Understanding Peace

Peace.

It has been on my mind this morning. No matter what I find myself doing, I seem to keep coming back to it.


I’m not talking about peace, love, & caddyshack. *grins*  I’m talking the peace that passes understanding. It’s not really describable and yet, here I am making the attempt as it appears to have taken root and is willing me to do something I haven’t done in quite awhile … write … and something I haven’t done in an even longer while … post.


This morning I was not just awake, but also up (as in the "out of bed and dressed" kind) before I wanted to be through no one’s fault, not even the small, white ball of fluff that seems to rule my house and my schedule. As a matter of fact, the small one was still nestled on the bed, sleeping quite peacefully when I decided that we would go outside and check the early morning. It was a bit before 7am and the sun had just crested its way into the sky. I stopped to brew a mug of tea from a blend gifted me by the eldest girlie Friday night before grabbing leash and pupper and making my way out of doors.


According to the weather I checked before leaving my phone inside, the temperature was a light 69 degrees. After weeks of 110 plus – either from heat index or, worse, actual temperature – the morning seemed almost chilly. Almost. Yet while the breeze was cool, the rising sun was bright in the clear blue palette of sky and was warming. Not hot. Just warm. The morning was perfect.


We walked for a few minutes, my pupper and I. Not far. Not to the field. Just down the sidewalk enough to give him some places to sniff and me a feeling that I’d stretched, however little. Then we went back and I relaxed, in my chair, sipping my tea, while he searched for something elusively scented under his bushes.


It was quiet. Not silent, just ... quiet.


Our morning's musical underscore was a combination of the birds, busy with beginning their day, and the gentle breeze, which was enough to give a rustle to Fluff’s bushes and toss a couple of dried leaves across the driveway for him to give chase before another scent caught his twitching little nose and he began exploring again. The birds made me think of Harold and Francine, my cardinals. I wondered where they were and if they had already begun another nest, hopefully in a safer location than my tree and window could evidently provide, but they are nature’s creatures and I just gave another quick thanks to their Creator for allowing me the chance to view their life for a short time.


I lay my head back, closed my eyes and felt, simply put, the perfectly peaceful morning flow around me, welcoming and embracing.


There was nothing to understand, nothing to sort out. There was just peace - of mind, of body, of soul.


Yesterday afternoon, after an early morning trip to the Farmer’s Market, combined with real estate wandering (aka. driving around looking at houses for rent & for sale and checking out garage sales), not to mention a brief errand, my youngest girlie settled herself curled in my big chair whilst I worked in the kitchen for a bit. It didn’t take long for the quiet and lull in activity to settle her into a soft sleep. While I worked, I found my eyes drawn to her slumber, my hands gentling the sounds so I didn’t disturb, and my mind casting back in memories so thick and rich, they seemed to wrap themselves around me like a warm cloak or a soft comforter.


Memories of girlies of varying ages and sizes … curled separately or together … on the couch, in the chair, on my shoulder, in my lap, on the floor, in the car … sleeping the quiet, yet not so quiet, sleep of innocence … of childhood. Tucked up on pillows or hands, nestled in blankets or not, they dreamed the dreams cast by their hearts, minds, and imaginations. Sometimes they might wake startled by nightmare or illness, but the moments passed quickly and sleep would always return to give them peace.


Ask me of one of my fondest memories and would reply something like this:


Take any weekend filled with laughter and playtime, movies and books and end it with girlies asleep in their beds as I finish out my day. Then, after closing down the house and securing our safety, I would turn out the lights and make my way down the hall. Aided by small nightlights, I would stand in the juncture of the hall, looking into both rooms, reveling in the gift of time spent before tucking each one with a small kiss and phrase, then gratefully giving thanks to the Creator who made them and the parents that shared them.


That moment. That memory. That was my feeling of peace.


According to the dictionary, peace can be defined in multiple ways. There is the one of the “normal, nonwarring condition of a nation, group of nations, or the world” which is in parallel to the one about “an agreement or treaty between warring or antagonistic nations, groups, etc., to end hostilities and abstain from further fighting or antagonism” to be followed in the same genre as “a state of mutual harmony between people or groups, especially in personal relations”. There are also the definitions of “being deceased”, of “maintaining order”, of “refraining from speaking”. One definition that kinda made me giggle, but that could be because of the way it is phrased, is the one where peace is definined as “a state or relationship of non-belligerence”. Not sure why it made me giggle, except perhaps because I hear this English voice in my head from a movie I know I’ve seen and yet cannot place at the moment (when it comes to me at 3am, I’ll be sure to post it for you) of the good guy fighting the bad guy and calling him a “belligerent bugger”. But that’s a side trip in the realm of definitions and not where I was heading.


Where I am heading is the simple and concise definition of peace as “untroubled, tranquil, content … a state of stillness, silence, or serenity.”


These are the words that define my memory of those quiet moments. This is the feeling ... is the peace ... I had this morning as I relaxed with my tea outside while my pupper explored before starting my day. This is the sense of self that is welcomed each weekend to rejuvenate my mind and, more specifically, my soul in order to approach the coming week.


That is my description of peace.


It is the gift that surpasses all understanding, flows like a river and is only truly received when heart and mind are surrendered to the One from who it is given.


My prayer this Sunday morning, before my pupper and I came inside and truly began our day, was … is … for each member of my family, each of my friends to be blessed with their own moment of peace. And ... when you find yourself in that moment, do two things.  First … give thanks to Him who has bestowed it, and then, secondly, pass it on. You know the adage … if you tell two people, then they tell two people, then they tell two people, and so on, and so forth?


Is your imagination good enough to imagine what would happen?

Puppies Are Like Two Year Olds (Aka. Life With Chester)

If there is one thing I know, and know well, it is two year olds.

It seems as though I have been around them all my life. Or pretty darn close to it. I have baby sat them, I have worked in their classes at daycare, I was their lead teacher in a private preschool, I was the nanny to one, and I have had dozens of them through the years at our church nursery - including my current class.

Oh ... and all three of my girlies were two at one point in their lives.

So, yeah ... I can honestly say that two year old behavior is no longer surprising. Mostly entertaining and exasperating, I love two year olds simply because they are on that teeter-totter cusp between wanting to still being a baby and trying so hard to be an independent preschooler. Favorite phrases are "wha' dat?" and "I do it mysef!" Parrots to whatever the adults in their lives say, the dreaded "NO!" makes you wonder exactly how often do they hear it. The common joke is that a child thinks his name is "No-no *insert name*!" during that second year of their lives. Two year olds are so precocious and intoxicating in their innocence and yet, with closer watching, you can see the little wheels actually turning in their head as they negotiate how to achieve what they want, whether that is getting the baby out of your lap so that they can get in it, removing the toy they wish to play with from the hands of another or negotiating how to keep you from seeing what they are truly doing at any given moment.

In the case of puppies, I'm not as familiar. I simply haven't been around them as often. However, I'm learning fast. Chester was 3 months old when he came home with me. He is now officially 6 months old. I know I'm not an expert. I still have to regularly call my "doggy guru", my friend who laughs at me and guides me when I'm unsure on a behavior or eating habit. I've made mistakes, I know this, but I'm trying.

No ... I'm not an expert on puppies by any means. However, if there is one lesson I HAVE learned, and learned well during these last 3 months, it is this - puppies are simply furry, four legged, two year olds. Don't believe me? Let me give you some examples:

1) You are NEVER alone, even in the bathroom. When The Twins were two, they were okay playing by themselves as long as I was visibly near by. The minute I went to the restroom, however, I suddenly had two attachments ... exploring the bathroom, standing right in front of me, demanding attention.

Now I have Chester ... exploring the bathroom, standing right in front of me, demanding attention. Closing the door doesn't work. In the case of The Twins, they would knock continuously while calling my name. One would be trying the door knob while the other would be crouched down trying to see under the door. In the case of Chester, there is the continuous scratching at the door, the barking out, the jumping to reach the door knob, and the belly wiggle trying to get his nose under the door.

If you have children and/or a dog ... you KNOW this is true.

2) You have to constantly watch because any and EVERYTHING goes into the mouth. Some days it seems as though I spend all of my time at church telling my kiddos to “take that out of your mouth!” I’m not exactly sure why, but for one little girl it seems as though the toy house works better if you put the people’s rounded head in your mouth. Play keys, balls, edges of blankets, edges of dresses and shirts, train steam stacks, blocks, shapes … you name it, it goes in the mouth. Some things are quickly discarded and others remain, sort of like a large rounded pacifier. Then, of course, there’s the fingers … thumbs, one finger, two fingers, the whole fist. For two year olds, a large reason for this oral fixation is because they are continuing to do a lot of teething.

So it is with Chester. Nothing is sacred. Toys, pillows, blankets, clothing (socks & shoes in particular) are all sampled through the little pup’s mouth. Some are discarded, most are not. The vet says this will start to go away in a couple months when he looses all of his baby teeth and has his full set of “adult” teeth. I’m gonna wait to see if that really happens. If it does, then hallelujah! I’ll simply give thanks that canine teething isn’t as long as human teething.

3) Simple toys are the best toys. When I was a nanny *mumblemumble* years ago, my young charge was blessed with parents that could afford to get her a plethora of books and learning toys, not to mention dolls, stuffed animals, etc. Don’t get me wrong, she really wasn’t a spoiled child, she just had all manner of toys. So it was always amusing to me when opening her presents on her birthday, her favorite gift was a pair of socks. She put them on her hands and worked them like puppets. She put them on her ears and pretended to be a puppy. She stuffed them full of pieces of other toys and used them as purses. She was blissfully happy with her socks and the remainder of the toys … well, they just stayed stacked on the table.

Chester’s favorite toy is a blue water bottle. He will carry it around, chase it, gnaw on it, bat it back and forth around on the ground – even better if he remembers to take it to the kitchen where it makes more noise. Every night when I pick up his toys and put them back in his toy basket, it doesn’t matter where I put it – top or bottom – his bottle is the first toy he gets out. Followed a close second by his beanie baby worm on a red ribbon. :-)

4) Listening skills need some work … a lot of work. Whether it is the stubborn streak of independence that is beginning to assert itself in the two year old mindset or whether it is because they simply get so intent in what they are playing/working on, two year olds don’t always respond immediately when called or told something. A few years back I had a little boy in my nursery I seriously began to wonder if was deaf, I had such a difficult time getting him to hear and listen to me. Then I caught him giving me a sly look under his bangs, cutting his eyes to the side as they looked up at me with a smirk. Oh. Yes. The little guy HEARD me tell him it was time to pick up the toys, but he wasn’t going to listen to me without some reinforcement. Time out is simply not fun when it is facing a wall and no where near the toys or books or other children.

Chester knows his name. He understands what it means when he hears the sound of keys and the word “bye-bye”. He knows the difference between the opening of the refrigerator door and the freezer door and will instantly make an appearance when the freezer door opens in the hopes of getting a coveted ice cube. Yep. My little ball of fluff does not have a hearing problem and he’s very intelligent. Which is why I know for certain that he is simply not listening to the words “no”, “stop”, “quit”, and “quiet” come out of my mouth when he is in the act of doing something I don’t want him to be doing, particularly when he does actually pause and/or look at me when I issue the commands. Nope. My little guy requires reinforcement at times and, hopefully, he will learn to understand I mean what I say. A short quick spurt from a water bottle has been effective. Recommended by a friend with very well trained dogs, we’ll see how this goes.

5) It may take a master engineer to put something together, but it only requires a two-year old or a puppy to take it apart. Many *mumblemumble* years ago, I had the opportunity to work for a time at a “then” state-of-the-art preschool center. It was designed for Zales Corporation in Dallas and developed to provide quality preschool on-site for Zales employee’s children, 3 months through 5 years. I was the lead teacher for their two year old class and had 18 children … 12 of whom were boys. We had a wonderful playground area right outside of our room, complete with the coolest swings/slide/climbing apparatus seen at that time. The kids loved it. It was a great area and easy to control, every area visible so that it was easy to keep an eye on all the kids. When we would go outside, I always had at least one, if not two, helpers. It didn’t matter. Invariably those tiny little two year old minds and fingers, working together were able to remove swings from chains or safety cushions from climbing areas. I would have to use a set of pliers or a Phillips head screwdriver to replace these objects, but with their nimble persevering little fingers, they would promptly take them apart again.

Chester is the master at disassembling. There is no magazine staple or glued binding able to withstand this little pup’s page removal. Rolls of toilet paper are no match for him. The perforations are quickly and easily torn and shredded. Trashcans lose their abilities to hold trash, sofas lose their stuffing. Then there are shoe laces. Bound at the ends by hard plastic and tied in double knots, these strings are nothing but momentary puzzles to be sorted by my little guy. He is the master champ at unraveling, uprooting, and undoing anything. I love his ingenuity. I sigh over the clean up that follows, not to mention the necessity in purchasing more shoelaces.

6) Remember the 1980’s Matthew Broderick movie, “WarGames” and the classic line – “Shall we play a game?”? The line is actually “spoken” by the computer that had been programmed to “play games” and win, thus “learning” strategy and providing a foundation for the computer to predict outcome. Children love to play games … they love to play and in reality, their “play” is actually work, because they are constantly learning THROUGH play. They love it even more when the grown up in their life takes the time to play with them, their little bodies seem to quiver with excitement, big eyes watching and waiting. I always loved to play with my oldest girlie when she was two. We would spend Friday nights and Saturdays, simply reading and playing and watching Disney Sing-Along videos, and yes, we DID sing along. Each and every single time to each and every single song. It might have seemed like all we were doing is singing and playing and singing WHILE we played, but I can’t help wonder at times if those times we spent playing and singing didn’t play an unknowingly strategic part in laying the foundation for that same girlie to develop such a love for music that she is now in college studying it. Something to ponder.

While Chester isn’t human, and therefore isn’t college bound, he does have a love of play and, in his playing, he is constantly learning. His total delight when I get down on the floor and play with him is evident in his body language … head down, butt in the air, tail wagging 90 miles an hour as he prepares to pounce. The most fun we have is playing fetch … he never knows which direction I am going to throw the toy or ball and his entire body quivers with the anticipation. I love to watch him fly down the hall to retrieve the toy and then his eager return to me to do it all over again. No, my ball of fluff may not go to college, but I believe he’s getting a good foundation in observing which keeps him smart … retrieving which keeps him active … and returning to me which keeps him safe in a sense of security.

7) At the end of the day, don’t we all simply want to be loved and cuddled and feel a sense of security? I realize I’m not two years old, but I know I do. This sense is even stronger for a two year old. The world is a big and scary place for grown ups. Imagine it from a perspective of two feet tall and not near as much understanding of what’s going on in the world today. Even as they strive so hard for that sense of independence, a two year old can only gain that sense in a healthy manner if it comes with a sense of security. In my nursery I have a little one whose mom has to place her in my lap before she can leave. My tiny tot has learned that her mom will return, but in the meantime, my lap is a place of security. It doesn’t take long, a few minutes usually, and then she is able to hop down and play on her own, her independence renewed. Yet, when fingers get smushed, or chairs tip over, then it is a quick return to Ms. Cindy’s lap to cuddle, to be loved, to gain back that sense of security in the world. I have to admit, I adore those moments. I miss them when the child passes two and, as independence grows, so does the need for the cuddling. I delight that their sense of security has grown stronger, but … well … I miss the loving cuddles! My memories are strong of a tiny girl who preferred to take her morning nap while nestled on my chest because she was scared of the shadows in her big new bedroom and big new bed. Saturday mornings with my oldest girlie provided a time of cuddling, love, and security as she would nestle with me on the couch and we would watch cartoons. The Twins would end our Saturdays in my Lazy Boy rocker, one on each armrest, heads nestled down on each of my shoulders as we would read the latest adventures of Dr. Seuss. Two year olds are simply built to receive and give unconditional love with those who provide a safe haven, a sense of security – whether it’s a parent, a teacher, a nanny, or simply a friend.

My little ball of white fluff is similar in so many ways … so tiny that the world becomes a strange and scary place. Even as he strives to protect me fiercely, he does so from a place of security provided underneath my legs as I stand or sit. When I arrive home from a long day at work, he does not settle until he has been picked up and cuddled for a time, nestled firmly against my chest as I scratch his chin or ear. All through our evenings or days, he is my constant companion. Independent enough to explore and play, as long as I remain where I was at the time he left, and quick to return to my side if I move to a different area. He is secure in the knowledge that I am “his human” and I will provide his needs. In return, he gives me such a fierce devotion and love in his own manner. When sadness creeps in and tears fall, he is right there … nuzzling my neck and licking my chin. It’s not exactly the same as the hug from a little one, but it’s a comfort and a warm sense of not being alone. And at the end of the day, comfort in the form of furry love and cuddles is definitely not a bad thing. :-)

I have other areas of comparison between your basic pint-sized two year olds and my ball of fluff, however I think I’ve rambled long enough (you soooo don’t want me to get into the similarities of potty training). Plus, you get the picture … puppies and two year olds … both filled with mischief, curiosity, stubbornness, and an enjoyment of all things in life.

It's Thursday, But It's Not Supernatural

Excuse me a moment, before I get started here. Please note: I realize I usually post my Supernatural blogs on my LJ or BFZ spots, however, this one is a bit different than my normal Supernatural stuff and I REALLY wanted it to be here as well. Hence the reason why I'm posting it here. Okay????

It’s the first Thursday after the season finale and I had a plan.

Actually … I still have a plan.

It is a plan that was something to help get me … and hopefully entertain you as well … through the endlessness that is called “Supernatural Summer Hiatus”.

However, today’s initial publication has been interrupted by the Broken Arrow Public School System.

*grins*

I don’t know why you would be surprised. Those of you who have been around awhile know they’ve been doing to me for years. Heck, those who have been around a short time probably still know about it. Having three girlies … one in choir and two in band … means having activities to attend. Yet somehow, the BA school system automatically always seemed to know exactly when Thursday night would present, not only a new episode of Supernatural, but usually an episode that was key to the mythological storyline, thus making it twice as enticing.

However … as I am constantly advised by the youngest of my girlies (with hands on hips, toss of hair, and glaring eye – all she need is the tapping toe – scary!) … the three of them are indeed more important than any television program, even Supernatural. That doesn’t mean to say that I haven’t become excelled at strategic cut and run parking and hugging/kissing/dashing at the end of a program. And it sure doesn’t mean that my sweet Baby has become an expert streak at navigating the road from school program to home in minutes. It also doesn’t mean that my girlies don’t roll their eyes as I make my departure, and then quiz me the next day … begging to see the newest episode and determine for themselves whether it was good or not.

However, my girlies … well … they are my heart and they are my soul and they ARE more important than a Supernatural episode. (Shhh! Don’t’ tell them!) Therefore, today … the Broken Arrow School System and my eldest girlie are allowed to interrupt this blog originally designed to be my introductory Supernatural blog for my summer ramble room.

Today … tonight … at 7:30pm (CST) … my eldest girlie will be entering an auditorium with her graduating class of 2009 to receive her high school diploma.

Proud doesn’t even begin to describe the way I feel about this young lady.

I could spend some time and tell you about her accomplishments, for they are many.

I could spend some time and tell you about her years of band – the awards, the parades, the concerts, the practicing in my garage when she was just beginning.

I could spend some time and tell you about her years of softball, games, practices, getting dirty and scraped and loving every minute of it.

I could spend some time and tell you about her love for her cat, her enjoyment of reading, of heckling her younger sisters, of sleeping past noon, of listening to music, of playing games, of drawing, of watching the “The Lion King” over and over and over and over and over.

I could spend time and tell you of her years growing in God’s grace, of watching her grow, grasping the concepts presented and understanding God’s love for her as His own child.

I could spend time and tell you several things about this child whom I held the day she was born … a gift from heaven … delivered as a blessing to my heart and a delight to my soul.

However that would take more words than I can post without once again breaking the blogosphere. I’ve done it once, I won’t do it again.

I will simply tell you that there is no greater feeling for me than to have this child’s arms encircle me and lay her head upon my shoulder … there is no more feeling of completeness than to hear the words at the end of a phone call – “I love you, too” … there is no greater joy than to be rewarded by a sweet smile, a twinkling eye, a wicked grin, or a snarky comment during times spent together.

She is precious.

And tonight, she will be doing the walk across the stage and be given her diploma (or the semblance of it until final grades are tallied – not that there’s a question, but there are procedures), thus marking the end of one journey and embarking on another. Accepted to an awesome university, next fall she will be moving onward – learning more about life, about people, about the world around her – towards her dreams, some fulfilled, others changed, others evolving.

And tonight, I’ll be in the audience … watching the young blonde girl cross the stage in her cap and gown and seeing the small girl with shiny gold hair and tiny hands clutching tightly to the plastic play spoons as she sits on my kitchen counter on a Saturday morning “helping” me make Mickey Mouse pancakes for breakfast before we settle ourselves on the couch for yet another viewing of Disney’s “The Lion King”. I will be watching the spirited young girl, smiling and laughing amidst her friends and peers and seeing the little girl who would place her hands on each side of my face, look me in the eye and tell me in her little girl voice that I was her “bestest friend ever”.

Nope. Proud just doesn’t quite cover the feelings I have for this young girl. I don’t think words ever truly describe them.

Yet that’s okay.

Because what’s important is that she already knows.

And I know.

And that’s enough for both of us.

So, my friends … today I’m taking a break from my love of Supernatural and concentrating on my love for something … someone … a wee bit more important.

Okay … a whole heaping mound more important.

Yet, I hope you will keep an eye on this space … I plan to return next week. I’m re-watching Season Four and I’m rambling. I’ll actually be starting with the finale of Season Three, since I never actually wrote about it. And I’ll be doing these rambles with the help of “my friend”. BDW has always been central to the storyline. It seemed only right to bring him along with me. :-D

But for now … I’ve got a girlie to watch graduate.

Isn't she beautiful?

Happy Thursday!! Best day of the week!

This Single Girl's Valentine Wish

Ahhh ... Valentine's Day!

That universal day of love signified by hearts and cupids, thereby establishing that while love may exist between parents and children, brothers and sisters, relatives, friends across the nation and around the world ... it is actually a day set aside for lovers.

A day for couples everywhere to declare their undying love.

Jewelry stores count on it.

Flower stores thrive on it.

Card stores go crazy on it.

And restaurants? Yeah ... they overbook and overprice on it.

It's that day when men best remember to step up and make their best effort towards the woman they love and adore. That day when women work to look and smell their best, their most enticing, to show the man they love ...

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

You get the picture.

Seems to me it's a day of trying to hard to achieve something that should naturally occur every day of the year. Then again, I'm single. So what do I know?

For starters ... I know that I have a set of parents who have been married for 52 years and have provided me with an example of the type of love I would like to have in a marriage. A love that doesn't need a special day to make them declare their love with just a shared look across a table ... with the holding of the hands as they walk down the street ... with a giggle-laugh-snort of a fun story told or shared joke ... with a quiet moment a head leaning on the other's shoulder. My parents weren't perfect. They have had their share of disagreements and disappointments over the years, however through each year they gave me and my brother an example of committment to something that means everything to both of them. Their marriage is a combined effort of work and love, on Valentine's day and every other day of the year.

Secondly ... I know I may be single ... I know I may not share this holiday with "a man", giving and receiving gifts of chocolates and flowers ... however, I know each year I have been fortunate enough to share the "Day of Love" with someone I love ... three someones to be exact.

For seventeen years now, I have spent this day in the company of sometimes one, many times two, and those years when I've been extremely blessed - all three of my girlies. Whether rushed due to busy school nights or relaxed when celebrated on a weekend, my heart is filled with delight in the time we spend together.

Now that they are all teenagers, the years of special heart patterned matching jammies and cartooned faced heart decorations are photos of memories in my mind. The special early morning breakfasts of heart shaped pancakes while watching Valentine videos of Mickey Mouse and Winnie the Pooh have been given up for the teen's creed of "We Must Sleep Until Noon". The staying up late the night before the school Valentine's party signing little cards and baking cookies has transformed itself into running to the store and grabbing some of those little boxes of heartshaped sugar candies with messages of "hugs" and "love" and other assorted sayings stamped upon them. The years have passed, the children have grown, but there is a constant that remains.

My heart is still filled with delight in the time we spend together.

This year there won't be a sumptuous dinner at an elegant restaurant with an adoring man for me. There won't be the Valentine Party dinner we had when they were little ... red themed in honor of the day with spaghetti, red jello, red kool-aid, and brownies with red sprinkles. There will simply be me and my girlies ... two of them for sure, hopefully three ... with pizza, cookies, and a movie. Granted, the pizzas are heart-shaped courtesy of our favorite local pizza place and the cookies have the silly red heart faces from courtesy of the Pillsbury Doughboy ... I haven't given up every part of the holiday just because we've all aged!

There may not be jewelry or fancy red heart shaped boxes, but there will be soft smiles, large hugs, sweet kisses and chocolate.

There may not be a huge bouquet of red roses, but there is a simple origami flower made especially for me.

There may not be romance, but there will be love ... simple and consistent ... freely given from the heart ... one special day a year and every day after.

That's the Valentine my parents exampled and I wish for everyone.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Invitation to a Parade with Pride

Have you ever seen the movie, Mr. Holland's Opus? It's awesome and I highly recommend it. One of my favorite parts is when Mr. Holland (the high school music teacher) creates a high school marching band. It's fairly hysterical watching him try to assemble his students into a marching formation, yet in the end it is a wonderful moment watching him lead his marching band down the street in the depiction of a hometown parade.

I love parades. I love the floats and the clowns and the classic cars and the horses. Most of all, I love the bands.

Picture it ... the sun is shining bright ... you arrived early in order to stake out a good curbside seat ... people are milling around, finding places, spreading blankets, laughing, smiling. Policemen have blocked off the ends of the route and all the side access streets, so the path is clear. Childre are running in and out of the middle of the street, straining to get their first glimpse of the parade as it starts to make it's way down the street. Sitting there ... you hear it long before you can see the band ... the beat of the drums, the resonance of the various instruments as they come together in a blend of harmony. Louder and louder they get as they march towards you ... lines even, backs straight, heads up, steps proud ... their formation unbroken as the music moves past.

Yep. Big city or small town ... live or on television ... I love a parade.

This is my eldest girlie's seventh year in band. She's been marching in our hometown parades for seven years now. She began as a 6th grader in middle school and now she is a high school senior.

In the 9th grade, my girlie became a member of The Pride of Broken Arrow Marching Band. This is not a small feat. This band is serious business. We're in Oklahoma ... an area where football reigns everywhere from little league to high school to college to national ... and while we have a great high school football team ... it is our marching band that brings people from all over, that fills the stands, that win the recognition not only locally but also statewide, regionally and ... in 2006 ... nationally when the Pride of Broken Arrow became the 2006 Grand National Champions.

My girlie was a 15 and a sophmore at the time.

This coming year ... 2009 ... as a senior ... my girlie is going to be marching with Pride one more time in a parade. I would like to invite each and every one of you to join me in watching her.

You can, you know, 'cause this parade is going to be televised.

Nationally.

It's a little parade you might have heard about previously. You see, The Pride of Broken Arrow Marching Band will be marching on January 1, 2009 in the 120th Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena, California.

*grins with delight*

I hope you'll join us in watching ... the floats will be breathtaking, the horses will be extraordinary, and the bands will be fantastic ... especially the one with a certain special saxophone player.

She'll be the one in the line behind the cymbals - first one on the left from the middle.

I'll be the one on the couch ... tears in her eyes and pride in her heart.

The Pride of Broken Arrow may be an award winning marching band, but my Pride of Broken Arrow is a certain young lady who has grown from a squeaky beginner to an confident musician.

GO BA!!!

It's Thursday ... It Must Be Thanksgiving

Despite the fact that holiday lights are twinkling in the shopping center parking lot and our neighborhood holiday junkie has filled their yard with snowmen, santas, and all manner of festive decorations, it is not yet Christmas time!

I've said it before and I'll say it again ... after we eat the trick or treat candy and before we break out the stockings and the red and green M&Ms, there's a little holiday that needs some recognition.

In the scheme of things, it's not a big holiday. It's not a world wide presence It's a simple American holiday that is about more than football and eating ourselves into turkey oblivion. It's a day set aside to give thanks ... as did those pilgrims years ago for the blessings received.

All those years ago, the English settlers gave thanks for the natives that befriended them and the harvest of crops after a disasterous winter.

While I don't have a harvest of crops, I do have some awesome friends and a harvest of blessings for which I would like to take this day, before the parades begin, the cooking commences, and the football gets kicked, or thrown, or tackled or something like that.

Blessing of Family -
I give thanks each day for the family I was lucky enough to be born into. The saying goes that you can't pick your family and this is true. Therefore it is a blessing to have parents who unconditionally love me, listen to me, giving guidance yet allowing me to make my final decisions for good or for ill. It is a blessing to have a brother who may be far away in distance but is close in time of need, to care and challenge and remind me always I am not alone in this world. It is a blessing to have nieces who are growing beautiful and independent, reminders of our youth of yesterday and our hope for tomorrow. Family is truly important, and I am so incredibly grateful for mine. This year we cannot all be together physically, and while this is a momentary sorrow, I know that there are many who have lost family members over this year. Therefore I take my blessing that we shall celebrate this holiday together in our hearts and look forward to the time we may be together physically again.

Blessings of Girlies -
I give thanks each day for the three girlies who daily bring joy and love to my heart and light to my life. Each one unique and each one so special that words simply fail.

Blessings of Friends -
I give thanks each day for the friends in my life, both new and old ... both far and near. The remainder of the family saying states that you can pick your friends. I'm not always sure who has picked who, however I can state wholeheartedly that I have been truly blessed with an abundance of friends that are supportive, comforting, crazy, and joyous. I give thanks for each and every individual one.

Blessing of Freedom -
I give thanks each day for the freedom I enjoy in this grand country of ours. From the President who leads us to the troops who defend us to local law enforcement officials who protect us, I am blessed to live in this country where opportunity has been and is still available for those who seek it, where I am afforded the right to worship as I choose and voice my opinions in agreement or disagreement without fear of retaliation. It's not perfect but it's mine and I am thankful for the freedom to live in it.

Blessing of Health & Home -
I give thanks each day for the roof over my head. I give thanks for an employer that provides the opportunity earn the living that pays for the roof, as well as the amenities that go with it - such as electricity, water ... internet connection. *grins* I give thanks for the health I have and the doctor that is there when I'm not feeling quite right.

Blessing of Being Me -
I give thanks each day for the opportunity to place my feet upon the floor, look into the mirror, greet the day and simply be me. For the opportunity to enjoy my tea in the morning, to cuddle my nursery babies, to be able to sit and write seriously or nonsensical, to relax and read, to travel or stay home, to simply be me - whether laughing or crying.

And ... since it's Thursday ...
I give thanks for the television show that is unique in that through it I have found friends and with them created an imaginary Sanitarium that brings discussion and laughter, sparking a passion for writing, and learned that though the world may be huge, when given something in common it doesn't matter whether you live in the same city or on separate continents to be able to strike up a conversation that leads to more than just television. I give thanks for the creative team of writers, directors, actors, and crew that bring us the show Supernatural.

Blessings come. They are there whenever and where ever we need or want them - big or small - if we simply take the time to see them. On this day that is set aside, between the candy and the glitter, to give thanks ... I challenge you to look around and see the blessings in your life.

And give thanks for them.

Life As I Know It Is Over

Did you feel the shift in the balance today?

I certainly did.

Life changed today.

It will never be the same.

Today two girlies turned thirteen.

Today I officially have three teenagers in my life.

Today, The Bickersons have joined their older sister in that transition period of life from child to young adult.

Today, instead of one package of raging adolescent hormones, I have three.

Three girlies that stand tall and beautiful, with intelligence and talent, that will - with the flip of an inner switch that no one can see, no one can control - without warning, mutate before my very eyes into a raging, weeping, screeching, foot stomping, chest heaving creature of warped defiance.

Then, just as suddenly, the mutation resolves and the transformation back into the sweet and lovely girlies that have been the light of my life and delight of my soul.

Yep ... It's happened. Life has marched on and now I am living in the danger zone. I have increased my whiplash insurance and purchased stock in my favorite haircolor . I have purchased mass quantities of migraine relief and stocked up the first aid kit with antiseptic and gauze, not to mention bandaids. I have also stocked up on various assortments of chocolates, including various types of brownies and ice cream, and made the aquaintace of a friendly bail bondsman.

Other than continual praying for an increase in my patience level, I don't know of anything else I can actually add to my survival kit.

I'd like to believe that weathering the coming years will be a breeze, however I have this fear that niggles in the back of my mind.

I keep hearing my mother's voice.

"I hope you have a teenage girl JUST LIKE YOU!"

The voice vibrates in triplicate.

Could someone please pass the paper bag? I feel the need to hyperventilate.

A Night at the Opera

This blog entry is dedicated to my eldest girlie.

Band geek that she is, it's no surprise how much my girlie loves music. Our earliest Saturday mornings (and any other time) were spent in repetitious viewings of various Disney "Sing-a-Long" videos. Then came the Disney animated movie Lion King. She and I saw it in the theater atleast 3 times ... I'm thinking it might have been more. From the first moment the sun began to rise on the screen with the opening strains of music, until the very last note was sounded at the end of the credits (seriously - we would watch them to the final end), she would sit in her seat, face rapt, eyes glued to the giant screen, her whole body attuned to everything she saw. Her only movement was when the music would begin for the various songs, as though she were keeping time with the music with her little body.

Did I mention she was 3 years old when Lion King hit the theaters?

The purchase of the video when it later came out became a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it was a guaranteed 90 minutes that she would sit ... motionless ... in one spot ... allowing me the opportunity to accomplish something (cleaning, cooking, dressing, etc.) without a small child in my face "what 'cha doin'?" or "can I do that?" or "I wanna try!". The curse was that in a small apartment there was no place to evade the sound coming from the television and so, no only was every lyric of every song burned into my brain, but for years I could actually recite whole passages of dialogue when given a one word cue.

However, she loved it then ... and 14 years later, she loves it still.

As the years have passed, she has broadened past the Disney genre of musicals. Broadway musicals have since captured her attention. Being a catlover, the musical Cats was one of the first to catch her attention. Others have also struck a chord with her, such as Oklahoma! (naturally).

Recently, I was watching a repeat of Hello Dolly! (the Barbra Streisand movie) on PBS when my girl walked in. Catching the music, you could see it was almost like I had hooked a fish ... she was simply drawn ... eyes and focus totally on the television, she sat and watched ... visually taking in the sight of the costumes and the dancing ... her whole body reacting to the music.

One musical that has totally captured her is Phantom of the Opera. My dvd of the movie version was captured and lost to the realm of her bedroom and dvd player. My CD of the musical highlights was stolen and it's music was ripped and copied to computer and MP3 player. To say that she loved this musical would have been an understatement. So, when the Broadway Company brought the Phantom to our own Tulsa Performing Arts Center this summer, you can imagine the conversations that took place.

"I want to go."

"I know that sweetie."

"No, seriously ... I NEED to see it."

"I understand that darlin'."

"I'm going to die if I can't see it."

No ... there's no drama queen blood running through her veins. Nope. None at all.

For a month, she and I bounced the possibility back and forth, talking about it, trying to determine if it would be possible, scouting seats online and checking prices. Yet money is tight.

The decision came down to this ... do we spend the money to see Phantom of the Opera or do we save the money and spend it to take a day trip up to Kansas City in October and see the Broadway production of Lion King?

Yeah ... that was a tough one. I did mention, didn't I, that the child has adored Lion King since it's inception when she was THREE YEARS OLD?!

After grumbling and mumbling, and may I say a VERY nice moment of pouting (the child could win awards with the way she tucks that lip when she pouts) ... my girlie was the one to make the decision. We would save our money and try to see Lion King.

Then a local television show ... one of those "what's going on in Tulsa" type programs ... announced they were going to give away two tickets to Phantom of the Opera.

Got any ideas what might have happened next? To say that she was DETERMINED to win these tickets would ... again ... be an understatement. She WAS going to win. She and I were going to see Phantom of the Opera. That was the only thing she would accept. There would be no alternative. Failure was not an option, was not something she was going to even begin to think about.

Do you know that she did it? Yep. With the help of speed dial and some assistance from her mom, my girlie won two tickets to see her first Broadway musical live and in person. Her glee was simply infectious.

We went.

It was a warm Tuesday night, but there was a nice breeze. As Baby made her way on the highway towards downtown Tulsa, my girlie kept up a constant chatter. Excitement seemed to shimmer off of her face and thread it's way through her voice. Even when the conversation actually veered away from the upcoming musical, you could still see and hear her anticipation. It was like a cloak surrounding her and she was holding it close.

We parked. She picked the lot. There were actually a couple closer that cost the same amount but I think that one was picked because it was closest to where we were and she suddenly needed to be out of Baby and heading into the theater. It was her night, so I just laughed and parked and locked up my Baby as my girlie grabbed my hand and began tugging me towards the theater.

She skipped. It was only once but she did. It was as though all of her delight simply could not be contained in a simple walk as we approached the doors amidst the crowd of other theater goers. I swear her face was actually glowing and my only curse on the evening was for the fact that I failed to take a picture of her under the marquee proclaiming it was now showing "PHANTOM OF THE OPERA".

We stopped and I purchased programs for both of us. She clutched hers tight to her chest. It was so evident that she wanted to look at it right then, but knew we needed to get inside.

We made our way to our seats. They were actually really good ones, up on the mezzanine but the stage was clear and easy to view. The nosebleed section was still further above us.

As soon as we sat, the programs were devoured. Having seen the movie, my girlie knew the basic story. Her biggest concern was how they were going to do water on the stage for the scenes under the opera house. (I should point out here that I had actually already seen the Broadway production in Dallas. It was in March of 1993 but I remembered it still like it was yesterday.) I simply smiled at her and told her to watch and see.

As the musicians began to warm up, my young band geek emerged and she began to explain to me the number of musicians in an orchestra for something like this, letting me know it was a flute warming up, giving me tidbits on piccalo players needing earplugs when they practice because of the shrill notes, and so on. I recognized the nervous chatter for what it was - a passing of the time before THE EVENT. I enjoyed it.

After a brief introduction and some announcements by a theater official, the lights dimmed and the play began. From the first note of the Overture, I couldn't help but feel her exuberance. She practically trembled. Sitting forward in her seat, leaning slightly towards the stage, face rapt, eyes glued ... the soon-to-be 17 year old reflected all the intensity of that 3 year old watching Lion King, the movie, so many years ago.

Watching her became as much fun as watching the activity on the stage. When the fog began to flow and the shimmer of candles began their watery effect across the shining stage, it was easy to believe that they had flooded the stage with water for the scenes of the labyrinth under the opera house. The comic moments were enjoyed, the cacophony of the singers during the "Notes/Prima Donna" scene in the managers office was mind-boggling, the crashing of the beautiful chandelier was amazing, the breathtaking beauty of the masquerade ball was entrancing, the heart pounding of the Phantom's own heartbreak during "The Point of No Return" and the subsequent chase back underground was simply incredible. The word "timeless" is so apt for this musical.

It was ... simply put ... beautiful - both visually and musically. Words fail to convey what the eyes and ears witnessed.

My girlie's face said it all though. With shining eyes and glowing smile, she was able to convey what words would fail.

She loved it. It was an experience that will last for a very long time. The fact that I was witness to it was a blessing and a memory I will forever hold close in my heart.

Right next to the one of a 3 year old in a dark theater watching animated animals sing and dance about the Circle of Life.

Down Main St. in Small Town USA

It was Osceola, Iowa.

I don't remember the year, but trust me when I tell you that it was *mumblemumble* years ago, that I saw my first small town parade.

I'd been to a big city parade. At the age of 5, my parents took me into New York City early one Thanksgiving morning and I got to see the Macy's Christmas parade live. My biggest memory of the parade? Nope, it wasn't seeing Tom Turkey, the balloons, the bands or Santa Claus himself. My memory is of the fact that since I was shorter than those around, I couldn't see, so my dad lifted me up to sit on a mailbox next to them. This was followed by the arrival of a policeman on a giant brown horse (I was short AND I was a city girl, you do the size math!) telling my parents that I was not allowed to sit on federal property.

So much for the parade memories from that year. I'm sure I was fascinated as only a wide eyed child could be at the time, I simply can't access those memories.

I can remember my first small town parade. Okay, it may not be the very first one I saw, but it's the first parade I truly have memories of being there, seeing the bands and the floats and the cars and the people. I remember the sounds, the smells, the way the sun shone down on everything - people smiling, laughing, waving with pride the little American Flags. It was over the Fourth of July holiday and it was in Osceola, Iowa, home of my mom's parents - my Nanny & Papa.

Osceola is one of those wonderful small towns built around an open city square and it was around that square that the parade wove it's way. My Papa was a member of the Osceola Volunteer Fire Department and I clearly remember him in his crisp white shirt and his dark blue pants with the dark blue cap firmly on his head as he rode in the big fire engine. I remember a float that was shaped like the world as it rested in the back of an old red pick up truck. I remember the bands and the horses. The sights and smells, the sounds as they wove through the day. My Nanny worked in a booth that sold pies and other baked goods. I don't clearly remember if it was for her church group or because she was a fireman's wife but I do remember being sneaked a cookie if I would go on and not just hang around. There were carnival rides set up in the square and that night the square became a magical world of bright lights and carny music and cotton candy.

However, it was the parade that started the day.

I think those memories are part of the reason I love living in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. We are a part of the Tulsa area and therefore we are part of a metropolitan community, but there are times when Broken Arrow is simply a good, old fashioned small town. The second weekend of May is one of those times. Each year, on the second weekend of May, the town celebrates Rooster Days, a spring time festival. There is a Miss Chick pageant, a carnival, a craft show, music and lights and on Saturday morning, there is a parade.
A good old fashioned hometown parade.

Leading the parade is the high school marching band, fittingly named, The Pride of Broken Arrow. These kids, grades 9 through 12, are amazing musicians and Grand National Champion winning marchers. There's one that I'm particularly proud of myself ... a sixteen year old sax playing junior.

Yeah. It was a nice way to start the parade. Although, this year the parade was started even sweeter as one of the main sponsors for the Broken Arrow parade is our own local Blue Bell Ice Cream Creamery and while their big brown truck slowly made it's way down the street, it's various employees came down each side with large ice cream buckets handing out mini ice cream sandwiches. One, two, three ... some had four and five ... didn't matter, they were free and they were yummy and there was no shortage of smiles after that.

Mixed between the various middle school bands were various floats from area businesses and churches, groups of cheerleaders and dancers. There were old cars and new ones, including the new unmarked police car contrasting with one of the original Oklahoma Highway Patrol cars. There were Shriners ... the spinning car, the clowns chasing each other, the mini speed cars racing up and down and around, the dune buggies. There were politicians (what's a small town parade without them?) and there were representatives of the local television station.

The parade began to wind down, having saved the best middle school band for last. Okay, probably not completely true since they actually marched the middle school bands in alphabetical order, but in MY opinion it was the best middle school band. You see, making her debut marching performance was yet another of my girlies, also playing sax. After years of watching her and her sisters in this parade or the winter Christmas parade, either as band members or Girl Scout troop members, the thrill of pride never fades in seeing the flushed face of the young person I adore, who has been a part of something fun and hometown wholesome. They may fuss about walking the distance, but in the end - they're always smiling.

Of course, after the parade came the craft show and a day spent at the carnival. Later that night would come the tired, sweaty, children recounting the twisting, twirling, plummeting fun of rides as they count their loot of plush animals - the magic of colorful lights still shining in their eyes.

However, before that, still seated on the concrete sidewalk, feeling the breeze, listening to the music of the bands and the people, watching the amazing sight of a small town community, I remembered back to those days *mumblemumble* years ago and the fond memories of sharing a fun time with family and I hoped. I hoped to myself that my girlies were stockpiling those memories to recount in future years.

Memories of Good Days

I miss the good old days.

This saying takes on so many meanings for me. Working with seniors on a daily basis, it takes on a historical meaning of when times were “simpler”. There’s also the fact that with today’s rising prices in gas, groceries and daily life, missing the good old days simply means missing the fact that my paycheck wasn’t spent before I actually received it.

However that’s not the meaning that has seemed to hit home for me this weekend. I don’t know why the nostalgia bug hit me, but it did and so I indulged myself with a few pictures and thoughts.

I miss the good old days …

Those days when Saturday mornings were spent with me and a three year old watching The Lion King for the 50 bajillianth (it’s a word … I just used it) time after eating pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse heads swimming in maple syrup.

Those days when my alarm clock was two little girls calling from their cribs or playpens with the words “I hun-gy, Cinny!”, which were followed by days when my alarm clock was two little girls (one in particular) who had discovered that she could get out of her “big girl” bed by herself and come into my room and stand there quietly, staring at me in the face, startling me awake by either pressing my nose or … my favorite (she says sarcastically) … sticking a finger in my ear … and waking me with the words “I hun-gy, Cinny!”.

Those days when reading with the girlies meant cuddling up in my big chair with a girlie on each arm rest and a pile of books between us.

Those days when an umbrella was a fashion accessory.

Those days when I could a few quiet moments with one of the girlies, simply sitting with her in front of me on the floor as I brushed out her long hair.

Those days when manuevering around my kitchen meant stepping around the step stools used by my budding assistants, as they helped me with cookie dough and other goodies to be baked.

Those days when it was so easy to read and understand the expression on my girlies faces.

Those days when picnics in the park, decorating the driveway with chalk drawings, and the simple words “let’s play outside”, brought smiles and giggles to the faces of three girls and lightened my mood from whatever had transpired during the week.

Those days when a simple smile and a tight hug around the neck said more than any glittery gift or expressive sonnet ever could.

My girlies are growing up. Fast becoming independent, young women with their own thoughts and decisions, instead of the babies and children they once were in those good old days. What is left of those childhood moments now are a handful of pictures and a heart full of memories,

However … these modern days still hold something wondrous and true. Perhaps the cost of gas has increased dramatically, yet the value of the smile and hug has grown to be even more precious than gold and it still costs nothing to give or receive.

And that works for me on any day.

Can the Mail Get Any Better?

Mail Call at my house is haphazard at best.

Most of the time, I tend to ignore the mailbox. Unless I know of the possibility of something arriving, I usually only check it once or twice a week. The bills inside aren't going anywhere and that is basically all that ever seems to arrive in that rectangular metal box.

Once upon a time, it gave the girlies a thrill to grab the key from the ring and run to see what was locked inside the metal box on the corner. Being small, it was necessary for me to follow behind to insure they were using the key in the correct box. After time, the need for my assistance disappeared and between the two of them, they would enjoy the unlocking, unloading and relocking of the little door.

Now, in their pre-teen years, it's generally a matter of who I can bribe to make the trek when I remember that it's been a couple of days and we might want to see what was inside. There could actually be a spectacular sale going on at the grocery store, another certificate for $200 off of my next car, a chance for an all expense paid trip to Branson is always my favorite (my parents live there and so I am able to enjoy an all expense paid trip a few times a year).

There's also the various and sundry catalogs urging me to purchase items or this will be the last catalog I receive - which I have put to the test and it doesn't work that way. I love it when a catalog company pouts - "We miss you and want you back. Take one item at 30% off." Yeah. Right. Felt that love!

Occasionally there is a card or a note that is personal. Those are the delights and joys and the reasons I check the metal box more than once a month. Those are the reasons for even having the box in the first place.

Then there is the moment when the Supernatural Obsessive opens her box and receives the best present a true Obsessive could wish to find tucked inside. Her very own copy of the very first Supernatural Magazine.

Oh. My. Dear. Goodness. Gracious!

Words simply fail to describe the richness, the goodness, the fullness of pleasure to be found within the covers of this publication. Here's a quote from The Kripke on the very first page:

"Supernatural is a freak. It's a mutt. It's a Frankenstein's Monster of pretty much everything I love - horror, comedy, urban legends, classic rock, Joseph Campbell, Route 66, Westerns - all stitched together inot one bloody, twitching package. One of the most gratifying things about making this show was learning there were others out there like me. I wasn't alone. There's a couple million people wh dig the same things. People who fancy a little gore in their coffee. People who take solice in stories, the real stories, the ones passed around the campfire for thousands of years. People who, above all, value family. If you're holding this magazine, chances are you're one of us, too. Welcome."

I have yet to explore and enjoy all that is included in this first magazine - interviews with Jensen and Jared, a wonderful piece with director Kim Manners, special effects info, features on so many things from the journey so far to the top 5 tacky motel rooms, as well as lore from the master himself - The Kripke. There is simply so much that I will be enraptured for days.

Seriously. I mean, what other magazine do you know that can delight everyone with a centerfold that pictures the third star of the show in all of her beautiful, shiny, black glory?

Some days it really does pay to stop by the metal box and look inside. This Supernatural Obsessive is already looking forward to January. According to page 65 of this first issue, the second issue contains an article "Like Father Like Sons" - Jeffrey Dean Morgan reflects on life as John Winchester ...

Yep. I might be waiting at the metal box on that day - no need to waste the postman's time putting it into the box. I'll just be there to snatch that one out of his hands!

It's Thursday, So It Must Be ... Thanksgiving!

I love Thanksgiving.

Like the little train - I think of Thankgiving as the "little holiday that could".

Squished between the candy and costumed filled Halloween and the commercialism that seems to have overtaken Christmas, there is this little time when families come together and we as a nation remember that it's okay to give thanks for all that we have.

I am truly blessed and so, today, I am taking a moment to give thanks.

I give thanks for my family. They are all here with me today ... spending the day, relaxing, eating, watching football (well, they're watching football - I'll be watching them) and simply enjoying snatches of conversations with them, getting reaquainted, catching up and having fun.

I give thanks that I am fortunate and blessed to live in a country where my thoughts and beliefs are my own. They are not dictated by others and, whether others agree or disagree, I am free to voice them.

I give thanks for my girlies who fill my life with joy and happiness, even in the midst of driving me insane and coating my hair with strands of gray.

I give thanks for my nursery babes who show me each week the miracle of God's creation by the mere fact of their lives. Angels on earth that we are blessed to share.

I give thanks for my friends, both live and virtual. The give and take, the sharing of thoughts, the laughter, the tears, the frustration and the joy of emotions are always so much better when shared with a friend.

I give thanks for the opportunity to write. The joy received in being able to put words to paper (computer) and feel the pride of expression is something old and yet still so new and fresh.

I give thanks for the health I have for it means that I am alive to enjoy each day I am blessed to live.

I give thanks for the work that I do that provides for the creature comforts I have become accustomed to - home, food, electricity, water, etc.

And, of course, it is Thursday, so I also give thanks for Supernatural - to The Kripke, Jensen, Jared and all the writers and crew that provide us with quality television. The fun and joy I receive each week, whether it is in watching the program or sharing my thoughts with my blog buddies, is also a blessing rare and cherished.

So, there it is ... my list of thanks.

Thank you for reading and sharing in this little room where my thoughts tend to ramble.

Three Way Conversations - Not What They Used To Be

Have you ever tried keeping up with three conversations at one time? It's a challenge, but it can be done. Seriously. Believe it or not, I can handle three verbal conversations at one time. It's not easy but after 12 years of 3 kids, you kinda get conditioned for it. I can generally follow the gist of what all three are trying to say - plus, I have the advantage of being face to face and can slow or stop one, two or all three and make them go one at a time.

I am also able to keep up/work through a multi child telephone conversation. A bit more of a challenge, but still ... it can be done.

However, I have a new challenge that I'm not sure I can surmount.

Cell phones.

A few years back I carried a cell phone for work. After a couple of years, it was deemed I didn't need one for work and I decided I didn't really need one for personal use. So I gave it up. That was about six years ago. At that point, cell phones were pretty basic - you placed and received phone calls. Some of the phones had some minor games on them and some extras such as calendars or calculators. But they were pretty basic.

Now they have evolved into something akin to a mini televison/radio/digital camera and ... oh ... yeah ... something to use to place or receive a call.

Or a text.

A what?

A text.

Is that like a school book? Something you use in school for learning history, biology, math, etc.? 'Cause that's what I recall when I referred to a text.

Nope. Texting ... the art of sending and receiving messages on a phone. I wouldn't necessarily call them written messages. Written messages include words found in the dictionary.

G2G - TTYL is not found in any dictionary I've ever used. (Oh ... translation for those text challenged: Got to go, talk to you later. Yeah. Took me a little bit too.)

So, last spring when I decided to get a cell phone, texting was not a high priority in my calling plan package. I seriously didn't think I would use it all that much. I forgot that I had a teenager with a cell phone and very limber thumbs.

This has been a challenge that I'm not sure I've really conquered yet. Although, I am learning and I'm getting faster. I don't have to send my pre-programed "What????" quick message to her nearly as often. Still - if I let her, she will get on a roll trying to have an entire conversation. For this, I don't really have patience. In the time it takes me to type out a brief message and send it, I could have dialed a phone, let it ring, talked for a few minutes and disconnected. So, after she sends three or four messages, I usually simply call her back and make her talk to me. It's not like we don't have free minutes - we do! Plus, I'm an old fogey. I LIKE hearing my kid's voice occasionally. Still, it's been nice to be able to keep up with her at odd and different times - particularly when she is traveling with her high school band - and I admit, I've done pretty good. I seem to be able to keep up with texting back and forth just fine.

That was then.

Last week, the twins had texting added to the cell phones they received for their birthday two months ago.

This is now.

Three kids all trying to have a texting conversation with me at the same time.

Frk me o, my thb's hrt!

(Freak me out, my thumbs hurt!)

The Day After

I didn't get to go trick or treating last night. I missed it. I really and truly did. With the exception of one time 9 years ago, I haven't missed a year of wandering the streets of our neighborhood with either one, two, or three kids - gathering candy, checking out the other little goblins and ghouls, and simply enjoying the evening.

I missed the costumes and the mad rush to figure out how best to put on the make up.

I missed the scramble for flashlights and the figuring out whether coats would be needed (and if so ... how to get the coat UNDER the costume).

I missed walking the streets, either joined by a friend or simply me and the girlies.

I missed the decorations, the pumpkins, the jack-o-lanterns and the pleasant shared "Hellos!" with the others out wandering.

Over the years, with flashlight in hand, I have had the joy and pleasure of watching Baby Bop or a dalmation puppy or three M&Ms (plain & peanut) or "Duchess" from The Aristocats & twin "Marie"s or ghosts or princesses or witches or vampires knock on doors and cry out the words ... "Trick or Treat!" Whether neighbors we knew or neighbors we didn't, there has always been a festive joy and an evening of fun for those giving and receiving. Listening for and sometimes admonishing to remember to say "Thank you!" and then wandering on to the next house with a porch light lit. Some years we may have carried umbrellas or worn extra clothing to ward off the chill but spirits were always high and at the end of the journey, the last house was always our own.

Then would come the traditional dumping of the candy to check it out, to keep girlies safe and, for me, a tinge of sorrow would shadow the evening briefly. Each year I would remember my own joyous adventures with/without my little brother and the trust that my parents could feel in the goodies we would gather. However, in the world we have come to live in - it is better to be safe than to be sorry. The girlies have always known that the candy must wait until they got home, that it could not be eaten directly from the bucket, bag, or sack that they carried. A sad reality that they never realized was different.

Then laughter would return as dinner was eaten, stories were told, laughter was shouted at the oddness of make up without costume or simply smudged make up or hair gone every which way and, of course, picking out the best candy to eat first. Of course, for me, that was always the chocolate.

Yes, I missed Trick or Treating this year. It's not that I mind being on the "stay at home and pass out candy" side of it, it's just that I miss the pleasure of watching little girls enjoying the innocent excitement of a fun-filled evening.

I love the girls they have grown to become, I miss the girlies that used to be.