a VERY tricky treat

Dorothy, Don Juan, and Princess

They have spent the last 2 days in a resort with Grandma, in Oro Valley, swimming, and eating junk food.

Today we went to fabric stores, but stopped for drive-thru lunch before we hit the first shop. The kids really thought it was fun to run around the store, so we had to take them to the car for a time out, and an "ucky" change for little Dorothy. After a time in confinement we bribed them with candy if they would only behave. Two Hershey's kisses and one large tootsie roll later we were on our way home to costume up and head out for Daddy.

We went trick or treating, munching on our spoils as we shuffled from door to door in the Sam Hughes neighborhood. The Treaters had heaps and mounds of goodies dished out with generous hands. There were piles of emptied candy bags discarded behind them and tall stacks of fresh packages in line for the busy bowl. Once around the block had Emilia's basket filled, so into the van we hustled, and off to Josh and Renae's for their special treats we went. On the way, Emilia announced she had more than a filled basket.
"Ucky!"
While Jaren took Don Juan and Princess up to the Foster's apartment, I played hide and seek with diaper and wipes and helped our little sweetie get freshened up.

Each child got a huge box of Mike & Ike's in their bags. We made Sunday dinner plans, rejected home made chilly for the sake of Jaren's homework, and were off again to find the nearest drive-thru--again.

Poor Emilia. When the smell of grease wafted from the restaurant and mingled with the sweet salivating breath of her siblings, and her own mouth sucked on syrup drool, her body exploded with one final protest.
"UCKY!!"
We're ordering, and strapped in our buckles, I can't do anything. "shhhh, it's OK, baby"
...crying...
"shh"
...screaming...
"I know, I'll help you in a minute."
But that was the last diaper so I hope she can stand this a bit longer, that last one I put on her was the one I had packed for Joshua, 2 sizes too big for her.
"Ucky, ucky, ucky, UCKY!"
I reach back to sooth her by rubbing her leg as I hush her, but a hush is not what escapes my lips as I recoil from her thigh with a hand dripping in diarrhea.

I'll spare you the details, and fortunately for the limitations of the internet, the smell. Suffice it to say, a bag of wipes later, and bare bum riding on a cushion of paper towels and a prayer, we pushed on. We were even brave enough to detour for Mom's treat of Sonoran dogs, before we ventured home. Hard to believe one would still want one after that ordeal, that should indicate one of two things, they're that good, or we're that crazy--maybe a bit of both.

FYI: Too much treat can be awfully tricky

Happy Halloween

Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be mine?

This is what happens when little girls suffer through a night of tightly wound hair knots.

She had attempted this style before but couldn't take the overnight punishment. She's four years old and she's already taking pain for "pretty."
I have a hunch the rest of this rhyme will hold true for this little princess.
Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine.
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
(like Grandma and Mommy--sewing, not taking it easy)
and feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.

frazzled

Sunday was a sick day for me, or at least I was sick that day. Jaren had a festival at the poetry center that he had to attend for his internship so I stayed home and quickly surrendered my much needed sleep for the whims of my children.

Jaren called me from the center and told me if I was well enough I should bring the kids over, there was plenty of fun to be had by them. We bathed, dressed and headed over.














In the children's corner, where Jaren was stationed,
he read pop-up books, and the kids colored on huge pieces
of paper that would later be attached to balloons and floated away.

Joshua played with a hula-hoop.
He couldn't figure out how to get it
to stay up without holding on, so
he just spun around while holding it.

These characters were on spring stilts
and jumped around the premises, announcing
the soon arrival of their comrade, who would be
descending from the sky on balloons. We would
miss this grand entrance as we would be occupied
in another building watching "stories that soar," a
variety of plays put on based on poems that children

at the festival wrote and submitted.

In the children's corner, Claire discovered
a beautiful butterfly on a stick. It inspired her.

Claire waited in line for no less than 90 minutes
to get her face painted. She was the only child in
line that wasn't complaining, bossing around
others, and jumping in and out of line. She was so
patient and sweet, and was the only child to come
back and thank the busy artist. The painter was
already an hour over her time limit, but she set down
her brush and looked into Claire's eyes to say,
"Thank you, Sweetie. I'll remember YOU."

The art is on the left of her face,
the leftover sonoran hotdog is on the right.

I wish I could say the story ended here. It was a good day.

I called into work sick the next day, worked sick on Tuesday, and took Jaren to the ER on Wednesday. See his blog for more humorous details on that. In short, he was having unexplained shortness of breath and chest pain and, later that night, fever. I worked Thursday and came home to a bill from our former apartment complex for $2020.00 and there was nobody in the office for me to dispute the charges with. Jaren was still feverish.

Friday was my day off. I cleaned the house ALL day long, there was much to do. That night the kids had fevers. Saturday morning I called into work, Jaren had been up all night with cold sweats and discomfort. At 9AM the maintenance men came to fill the cracks in our floors and repaint the entire house floor. We were under the impression that they wanted us to be there while they worked. We were wrong. I roused my husband out of bed, dressed the kids, grabbed some snacks and diapers and we headed to Mexico.

The salesmen here are so passionate, with their beer soaked breath and price roller coasters.
There's so much to see and so much talk over price, an hour feels like 3, but I want to go back.











































































When we got home every room of the house had a tower of furniture in the middle of the floor.
Remember all that cleaning I did on my day off?
This morning Jaren is still sick. So am I.

Happy Birthday My Love

October 7th, 2007, Jaren is 31 years old.
We had a small party at our house with Josh and Renae Foster. I made Chicken Parmesan for dinner at Jaren's request, and Josh and Renae brought a lovely vegan chocolate cake. It may well be the best chocolate cake I've ever eaten.

Jaren got to relax and watch football until it was time for dessert, but...

The kids had wishes of their own.

After some yumminess we pulled out the gift. He only had one to open at this point. He had already been given his prized laptop computer from his mother, and Josh was eager to have Jaren open his present from he and his wife seconds after they came in the door. It was quite adorable watching a grown man's enthusiasm at a birthday party. Both men, in fact, were quite the spectacle.

Jaren had requested we not spend money on him this year but allow the children to make some kind of project for him. I had taken him out to eat two days before as his gift from me, and due to a busy work schedule and conference we were unable to complete his gift from the kids. We got a good start on it and the kids were so excited to present it to him. Here are some pictures of our progress so far.

For those of you that don't know any sign language, this spells love. It is made by Emilia's, Joshua's, Claire's, and My hand. We also have 4 small ceramic hearts and 1 large one that the children will paint, put their pictures in and write their names on. The large heart will be painted gold and hold a family photo. and on the bottom of this plaque pictured above will be written,
"At Home."

As soon as I picked the kids up from day care today they asked if we could paint Daddy's present when we got home. It has another 24 hours to dry so our painting is still on hold, but once it is all done I will post an update.

Happy Birthday Daddy! We all love you SO MUCH!!

ovaltine substitute

Joshua wore "big boy underwear" to school today. His teacher suggested to me that he was ready. She would know, being his primary trainer.

Emilia has been coming home with the cutest hair styles lately. I'm always tempted to show off what I'm capable of doing with a brush and some detangler, but my shirts always need a last minute press so off she goes with last nights hairbands and a promise tomorrow will be more organized. It's an assumed comfort to see her come home in better shape than that of which she was left. A new dress from the hands for your lover, 3 sizes too small.

I've taken to vitamins. Charging Flinstone Toddlers and Dora-the-Explorer Centrum to sally forth against stranger touch and gang toys. Arming them in my absence, keeping them safe from afar. Reading their horoscopes to know them from across the universe.

Claire doesn't ask for chocolate milk as much these days. Hershey's has been replaced with Ovaltine and she's acting betrayed, though it's for her own good and it hurts me more than it hurts her (it costs more to have vitamins over sugar).

They've all forgotten how to sleep. Nightmares, native creeks grown foreign, and creative pains that even colored band-aids can't squelch. Every night a new tooth aches, every night a different dream ensues, and every night a new cry rouses a companion. Jaren and I take turns arguing about who's turn it is to suffer insomnia. I used to take the bullet regularly, but my new found battle scars from the time clock and the throb of a life that's no longer there has spurred my spirits to kick him out of bed when nudging and guilt don't penetrate his stubborn lids. He used to get SO MAD at me because I KNEW how challenging it was for him to regain sleep after having it taken from him. He could go all night and mid day without finding rest again. I still know how it could turn out for him as my toes dig into his ribs under the sheets, but I trust he won't deny me, because he know my challenges too. With guilt I hold this knowledge, and with shame I embrace it for a few more minutes of numb quiet and a soft head.

Tonight I pick up the tricycle paths of Pringles and scattered confetti of fruit snacks. I rescue yesterdays hotdogs from a destined ambush of ants or cockroaches that pour through our cracked concrete floors. I hustle diapers into trash cans. I threaten the clothesline with washed laundry, tomorrow for sure. Then, as I deposit neglected sippy cups into the sink, dreading the moment I finally slop the stenched globs of guck into the drain, I notice that the Ovaltine in one of Claire's cups has broken up the filth into more manageable chunks.

The kids really are doing well... and therein lies the problem. The saga of a selfish Mother.

tips and tots

I've been eating, breathing, dreaming Olive Garden, filling out day care papers, worrying about my babies, and wondering about how my family is feeding themselves. There's so much to do and it's all happening so fast the road beneath me is a blur and I worry I'll get run over if I don't keep running, but when I risk a quick glance in the rear view I'm impressed and inspired with the distance I've come (well, we, really) with little to no damage. It's enough to revive me and provide me with the hope I need to stay my path.

Tonight was my first night soloing as a server in about 5 years, and it happened to be a very busy Friday night. I kept afloat and even had three separate tables tell me they'd request me the next time they came in. Everyone I work with is so supportive and encouraging, it makes this all so much easier.

Claire cried this morning because she couldn't go to "school" today, while Josh reminded me on my way out the door that he did NOT want to go. He is very fond of his birthday gifts and really was offended that he had to leave them so soon after receiving them yesterday. Over all though, those little babies are doing very well with the sudden 6 hour days away from familiarity. Still though, I stress for them imagining how terrorizing it would have felt for me at their ages.

I miss cuddling them and kissing every scrape. I dread the day I find I don't know what they are talking about because I wasn't there for the background, or to find I can't understand what they're saying or what they know because I wasn't the one who witnessed what happened or taught them what they're explaining. I worry and hope that they'll continue to be stretched and encouraged and comforted as if their every fear and cut was the priority to be addressed and mended. They're gone 4 days a week for the active 6 hours of each day. Will I still have enough time to be their main influence? I have to find a way to ensure they don't feel I'm abandoning them. I know that what I'm doing is for my family and is necessary at this stage of our lives, but by the time they're old enough to know that, will it be too late? Will they already have it engrained in their fragile minds that Mommy left them? Will they still cry out for me when they fall, or will it be some name I can't pronounce? These are the things I wonder when I come home to a dark house of emptied play things and no used dishes.

I have the next two days off. Maybe my confidence in my choices will be elevated after some good quality family time. I hope so. Winning the affection of an Olive Garden patron is flattering, but I can't survive without the faith and security of my family, money or not.

once red haired

I used to idolize Tori. She spoke to a quiet only I had, in my self consciously self centered universe. I could be beautiful because she knew me and I loved her.

I grew out of me. I saw the quiet music everywhere. I listened. I fell asleep, a promiscuous slumber party of hard dreaming, harder waking. Not forever was the story forever ago.

Vacated vacations and no destinations make a hard schedule for the retired wanderer, so I danced to ticking and whispered whims of adopted patrons. I punched through the clocks and squirmed to the surface and sneaked to an alter and love and nine months and nine months and nine more, shedding the clock and the dance while they grew.

I get up from my made bed now, shaking off responsible hours, to the rented bedroom of my night scared daughter. Hush kissed tears I swallow her boogie man. He has the bills and my sleep but I take him to save her and I toss with the dance and when I had red hair.

A Child's Prayer

Claire wasn't really thrilled with the idea of holding silent and still for family prayer this evening. She was upset that we wouldn't let her watch another 20 minutes of Sailor Moon, and refused to fold her arms. She was mumbling a quiet tune "fighting evil in the moonlight..." I had settled for the small victory of a quiet song and a still body and was already into the prayer. I asked the Lord to bless Nerfertiti, unwilling to repeat the many previous, specific pleas to have her returned to us. I felt the bed shake as Claire jolted to attention, and with a fervent plea shouted, "and make sure she has somewhere warm to sleep!" I unsuccessfully fought the mental urge to point out that would be an easy blessing to fulfill, being an Arizona August night. It was a sweet request and I should focus on the prayer, not selfish pessimism. I repeated her request and attempted to close when another one leaped forth. "And please help her to find some sticks and mud to make a bed."

I had worried about how I could explain to Claire why it was that her prayers to have her cat come home hadn't been answered with a yes. I was bracing myself for the conversation, unsure myself why. Tonight she taught me something about faith and trusting in the Lord.

Joshua Ray Watson

"I wanna jump on the trampoline"

"O.K., go on out and jump."

"Mommy, can I bring my tummy with me?"

in the quiet moments

I don't know how much of what I say is ever heard outside of myself. Tonight I heard my ears tell of quiet after Jaren commented on the movie, but I had to finish "listening" before I could address the stillness of my words. It got me onto a new discussion about how much I leave others out, at least those who don't think to include themselves when my eyes close in. But even then, sometimes it's hard because I have to update them. I find myself getting frustrated that they didn't already know, having been there the entire time. To them it's all so quiet, and it's hard to remember that. The buzz makes their words hard to focus on, particularly once they've gone dull, then I contend with a roar. Sometimes I even get bored with my roaring, and as such, find myself busying with some procrastinated task that suddenly has great urgency.

When did it all become so intense? That's the latest topic. I think it has always been. I can almost remember it coming alive when I was stuck on a blanket of bright patterns and frayed yarn, watching footed socks swoop by while wet stuck to my chin. Awareness.

I don't have a calendar marked with exact offenses, for which I'm grateful or I may not quite as much enjoy spending time with myself. But sometimes I think it would be an adventure to go back and learn precisely when I discovered that people have false interpretations, or interpretations at all. All I remember is being deeply wounded by misunderstanding and confused at learning all the many ways in which it could occur! Why CAN'T I stare? They're beautiful, or they know they're short. Why must I pretend not to see what's there? I could never understand the answers I was given as I learned that the answers and even the rules were ALL based on perspectives. So I divined my own answers and my own rules. I got so into this practice of inward speaking, that I would find myself vocalizing half a conversation, then argue a point I had already addressed, only to find that was the part of the conversation I had kept to myself. Growing was hard, but communicating was impossible.

While I am still the ignorant offender of many delicate minds, I have become less irritated with the communication process now. I find people to be lovely books and am tickled when I've discovered pages under one's cover. I know we all have them, I don't mean to say we don't. But some people work so desperately to perfect their cover, or protect their binding, that they become impossible to open. Whatever the case, browsing this great library of life begins a silent art (or rather, an inward one) before the lips can touch it. Yet even after I've settled on a good book, I often pause for reflection.

So if I'm being watched you might tell I'm getting to know you or that I'm having a "discussion," but you might not hear anything from me until I find you familiar. It may sound terribly prejudice, but that's the folly with words, they carry sounds.

This boy says more than anyone I've known.
He's mute.


Then there are those you wish you said more to,
just in case they didn't know how you felt.

pressing flowers

When I was young my family would regularly take walks together, usually on Sundays. We would often fight over who got to hold Dad's hand. There were four of us, then five, and six just before he died. His hands were more fun to hold. He was a kid, like us. A gentle jungle gym with an eye for adventure and a tendency toward mischief. He would take us exploring in abandoned houses, catch small wild animals that we would bring home to care for until death or escape, light bottle rockets in city parks and rehearse us in what to say if the cops came, and play kick the can till past dark when all we had was the street lights to reflect our goal and the loud twang of defeat as that light from the can flicked off into the air. Game over.

Mom was the planner. The strict organizer with the busy mind and the stern face. She was very creative. She would make journals for all of us that we would write in or draw pictures for on family nights before bed. She drew sketches of us that I would admire from my bed while I waited for Autumn to turn out the lights. She sewed, and canned, made baskets, taught me about plants and flowers and which berries to eat. She gardened and cleaned, hemmed pants and made quiet books. I felt sorry for her sometimes. One day we were all told to go play outside so She and Dad could talk. That meant they were fighting. As soon as we were out of earshot I informed my siblings and neighbors that they were probably going to get a divorce. I think I had just recently learned about divorce, in fact, they may not have even been fighting after all, maybe they just needed some "Mommy Daddy time." Well, whatever the case, I was convinced their marriage was history and it was time to do some serious thinking about who would live with who. We all insisted that we would live with Dad. I got to thinking about how lonely Mom would be and finally decided that I would stay by her side, she could be fun SOME times. Besides that, Dad only knew how to make popcorn and banana splits.

When we would go for our Sunday walks we would find ourselves negotiating who got to hold Dad's hand. I was always seeking for ways to please my elder siblings, to win their praise and affection. I was often left out of their play, unless they were fighting, then I'd get swindled into the middle of things and sent to do one or the other's dirty work until they made up and pitted their anger against me as if it were all my doing in the first place. Regardless, I saw how much fun they would have together and knew that if I just played my cards right that fun would be mine. So with the promise of playtime or a game of "keep away" (pig in the middle) where I didn't have to be in the middle, my turn on Dad's hand was purchased and my hands were free to pick my nose (as seen above) and gather flowers. Mom would often use these walks as an opportunity to collect willows for her baskets, or flowers for her stationary. She would point out which ones would maintain their beauty when pressed and which ones would bleed out on the pages, which ones could keep color in the heat and which ones would crumble when dried.

When Dad died, leaving six children underfoot and one in the womb, I thought what a twist of fate it was that all of us had ended up with Mom after all. I didn't think she'd make it, shutting herself in her room all day, sobbing in the night. They were hard years, still are sometimes and there have been 19 of them since the day (not exactly, but I believe anniversaries should be reserved for happy occasions). Shamefully, I had despised my Mother. I thought of all the ways she should have made our lives better. I didn't know the full weight of the burden, and even now, with facts previously unknown, I don't. She kept that pain from me, and even in keeping it took from me the pain I offered her in my judgments. In retrospect, I see her now, and with admiration I realize, I couldn't possibly have kept the color and beauty she keeps.

Every day that Jaren leaves me I wonder, sometimes quietly, is that the last time, the last kiss, the last word? My children fight for him, climb and clobber him, explore and capture with him. I now wear the stern look and buzz the busy mind. I try to remember though, to stop and press the flowers.

So here I am.

It's a beginning.
-C