simply called Pa) arrive to watch Joy and Marlo. I get my dinner thrown into the crockpot, grab my laptop, my briefcase, my purse, and if I am lucky enough to remember it, a snack, and walk out the door (after 52 hugs and kisses).

We get to work and I walk into our office. I sit down, fire up the computer, and basically stay in that same spot for the next 6 or 7 hours. On occasion I take a bathroom break or make myself a cup of tea, but only working 3 days means busy, full days when I am actually there. Hubs drinks 4 pots of coffee, makes 23 bathroom runs, talks to everyone in the office, checks out Facebook, chats on the phone. Somewhere during that time he calls his clients and sends out emails to them. I think. And somewhere during that time he picks up 3 new clients and 4 new leads. It mystifies me. And then it’s quittin’ time so I gather up my computer, my briefcase, my purse, and hopefully the jacket that I remembered to grab on the way out, and we make the 15 minute drive home.

I walk in the door, deposit my stuff, hug and kiss both of my girls and then I wash my hands to start getting dinner on the table. Marlo goes into her high chair and Joy helps. Sometimes. Hubs helps. Occasionally. (If Gigi decides to stay for dinner, then I get an extra set of hands to help with Marlo.) Anyway, then we have dinner and by that time it’s Tubby Time. I grab pjs and diapers and lotion and lavender oil and we go upstairs for the girls’ baths. They bathe together, but I have to get Marlo undresses and into her bath chair, then I assist Joy. I wash Marlo from head to toe—she loves the bath. I assist Joy who fights me at every turn because she doesn’t quite love it as much. They play for a few minutes, we sing a few songs, we write a few letters on the bathtub walls, and then I have to get Joy out first, wrap her up in a towel, and send her to her room to wait. Then I get Marlo out, wrap her up in a towel, brush her teeth, and take her to Joy’s room. I dry her off, diaper, lotion, and put her pjs on…then I do the same thing for Joy.

Marlo kisses everyone goodnight, then it’s Bedtime Ritual…turn on the “noise”, read ‘Guess How Much I Love You’, turn off the light, sing “Twinkle, Twinkle”, say a prayer, and put her down in the crib, all tucked in for the night.

Then I go get Joy, comb out her hair—which is like Rapunzel’s, help her brush her teeth, read her 2 library books, apply lavender oil to her feet, tuck her into bed, say her prayers, and then lie next to her very quietly until she falls asleep. Then I sneak out of her room and go downstairs. On a good night the dinner mess is put away. On a not so good night the kitchen is still a mess, the floor is a combination of crumbs and sticky spots, and Hubs is snoring away on the couch. And so, I attack the kitchen, knowing that once it’s cleaned up, then I am free to have some “Me” time.

When I finally sit down to watch TV or read some blogs or write a little something, I realize—“Who am I trying to kid? I am way too tired to keep my eyes open.” So I turn off the TV, make sure all the doors are locked, turn off all the lights, and wake up Hubs to go upstairs to bed. As we sleepily stumble up the steps he whispers to me, “I’m beat—aren’t you?”

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body

From this point to that...

So much of my time is spent in a vehicle being conveyed from this point to that. The destinations are always important at the moment, but soon will be relegated to a memory of the mundane.

The area that I was traveling through was typical of the growth and development of suburbia. On one side was a huge new mall: Planned, built and landscaped to entice us into the joys of materialism. On the other side was an almost equal amount of acreage that was cleared except for a few piles of rubble and weeds that just barely met the abatement ordinances of the city.

I was giving obligatory attention to the traffic maneuvers of my fellow travelers who were independently interpreting traffic laws when I happened to look up and over to the side where high above me was a lone hawk riding the morning thermals. A few flaps of his powerful wings would take him almost out of sight and then he would confidently and expertly glide down. He was a joyous participant on his own playground. At the same time, I am sure he was monitoring those piles of rubble for some sort of meal that might be inhabiting that last piece of undeveloped land. Probably hungry, unaware that his source of livelihood was quickly disappearing, and certainly not with a cache of food sufficient to last him through his retirement years, he was simply enjoying the day.

You Go, Hawk!

Posted by The Editor for Gigi.