The most wonderful time of the year

My favorite holiday of the year just passed this weekend.

It’s better than any Halloween treat. More exciting than Fourth of July fireworks. It’s got the New Year’s Eve magic without the New Year’s Day hangover. It’s like Christmas without all of the shopping, wrapping, baking, decorating and obligatory parties. It is the perfect gift of a day for an exhausted and overwhelmed mother like me.

It’s Daylight Savings Day.

Although it has no official anthem, I find myself humming “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” weeks before its arrival. I decorate by fluffing my pillows and wearing footed pajamas. My children and I reverse roles. They send me to bed on Saturday night with a wink and a warning that the clocks won’t turn back if I’m awake to watch it. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to sleep as I listen for tell-tale signs like hooves on the roof or incessant winding.

If I were to personify Daylight Savings Day, I would mascot it with a benevolent Mother Nature character. She is warm and nurturing, and every autumn, she turns our clocks back while she tucks us in snugly. She tandems with Mr. Sandman and together, they grant the wish most uttered amongst worn-out folks like myself: “Just one more hour of sleep…PLEASE!” as we hurl the alarm clocks and baby monitors across the room.

The Daylight Savings Fairy must be the patron saint of parents or something. Because Daylight Savings doesn’t occur at 11 a.m. when you could get an extra hour of time at work or on the treadmill. It doesn’t commence at 3 in the afternoon for an extra hour of carline. And it most definitely doesn’t start during the airing of “High School Musical” 1 or 2. No, we are given our additional hour at drowsy 2 am, when you are either sleeping, or doing something that would require an added hour to post bail. Blessedly, all dry cleaners, Toys R Us stores and restaurants with crayons and paper placements are closed.

And if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that the holiday was to commemorate two ancient Greek gods, the lovely nymph, Fallbackius and her horrible ogre of a sister Springforwardusa. The latter is the most evil creature in history, torturing parents with cruel sleep deprivation. Her feast day has all the celebratory spirit as April 15th. I hate Springforwardusa. I will never speak of her again.

And please do not rain on my Easter parade and give me some perfectly reasonable explanation that Daylight Savings wasn’t even practiced until World War I, and even then it wasn’t really uniform until the mid ‘70’s when Congress passed a law blah blah blah. Don’t start yammering to me about energy issues. Because it’s the same as my Chicken Picatta; I’d rather not know where it comes from, just that it goes nicely on a bed a fettuccine. Or in this case, on a bed of high thread count Egyptian cotton.

This holiday requires no phone calls, no mailing of cards or good wishes. It’s the one day of the year that living on borrowed time is a good thing. The more silent, the better. So on Sunday, please just count a sheep for me or two. I’ll sign your name to the card to Fallbackius next to her plate of Unisom cookies and warm milk.

And when I awake on Sunday morning to that beautiful, innocent joy of knowing that it is really 7:00 a.m. instead of 8:00 and rolling back over wrapping up tightly in my blanket, I’ll not know for a blessed moment if it is just another day in November or Christmas morning.

But for my worn out maternal body that lately has been falling asleep during AC/DC concerts and ringside space shuttle launches, it’ll be a day of Thanksgiving.

(©2007 Tracey Henry. Originally a Suburban Diva post way back then, but still holds true today.)

#CMAawards

Last night I live-tweeted the CMA's which is really fun and relevant as the show was broadcast live, but the morning after this particular medium falls just short of coherent.

But if you did watch, and appreciate 140-character observations, here's a recap. 

 And to sum it all up at the end of a long, but entertaining night:

Tracey Henry ‏@Subdiva

Taylor to Blake: "I'm going to let you finish, but you should have never ever ever ever ever won that. Like ever."

Country Music Awards

There's been a lot of seriousness in the recent days behind us, and there's sure to be coming up in the immediate days ahead of us, so how about a few hours of nonsense in between?

I'll be live-tweeting the CMA's (Country Music Awards) from Nashville tonight as I attend the event, red-carpet and maybe an after-party, so tune in and follow me @Subdiva on Twitter tonight for a running commentary of all things bedazzled here in Music City tonight. It will be great fun, I promise.

Recap tomorrow here if I'm not arrested for stalking. Or libel.

Halloween lessons

Our second Halloween in this 'hood and the lessons I've learned:

1.) I need to buy double the amount of doubled-amount of candy that I bought twice as much as last year.

2.) People love Halloween here. There aren't enough aisles of inflatable ghosts, cats and other general spooks at Lowe's to fulfill the demand in Middle Tennessee.

3.) Trick-or-Treating at large, stately, popular country music singing stars homes doesn't suck.

4.) I need to seek professional help for the lengths I go to theme this meal.

Halloween was a little hollow in 1979

More and more frequently, I'll recall a warm childhood memory and as I'm regarding now it in my parental mind's eye, I can't help but stop and think, "What the hell?"

We didn't grow up in a bad area of town. On the contrary--it was a nice suburban Michigan home in a subdivision filled with large sprawling yards and growing families. It was a particularly good neighborhood to Trick-Or-Treat in because there was always a porch light on at every house, and easy- to-navigate streets.

I remember going out with my Dad and sister and we'd hit as many houses as possible in our unknown costumes buried under a parka since October in Michigan meant it was 3 degrees outside. My Mom would stay at home passing out the candy and when we returned we'd dump out our pillowcases filled with sugar treasures, and the mad sorting would begin.

Or should I say, my mother would begin the 3 day long inspection process and clinical drug trials.

You must put into context that the idyllic neighborhood I described was set in the late seventies which is when all urban legends were born. I have no idea if there was any concrete evidence or actual events to support the extraordinary means my mother would go through to make sure our candy wasn't tainted, but I imagine some fuzzy-screened news anchor with a wide tie informing the good citizens of Oakland County that Charles Manson was on the loose in the Hershey factory inserting razor blades and Tylenol laced with cyanide into fun size Snickers bars.

Even before one M got stuffed into my mouth, she'd immediately start the torture.

All apples (yeah, that lady lived in my hood, too) were tossed into the trash. "Hello, ever hear of Snow White?" Popcorn balls or anything homemade? "I'm not sure if it's poisoned but you don't know what kind of kitchen that came from. You could get trichinosis."

All loose candy was pitched. Anything in a wrapper that was torn, wrinkled or compromised in any way was an immediate discard. And all Milky Ways were automatically confiscated, but I think it was just because she liked those.

We were then allowed to choose one piece of candy from our bags, but only after Mom chopped it up like a sushi chef to make sure there was nothing hidden inside or any powdery residue on the blade of the cleaver.

After the intense visual inspection and biopsy, you'd think you were in the clear, but you were obviously not aware of the cornucopia of dangers lurking in a Bit o' Honey in 1979. No, then all of the level 1 cleared candy was bundled back up into the pillowcase with the firm declaration, "You can have this back in a few days after your Uncle has had a chance to X-ray it."

Yes. X-Ray.

This was an annual ritual that I thought was just our curse having an Uncle as a radiologist, but one year we had to take it to the local McDonald's for a mobile screening so this must have been a widespread concern in our zip code. I guess irradiation was deemed less dangerous than the possible lockjaw we'd get from biting down on a rusty nail.

By the time the candy would come back well into November, it lost much of its appeal. Still wearing its hospital bracelet and reeking of antiseptic, the bag sat on the kitchen table looking a little lighter and glowing unnaturally. I couldn't help but lose my confectionary appetite a little.

And again, looking back at it through my parental mind's eye, maybe it was all by design.

Trick on my Treats after all.

A cry for help with my mouth full

At least I can admit I have a problem.

And I fully acknowledge that I am the Queen of the Theme cooking.

I will take any holiday, sporting event, television program, news item, or even an overheard sentence uttered by a stranger in the grocery store and turn it into a themed meal.

It's just kind of what I do--an inside culinary joke I have with myself four nights a week.

This month alone we've had paella and burgers for Columbus Day, Nathan's hot dogs for the playoffs and apple pie for the presidential debates. But the creme de la creme of my kooky cookery, my celebratory savories, festive foodstuffs, and motif meals is Halloween.

Our usual dinner is a pot of chili and the obligatory mummy dogs and cupcakes, but I think I've found a new freakish fare for the table: Mummy Meatloaf.

Spoonful.com

Use this guide from Spoonful.com and this 1770 House meatloaf recipe from Food Network Magazine (which is by far the best meatloaf I've ever eaten, family confirms) and you'll become a permanent member of my themed cook support group.

P.S. Our next meeting is November 1st for All Saint's Day.  Bring divinity, angel food cake, and St. Louis style ribs.


P.S.S. Imagine pairing this with graveyard ghost mashed potatoes? Ok, I'll stop now.

My one and only political post--read at your own risk

Fair warning: this is my one and only political post of this season, so if you want to skip this one and return tomorrow for more of the usual, please feel free. I won’t be offended.

So you stayed. Thanks. And to reward you, this will not be about bashing the other guy or opposing positions. This is simply my opportunity to let you know who I am--and who I am not--as a voter.

I am a proud Democrat. 

What I am not is naive.

I believe in social justice, Civil Rights and religious freedom. I am not fiscally irresponsible, a moocher, and or easily dismissed.

I believe my grandmothers fought for my right to vote, go to college, earn equal wages and make my own healthcare decisions. 

I am a wife and proud mother of four beautiful and loved children. I am not a baby killer. Perhaps this makes me a feminist, but I’d like to think I’m more humanist.

I do not see affordable healthcare as an affront. I am relieved that we finally value humans as much as we do our cars, houses and motorcycles. I am grateful that my son will be able to provide for his family someday without fear of his pre-existing condition. I’m happy that no other parent will have to make a medical decision based on whether or not they will be eligible for insurance.

I believe in a social safety net--one that was woven by my grandparents’ generation who lived through the Great Depression and decided a country as great as ours should never be without one again.

I also don’t see my grandparents as a voting bloc or a drain to the economy with their care after working their entire lives contributing to the system. I see them as brilliant architects of a society that allows us to grow and follow our dreams without fear of losing everything if we get sick or retire.

I am a person of faith. But I have no interest in my government making policy decisions based on any one church’s tenants, beliefs or interpretations.

I am an American. I believe one of the many sources of this nation’s strength is our free education system, and the more educated the population, the better off we are as a society. I believe that’s an investment that pays off in every facet of civilization.

Admittedly, I am also sometimes the token liberal. In our school, neighborhood, workplace and church, I have become used to it. What I am not is ashamed of anything other than the parents and teachers who suggest to my middleschooler that overturning Roe v. Wade is an age-appropriate topic, or the only factor in voting for president. I believe a pro-life agenda goes much further than this single issue that has no business being taught to children as a partisan talking point. 

I am a realist. I know that social programs and defense cost money and that money comes from taxes which I don’t like to pay anymore than anyone else. But I can’t imagine living in a nation without schools, libraries, parks, police and a military that makes these things possible and I’m willing to pay for it.

I am a tree-hugger, but in genuine disbelief that no matter how you think the planet was made, that we can’t all agree to keep it clean. I think If bureaucracy is a pejorative term for agencies that keep our medicines and food supply safe and our air and water clean, then I suppose I’m a blasphemer, too.

I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister, a niece and a granddaughter. I am an equal. 

As are you. And whomever you choose to love.

And I am frightened. Because I believe all of the things I am is at risk this election unlike most others. I see unprecedented intolerance, anger, bigotry and ignorance and it scares me to my core that we can’t have an adult conversation about any political subject without name-calling and suppression of ideas different from our own.

But most of all, I am one of millions of natural-born caretakers this election that would like to see a return to people over positions, individuals over issues and family over fanaticism.

And finally, I’m a lifelong student and another lesson I’ve learned from my grandparents is that neither party can stop time from marching relentlessly forward. I’m determined to continue to progress so I’m not left behind.

And I am now stepping off my soapbox and returning you to our regularly scheduled election.

Please vote.

Halloween is so big here...

...Even the mailboxes dress up.

I'm exporting this custom to all points North and South. I like it.

Curiously, they we only dress up our mailboxes for autumn and Christmas. I'm not quite sure the reason for this abridged calendar--I think they would look fetching in Easter bonnets or Fourth of July ribbons--but sometimes it's best not to ask.

Two flags up for me, Roger.

Safe again

After living here for the almost two full years now, I really had come to the conclusion that the only thing I was in danger of here in the state of Tennessee was perhaps developing heart disease from living so close to the Loveless Cafe or only being able to get our news from Fox.

But despite the relative safety of the area, we somehow decided to install a home security system nonetheless.

Our last run with this wasn't exactly successful. All of the doors and windows in our Florida home were wired with a very menacing voice that would alert us every bloody time someone would crack a window, but neglected the big security breaches like Jingle running away every single day. It also helpfully notified us to a low battery in the smoke alarm for the last 3 years we lived there despite it having been changed repeatedly. When we finally moved it felt like a prison break that I imagine the new owners are alerted to every six minutes to this day.

But this security system was going to be different. We got the premium package that included all of the bells and whistles.

Which doesn't do much if those bells and whistles are of the silent variety.

About 9:00 in the morning last week, a very nice police officer showed up on our doorstep with his hand on his holster to let us know that our new system was indeed working according to plan as it is apparently not-so-silent in the Sheriff's department. After a brief ID check and confirmation that Jingle was not exactly the world's best watch dog as she fell asleep on the feet of a stranger bearing a gun in our living room, the officer determined the perpetrator of the breach.

His interrogation of the suspect was swift yet thorough--the five year-old female confessed not only immediately, but proudly and unapologetically stating she pressed that little red button on the unit she was told never to press, "On purpose just to see what would happen."

The officer, whose heart visibly melted all over the dog at his feet, didn't even cite her for stealing his heart. Instead, he took her outside and showed her all of the bells and whistles in his squad car.

We learned many lessons this day. Stevie came away with that this would probably not be the last time Jessie saw the inside of a police car and Sean determined that the alarm keypad should maybe go up one shelf higher.

As for me, I realize that two years was much longer than I would have thought it would take us to become that family, and I wish the Loveless served tequila.

Guilty. 

Fall what?

We just returned from Fall Break, which is Nashville's way of saying, "By the first week of October, we realize what a colossally bad idea it is to send the kids back to school closer to the Fourth of July than Labor Day, so here's the week that you could have had in August with the rest of the country so you can completely destroy all semblance of a routine you finally had going. Oh, and we're still going ahead with your child's sports schedule because we also realize the rest of the world continues as planned so good luck planning a trip or anything that doesn't revolve around an out-of-town game."

So we went to Louisville for a hockey tournament.

I'm not complaining--I don't hate Fall Break until this Monday after when we all have to go back after 10 days of sleeping at odd times and alternating meals between pizza and lukewarm powdered eggs out of chafing dishes at the Homewood Suites. I feel like I've woken up hungover from a night of huffing airplane glue from an EPA case study on how not to ventilate an ice arena.

Oh wait, we did.

But we made fun anyway. When we weren't hallucinating or vomiting from the lingering Zamboni fumes, we managed to take in a movie, do some shopping and even go to the Louisville Slugger museum and factory which I highly recommend if you're ever out that way. Before we left, the kids had a couple of sleepovers and homemade baked goods were consumed, so it was a fine week no matter how you slice it.

Even if it's a big ole slice of warm pumpkin pie instead of a refreshing Key Lime.

No more whining for me

From the owner's manual: "Keep wines that you plan to use for EVERYDAY drinking and entertaining on the front half..."

Finally an appliance that gets me.

This might be the most remarkable machine even despite its impressive instruction manual.

You see, this simple appliance was surprisingly complicated to purchase and install. If we are to believe the first installer, it was backordered, then crafted by hand or carved from a single lump of stainless steel which took four months despite being a stock item at the local store. Once it did finally arrive from Napa or Bordeaux or Mars, and after said-installer was in three car accidents (none his fault) one employee accident (first time ever), a shoulder injury, and a week delay for paint to dry (???); on the morning of the delivery date on the way to its bought and paid for location, it was completely and tragically destroyed in a fiery car crash, with all backordered, hand-forged remains vaporized before the insurance adjusters could even arrive, along with the receipts of the order that the store since lost or misplaced.

We didn't buy that either.

Turns out it takes less than a week to be ordered and delivered when you just go ahead and do it yourself.

So we've unwittingly become more DIYer's since moving here but at least we can now reward ourselves with a glass of Merlot served at a perfect 58 degrees.

What I have and haven't done the first week of school

While the kids have now been in school for almost 3 weeks, Jessie didn’t start full-time Kindergarten until last Friday, so I’ve only had about five days of daytime hours by myself. 

It hasn’t gone exactly how I’d imagined.

Things I’ve done:

1.) Watched a lot of bad daytime television. After years of Nick Jr. as the intermittent soundtrack from 9-3, I realize that it is a pretty high-brow network in comparison to TLC or Lifetime. On the upside, I can now work on an Alaskan crab boat and find the perfect wedding dress.

2.) I still go to Publix almost daily, but my average grocery bill has dropped 20% without “help” from the kids.

3.) Re-introduced myself to the treadmill. (And it’s still an asshole just as I remembered.)

4.) Reading a lot more, but now I also have time to argue with myself all day before I see another human thus sparing others from my political rants. You’re welcome, Interwebs.

5.) While I’ve always cooked a lot, now I’m trying new things like pickling. Botulism over boredom is my new motto.

What I haven’t done that I thought I would have by now:

1.) Finish organizing the basement storage. There are boxes still there from two moves ago, what’s the rush?

2.) Napped.

3.) The myriad of redecorating projects I had planned. While I realistically didn’t think I would have re-tiled the bathroom or painted a mural on the playroom ceiling by September 1st, I did think I would have at least thought about new paint colors and fabric swatches..

4.) Picked up my novel in progress again. The good news is that it’s about an HOA gone horribly awry, and watching the daytime antics in this neighborhood is excellent research.

5.) Sought professional help for my pickling addiction. (Or at the very least, contacted TLC for a reality show about it.)

Surprising things I’ve learned in all of this solitude:

1.) My cookie recipe makes an extra dozen per batch without the kids stealing the dough.

2.) Jingle really does sleep all day--but now I know it’s under Amy’s bed.

3.) When you can honestly tell your kids that there are things living under your bed, it’s time to clean under there.

4.) I really need some friends. And a hobby. Or a cat. Or ten cats. (But they’ll have to sleep under Jessie’s or Matty’s beds.)

5.) I miss my kids.

Obituary for Dancer the Hamster

Dancer the Hamster died of unknown causes recently. 

Dancer, parents unknown but somehow related to Harry Houdini, gift to Suburban Diva and bane of her existence, torturer to dog Jingle, forgotten responsibility of Amy and Jessica, and worst idea ever to Sean; passed (seemingly through a hole in the wall) in late April after a brief visit from a neighbor child who left the cage door open.

Originally from Petsmart, Dancer spent his early days in a shaving-lined cage in Amy’s room. After failing to keep Amy sleeping in her own room as promised, Dancer then moved to a bigger habitrail in the playroom, where he would enjoy frequent over-feedings as a guilt assuaging exercise from the children. Dancer was instrumental in cementing the firm beliefs of Ms. Diva that all rodents should be kept outdoors, and that the movie G-Force was a propaganda piece for naive parents.

After several months without communication, the family has declared the rodent to be deceased; finally reunited with that giant wheel in the sky. He leaves behind a water bottle, a half-eaten apple twig and a much too small ball after his unfortunate weight gain. 

Due to the absence of his remains, there will be no formal funeral arrangements, however in lieu of flowers, the bereaved are asked to donate to Ms. Diva’s legal defense fund when she kills her husband for buying a rat with wanderlust and therapy for their children when they eventually do locate the remains in the playroom.

                                                                         Dancer the Hamster

          December 23, 2011-Way longer than I thought

Trash-ville

I’d like to offer a new regular feature here on this blog entitled, “Shit I have to get used to now that I live in Nashville.”

Let me preface this by saying how much I love it here, but every new place has its quirks, and Nashville seems to have quite a few. So to my new friends: no offense, but y’all do things a tad differently around these parts. Old friends: You guys are not going to believe this.

One of the biggest domestic obstacles I’ve faced here is trash pickup service. In every other state we’ve lived in, waste services were through the city-- you put out your cans twice a week along with curbside recycling and the trash would be picked up without incident. Life was good and clean.

Here, they run things differently. 

There is no city pickup, so everything is run privately. Our neighborhood probably has 15 different companies that pick up trash, but no one seems to want to coordinate one main vendor because--and you’ll hear this phrase a lot-- “That’s not how we do things in the South.”

When I called the number that our realtor left to arrange for service, it rang to a cell phone somewhere with background noises that suggested either illegal cockfighting or filming of a new TLC reality series.

“Do I need any special size can or place it somewhere specific on the curb?”

“Just leave any can you want outside or in your garage with the back door unlocked, we’ll get it. We don’t have a whole lot of rules.”

“Ok, what about recycling?”

“Yeah, we don’t really get into that.”

A week later, this shows up in the driveway; a 1983 Ford F-150 retro-fitted with a dumpster. Nothing that isn’t double-bagged or bigger than a Dixie cup gets picked up and we haul the recycling up to the drop-off center every weekend.

For months I try in vain to find a new company. Over half of the numbers in the Yellow Pages (Yes, that archaic scroll) are disconnected, and the other half don’t service our area. I drive around the neighborhood following real garbage trucks and frantically writing down numbers from my neighbors trash cans--all with the same result. 

In the mean time, the original company reduces pickup days from two to one without lowering the bill and only communicates through passive-aggressive notes taped on the can.

Finally, at long last I get a hold of a company that will not only pick up ALL of the trash with a real trash truck, but also collects recycling! 

I eagerly await the first week and they empty the trash can they provided, but not the loose trash at the bottom of the other can that the first company has refused. Fine, I have lived in the South long enough to realize how this is supposed to go.

The next week, I leave my own very nice note and a small cash incentive asking if new trash company will please just empty the other can this once of the loose items so we can start fresh and move on. I check outside all morning to see if in fact the trash has been taken. 

What was taken was the 20 bucks before the trash guys ever got there.

And the recycling? Well, we’re still taking that up to the center every weekend, facing the scowls of the employees who must secretly hate the planet or something because they give you such a hard time at every drop-off since no retailer in Middle Tennessee sells the special blue recycling bags the Company B will pick up. And now that we have our cans at the end of the driveway on pickup days, the entire county throws their loose trash in our cans creating an even bigger mess than before that Company A or B and our car now looks like the above picture after months of hauling trash in it.

If I’ve said one untruth, please, native Nashvillians, correct me publicly.

But that fact is that not only can’t I make this shit up, I can’t get my shit hauled away.

Photo credit: Me. Because Google didn't even believe me that there was such a thing.

New beginnings

With a little wave and a huge smile, Jessie entered the big world of school and a little piece of my mom-ness disappeared.

Don't get me wrong--I'm happy for this milestone for her. She is beyond ready, and I love it when they are able to shine in ways you never thought possible. But things definitely shifted this week, and it will take a little while to get used to.

Jessie's first day of Kindergarten

We've always had a preschooler at home. Always. Because they are so spread apart, when one started Kindergarten, there was at least one still at home with me so those hours between 8-3 everyday weren't empty or quiet. I didn't have the opportunity to really do much outside of the house that didn't include a toddler or two. But now that Jessie is in full time school, I will be left with these large chunks of hours during the day that are surprisingly daunting to fill.

That isn't a complaint and I do realize there are worse problems in the world, but it is different. I've got visions in my head of all sorts of back-burner projects getting thrown back into the fire, and maybe even exploring some new ones.

Maybe some of that mom-ness will be replaced by a little SubDiva-ness who has been awfully quiet lately.

I think I'm doing this wrong

About every forty-two seconds week, one of my children asks if we can get a cat. My answer is always the same, "No, because I'm allergic to cats." This doesn't sway them. Ever. So when Stevie recentlt asked via text message, I thought I'd switch up the standard conversation hoping to put an end to the topic forever. (Please note that as allergic as I am to cats, Sean is more so of shellfish.)

Let this serve as evidence of my last will and testament. Arrest the cat in the shrimp collar.

Children's Hospital Needs Drive and Spring Cleaning

If your spring cleaning includes getting rid of some of those old video games and movies that the kids don’t use anymore, please considering donating them to our needs drive for Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital.

If you haven’t heard already, Stevie has been selected to serve as the Child Ambassador for Monroe Carrell Jr. Children’s Hospital at Vanderbilt at this year’s Steeplechase event in May. Although this title requires no fundraising of any kind, Stevie thought it his honor and responsibility to give back to the hospital that has helped in his cardiac care by organizing a Needs Drive from the children’s hospital official wish list.

All donations are needed and welcomed, particularly those that serve older and teenaged patients that are often an overlooked population in charity drives. Some of these items include gently used (still in working order) video games, (for all systems including handheld devices like Nintendo DS) video game systems, (all types) and DVD’s. New items like underwear, T-shirts, earbuds, current magazines and art supplies are also welcome and encouraged. The full list is found below and on their website. http://www.childrenshospital.vanderbilt.org/interior.php?mid=1166

It is our family’s sincere hope and wish that you never have to experience a children’s hospital firsthand, but if you have, you know what an immeasurable asset it is to not only a community, but to children’s health nation and worldwide. Miracles--small and large--are performed here everyday.

Please consider donating some of these items if you are able. If you are local, collection sites will be at Father Ryan High School, Bridgestone Arena and our home. (We will even pick them up for you!) For anyone out of town, you can email me for our address and send them via mail. We will be collecting items through the month of April.

Thank you in advance for your consideration and support. Even a little can go a long way for a child’s hospital stay.

Lysol, Lent, and Lamenting

We've been playing volleyball with a bug.

With a stubborn germ(s) that will not leave, instead it merely manifests itself into different forms of running, sneezing, puking, coughing, hacking, and otherwise wreaking mucousy-chaos through our household.

I don't know the official name of this parasite--it's immune to Amoxicillian, Clorox and fits of tears--so for lack of a better word, I'll just refer to it as, "asshole." Because, really at this point, it just is one.

Technically, I suppose it could also be referred to as, "The germ that will lose the few friends you had, make you look like a horrible mother and get you on a first name basis with your pediatrician," but that's sort of cumbersome to write on a prescription pad, so let's stick with the original nomenclature.

Anyway, we've been volleying Asshole back and forth for a few weeks now, and I'm pretty tired of it. Here we are at Ash Wednesday and I'm already swearing irreverently at .01% of molecules that Lysol won't touch. This may skew my thoughts on my Lenten journey a bit, but I'm sort of proud of myself that I've come up with any cognizant thoughts whatsoever in the last several weeks.

For me, Lent has always been less about the New Year's resolution-type sacrifices and more about seeking balance. Corrections as a preparation to honestly take spiritual stock and act accordingly. Obviously, the health thing is way out of whack so we will be working on that, but I'm also finding other things are adding to my inner-curmudgeon and warping my perspective and blocking my path.

The current political and religious discourse makes me sad. And angry. And wondering what year I'm really in that these issues are seriously being trampled upon by our so-called leaders. I find myself reading Facebook and Twitter with clenched teeth. The only writing I've done is compose angry emails in my head that I'll never send to people I don't care about.

Somehow I don't think this is what Jesus would do.

So I'm stopping it. My part, anyway. Instead of anger in the extreme, I'm going to focus on extreme joy. Less hating, more loving. Less pontificating and more thinking. Less talking more acting. And no judging.

And writing. More than 140 characters at a time.

Because I've learned that we humans have an infinite capacity to love, but finite energy to spend--I'm done wasting mine.

There's more of course, but my focus is definitely shifted toward the light.

And away from any and all Assholes.

Teaching an old, fake-furred rat new tricks

One of the problems with having children spread so far apart in age is that I can sometimes forget the lessons I've taught myself over time.

Through a mixture of pseudo-science, fear, and fair dose of all-out lies, I had convinced three of my four children that Chuck E. Cheese was the source of pink-eye. Those three had experienced the eye-prying torture of burning drops after a days of gunk-induced blindness, so it wasn't all that difficult to dissuade them from ever entering that den of disease again.

But just like a child who has never been exposed to chicken pox, Jessie had no immunity whatsoever and had begged for months to go. I had run out of excuses, and pink-eye just sounded like coloring her face with a marker which she does every day anyway.
So we went.

Luckily, there weren't many people there. Just a few bamboozled grandparents who looked as though a trip to the liquor store for cheap vodka was imminent-- to either drink or to disinfect with--who am I to judge? So Jessie and I spent two hours and ten bucks playing games, riding rides, collecting tickets and eating frozen chicken nuggets over the soundtrack of clicking fur-covered robots, video game trailers and children's screams.

And you know what? It was pretty fun.

While I still think its health department score hovers around the temperature of Nome in January, Jessie was thrilled the entire time. She laughed, she played, we did everything she wanted to at least twice, and there was no having to share her tokens--or her time-- with anyone. Everything was exactly how she'd imagined it and there was not a hint of disappointment. And when all was over, she took her tickets and bought prizes for every one of her siblings with no prodding from me.

So I still stand by my original assertion that this place does and will cause pink-eye, but perhaps I'll amend the lesson to inlcude an occasional misty-eye phenomenon as well.

A Lottawa fun in Ottawa

An exasperated, “Why do all of our vacations turn out like this?” Is not the way any weekend should begin.

This was uttered from my oldest as we sat in customs filling out a lost bag report from a foreign city not on our original itinerary as we pushed Matty in a wheelchair after our flight was cancelled.

Sometimes it doesn’t occur to me that things go horribly wrong some days. Stevie was still fighting his concussion, Jessie had an ear infection, Matty had twisted his ankle the night before and our connecting flight to Ottawa for the NHL All-Star weekend was cancelled upon arriving in Washington. I guess I considered ourselves ahead of the game that despite all of those events, we made it all together.



Nor did I know at that time what a fabulous time we would have. Sure, I knew it was going to be fun--we sort of love these kinds of things--but each event was just so enjoyable together, that every inconvenience was sort of eclipsed. We pushed Matty’s wheelchair through the snow and ice-packed streets of Ottawa taking in all of the sites. We attended the parties, the games, the events. We made fun in between and just kind of took it all in stride.



There were players, and mascots and Prime Ministers. There were old friends, new friends, and laughter. There was, “Did you see who that was?” and bad imitations of Canadian accents are higher math calculations on the exchange rate.



But we were all together.

And on that last morning packing up way too much luggage and a ton of memories over the last 48 hours, I couldn’t help but think, “I love that all of our vacations turn out like this.”