I spent the last five hours at my mom's house, sewing Haley's Halloween costume. She wanted to be a fairy---a beautiful fairy, not a babyish fairy (her words). She spotted the perfect costume in a Joann ad, and I couldn't say no (it really is pretty...I'll post pictures after Halloween). But, since my sewing machine has been at the Sears repair center for the last FOUR WEEKS, I finally just used my mom's. (Her machine is far nicer than mine, anyway!)

She made us dinner, and had a fresh batch of cookies in the cookie box. I sewed until I could sew no longer---or, I think, until my mom couldn't deal with my hesitant foot on the pedal. (I am not the world's best sewer.) Then she took over. It really took FAR longer than I had expected, but it was still a good night. Something I hope Haley will always remember about her grandma.

When we first walked into my mom's house, I noticed that she had pulled out a few old Halloween decorations---she's been too busy to do that for a few years. It's probably been fifteen years since I saw those Halloween decorations. Long enough that I couldn't remember which one I had painted, although I had an idea it was the witch. See, back when I was about Haley's age, my mom and my sisters and I had this ceramics thing going. There was a little ceramics shop only a few blocks away from our house, and once a week---I think it was Wednesdays---we'd be there, cleaning or painting or glazing ceramics. I had completely forgotten that part of my childhood. I picked the witch up, turned her over, and found my own name scrawled on the bottom, with the date (1983) next to it.

Wow. For a few seconds, I could nearly feel how it felt to be that version of myself---skinny and blond and athletic, but shy and a little lonely, with this unexpressed ache already starting to build up. The ache that pent-up creativity makes. I think I liked ceramics because it alleviated that ache a little bit. Holding the witch my eleven-year-old self made, her ghost standing next to me, I wished I could get back that unfettered innocence. I set her down carefully, next to the ghosts sitting on pumpkins that Suzette painted, and the big jack-o-lantern my mom had done, and while the innocence didn't come back---for the rest of the night, I truly felt like I was home. Comfortable and at rest in my skin.

It made me think about my own Halloween decorations. Mine are slapdash and random, with no apparent theme: a few cute witches, some Ty kitties, two Dreamsicle figurines I love. Nothing extravagant. But I wonder how much of my kids' holiday anticipation gets connected to the holiday decorations. I wonder if, in fifteen or twenty years, the sight of them will be enough to connect them to their own childhood selves? I hope so. I like to think that we leave little bits and pieces of ourselves, here and there, as we grow up, and sometimes we're lucky enough to find them.

And, you know---there's a little ceramics store a few miles from my house. And I think---I think come January, you'll be able to find Haley and me there, once or twice a month. Yep, I like that idea.

First off: An enormous thank you for all your kind words and encouraging messages. I was hesitant to post my whiny post yesterday, and I’m still not sure why I did, except for even in my insecurity of never finding success with words, the only thing I can fling out to the world’s back is more words. I am grateful to have had some words returned to me!

It snowed here today, great fat flakes this morning that didn’t stick, smaller ones tonight that piled up. When it started this morning, Kaleb and I were on our way to run some errands. At our first stop (the library, which finally had a copy of The Word Thief to lend to me), Kaleb walked in delight through the falling snow. He picked up the word "snow" immediately, and tried to splash through the air like he splashes in the bath tub.

Anyway. I wanted to post a Wednesday poem, even though it’s now officially Thursday morning. This is a poem that talks about a painting (Breughel’s "Landscape with Fall of Icarus" --- click on the link and then the thumbnail to see the painting much bigger). See the small splash Icarus makes in the corner, while the rest of the world goes about its business? That is what the poem is talking about. This poem comforts me because it is so precise in the implications of its imagery. Even if our tragedies happen in a world event (like, say, a tsunami or 9-11), the sorrow is felt in solitude. The world does continue on. Especially in light of yesterday’s Amy Meltdown, I needed to be reminded that my own little sorrows are irrelevant in the reality of the world. Have a great Thursday!

Musee des Beaux Arts   
          W.H. Auden   

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may 
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

the kind of day when pushing the shift key seems like too much effort. not lazy. just sad. feeling like the dinosaur in the dr. seuss book. i'm sad. i groan. i drag my tail. i walk alone. heavy. old---ancient, in fact. nearly as extinct as that dinosaur. like a failure---as a mom, especially, but wife and friend and religious person as well as housefrau, too. and definitely, definitely as a writer.

realizing that my idea of what makes for a good life---for success---is so meaningless to the world. not even meaningless. not worth noticing. silly. yes--- silly. pointless. without merit. not just embarrassed---ashamed at my silly little ambition. need to give up my writerly aspirations and get a job at target. might be good at stocking shelves.

finally drag myself outside, as space in the green waste can cannot be wasted and the last detritus from the front flowerbed would fit. pulled out the carpet of cosmos shoots that sprouted overnight. stupid flowers---why sprout in cold october? don't they know snow is coming? got rid of leaves from maple tree. weeded. cut down dead flowers. somehow managed to look up and see this:

and roses in october against the tarnished gold maple leaves are dramatic enough to yank me up just a little bit. there definitely must be changes in my life's goals. it's pointless to keep beating this dead horse. why wasn't that obvious before? but at least, at least that dragging purple sadness has started to fade. just a little.

A grilled cheese sandwich. You know the kind: you make it with Wonder bread. Plenty of butter, more than enough cheese. And not those American slices---not in this house.  Sharp cheddar. My mom used to put mayo on our grilled cheese. I don't go that far because I know how fattening this already is.

But sometimes you need a grilled cheese sandwich.

Especially after three days of living on nothing more than some orange juice because your throat's so sore you can't swallow anything else. And no sleep, as the baby has the same sickness. Oh, and don't forget the headache and the aching muscles. But, at last, I'm starting to feel a little bit better. And if my recuperating body wants a grilled cheese sandwich, it's getting a grilled cheese sandwich. The gooier the better!!!

It's true. I love paisley. I still remember the first time I saw it clearly. I was in the dressing room at the Limited Express, when I was about fourteen. The year that button-up shirts left untucked underneath sweater vests was the fashionable look. With pegged jeans of course. The year my mother spent way too much money on one outfit for me because I had a teenage-angst meltdown in the dressing room. I didn't just want that paisley shirt in lavender hues. I needed it. I needed it because I would, at least one day a week, feel like I fit in with the rest of my junior-high co-sufferers. But in the back closet of my psyche, I knew I needed it for another reason. Because those intriguing, complex-yet-simple shapes gave me little shivers.

Maybe it's weird to fall in love with a shape. OK: It's definitely weird. But I have ever since been enamored of the paisley. (O how I wish that someone had taken a picture of me in that beloved outfit!) I loved that the shape seemed easy, a sort of curvy teardrop, but then you add all those extra squiggles and fill-in-the-shape details, and it becomes intricate as well. Plus, it's vaguely leaf-like, and even though I'd yet to discover it fully, even then I was a drawn-to-nature kind of girl. It seemed, I think, nature done elegantly. A leaf made by a fashion designer. I even wrote a research paper about the lovely paisley. And I, who am completely incompetent at any form of art that requires actually drawing something with a pencil, became skilled at the paisley doodle. For a short six months or so of junior high, in fact, the paisley doodle was my signature note doodle.

Of course, as they do in junior high, things eventually took a turn for the worse, and soon I would no longer be caught dead in anything much more than black. But I still nursed my paisley affection. Just in secret. And now? I think paisley is back. I've seen it on scrapbook pages (although my paisley-doodle skills have gone the way of my junior-high pegged jeans...ummm, no longer functional). I've seen it in those cool photoshop-brush-esque T shirts. And then I got this ad from Bed Bath & Beyond (a store I enjoy shopping at, although I SHOULD boycott it simply because its name is just so dumb):
Is it just me? Or are these paisely dishes the most lovely dishes ever? I rarely say this any-more: I have to have these. It's not even a want. It's an illogical need. I mean, my kitchen is purple, for heaven's sake. They neither match nor even mix into my current design scheme. I have all the dishes I have storage for.

But they're just so pretty. And they're paisley. And right now I want to throw off my I-try-so-hard-to-be-fiscally-responsible persona and claim the throw-caution-to-the-winds-and-become-overwhelmed-with-debt person I really am.

At least for a few hours. In Bed Bath & Beyond.

You can't make this stuff up:

So, it's Friday. Friday the thirteenth. Haley calls me from her friend's house, where she's been hanging out, eating caramel popcorn. "Mom, guess what!" she says. "My loose tooth just came out."

"That's great!" I said, thinking, I'll admit, of how much I really dislike being the tooth fairy.

Two hours later, Jake walked into the kitchen, where I was making lunch. "Look Mom!" he says. "My tooth fell out!"

And then, not five minutes later, Haley walks in with another tooth on her palm. Yep---the kid lost two teeth (both of them molars, btw) on the same day. And Jake lost one.

Jake decided that we needed to rename this date. So, for the rest of the day, it wasn't Friday the 13th. It was Friday the Thirdtooth.

He thought that up all by himself. Isn't he clever? ;) Here's a picture:

PS, in case you're wondering: I managed to NOT forget my Tooth Fairy Duties. However, as I remembered them at 3:00 in the morning, I can't be blamed for not being able to find Jake's tooth under his pillow, can I? So he decided it'd be good to resubmit the tooth.

A very gracious (or is that embarrassed?) tooth fairy paid him twice for the same tooth.

A few days ago, my friend Sophia posted these meme on her blog, and I am copying it to use it here. I like her questions!

1) When was the last time you truly watched at a sunset?
You know...I can't remember! That is pathetic. I notice sunsets when they're pretty, but I can't remember the last time I simply sat and watched the sun set.

2) What are you most obsessive about?
In my dark and twisty places, I'm lately most obsessive about my memory. I know this is coming from my dad's illness. But I can't help it---every time I forget where I put my cell phone or realize that I've left the same load of laundry in the washing machine for three days, I get a little bit terrified that I have it, too. I've started eating loads of anti-oxidant-rich foods (blueberries, anyone?) and am going to embark on some kind of memorization project soon. Plus, I write down nearly EVERYTHING.

3) Last thing you ate?
Homemade macaroni and cheese for dinner, and I just had some Diet Coke.

4) Any plans for Halloween?
Just the yearly traditions: cute costumes, trick or treating with the kids. What else do you do on Halloween when you have kidlets?

5) What kind of shampoo do you like?
Artec Textureline Extra Body---I've used it since I was pregnant with Jake, and he's nearly nine. It works for me.

6) What do you do with your change?
I save it up and use it on Christmas gifts. Specifically I buy the kids' Hallmark ornaments with it. (I don't usually have a lot of change, btw.)

7) What do you usually do/eat at lunchtime?
When I'm hungry and Kaleb is sleeping.

8) When was the last time you called someone for help? What was it for?
I'm just about ready to ask Kendell to come help me...I canNOT remember how to burn a CD! (Lame, I know, but I just don't do it that often. Or maybe it is the Dread Disease. Told you I'm obsessed.)

9) If you could have one TOY for Christmas, what would it be?
Does this printer count as a toy? If not, does a new waffle iron work? Geez, I'm boring. Of course, what kind of toys do moms need?

10) How many people have you currently not forgiven for something/do you hold a grudge against? j
I try not to hold grudges. But there are at least...well, eight people from different times in my past that consistently pop up in my dreams. My theory is that they show up there just because while I'd like to think I've let go and forgiven...deep down I still hold a grudge. Working on that.

11) The last picture I took: this was at Thanksgiving Point. I took the kids there today; we met my sister Becky and my parents. We had a GREAT time, even though I stayed way longer than anyone else. This is Kaleb standing in the miniature dance salon they have there...it really doesn't fit with the rest of the pictures I took today (think pony rides, rock wall, clown, balloon animals, halloween decorations), but I love it!

So, last night, the long-anticipated date arrived: my Big Picture Scrapbooking class opened up!

You can sign up for my class here.

It's something. I'm putting the finishing touches on this six-week class that's all about using words and making your journaling come to life. But I don't have a word that says how I feel about it. I remember the first time I ever saw a scrapbook. My friend Teresa brought her new Creative Memories album into work (we worked together at WordPerfect) to show me the layouts she'd done about her daughter, Sydney. When I saw those layouts, I was of course amazed at the cute little stickers (yep, sneezed all over the place) and the creative photo treatments (so glad we've moved past the cut-your-photos-into-whatever-shape-matches-your-theme thing). But what was a revelation to me was the pairing of pictures with words. Seeing it laid out like that gave me somewhere to pin the nebulous ideas I was having about how to keep my memories intact. Plus, even then, I loved words. Scrapbooking seemed like the perfect craft. It was another two years after I saw her scrapbook that I started scrapping, too. But for me, the original intent was always that same revelation. Not that, as the cliche goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. But that a picture deserves a thousand words---or at least twenty or so. At least some.

Writing down the words---the stories and the little details that make up our lives---matters. The pictures can't say everything. And YOUR voice telling the story matters, too. Because only you can tell your story. And that's what I'm trying to teach in this Big Picture workshop. Yes, it's all about word choice and sensory details and how to make your writing "flow." But more than that, deep down, the identity of my little class is that YOUR voice matters.

And I can't tell you how much I hope people will sign up to learn that!

(ps, kudos to my friend James who was able to get a semi-flattering photo of me...not an easy thing to do with this material!)

Kaleb has this thing, lately, about thinking he must be awake by 5:30 or 6:00 in the morning. Bleary-eyed, I pull him out of bed and try to coax him back to sleep. But he will have no rocking or snuggling. "Up," he says, tugging at my pajama leg. I guess I should be grateful for this quiet time I have with only him and me. We play or he "helps" me clean the kitchen, all in that soft pre-dawn darkness. I'm usually tired. But he's so cute.

This Saturday morning was no exception. 5:45 and Kaleb was wide awake. I fed him breakfast and then took him downstairs to play. Sitting in the toy room, I noticed the bin of baby toys. Rattles, squeaky toys, chewy toys, the fishy links I bought way back when I was pregnant with Haley and that every baby has loved; things that are easy for tiny hands to hold. Suddenly those toys seemed unbearable to have in plain sight. They are a clear reminder: no infants live here anymore. And there is no hope of any more. So I decided, without letting myself think about it, to gather up all the baby toys and put them away.

Kaleb thought this was a fun game, wandering through the house looking for toys. I found them in the toyroom, of course, but also in my office, in the TV room, in the kitchen drawer I keep full of toys, in Kaleb's room, under the front-room couch, in the car and in the diaper bag. Once I finally found as many as I could, I couldn't any longer stop myself from thinking about it. So I lay on the floor, in front of the box, and cried.

This is a theme in my life: what else brings me more happiness than babies? and why do they grow so quickly? I remember after Haley was born, feeling that devastation at having my pregnancy over, consoling myself with the idea that we weren't finished, but feeling a little echo: what will you do when you have your last? And here I am, my last no longer a baby. How did that happen? So I cried. Kaleb came over to me and patted my hair. He offered his blankie to me, too. He is sweet and I love this phase he is in, of course. I adore him. But...if I could have him back as a newborn, just for a day? Where do I find that option?

Of course, eventually I had to quit crying. I heard my mom's voice in my head: you can't always have a baby in your house. And Kendell's, listing out all the reasons why we have to be finished. My heart beat its old mantra: baby baby baby. I think maybe it always will, think I will always have this unresolvable yearning to just one more time hold my own newborn baby in my arms. Maybe that yearning is the only consolation. It's the place in my heart where a tiny bit of hope stays, where I keep my baby craving stored. But I put the lid on the bin. Thinking of future grandchildren---will that ever be as sweet as my own?---I labeled it "baby." And I put it on a shelf in the storage room.

A few weeks ago, Jake asked me a Very Important Question (I knew it was important because of the tone of voice he used). "I want to know if you ever make up your own cooking instructions or do you just use someone else's recipe that they made up?" I usually tweak recipes, but I've really never made my own up. Jake's question got me thinking, though, so I decided to try creating my own recipe. It's pretty simple, but it's a start. Here it is, dubbed "Jake's Burritos" for obvious reasons

Jake's Burritos
12-16 small corn tortillas
2 packages Mahatma saffron rice (buy this at Target in the Rice-A-Roni aisle)
1 can black beans
1 can corn
3 cans green enchilada sauce
cheddar and/or Monterey jack cheese

While the rice is cooking, saute the corn tortillas very briefly in a small amount of oil, until just soft; drain on paper towels. When rice is finished, mix the black beans and corn into the rice. Roll some of the rice mixture into each of the tortillas, but make sure to leave some extra. Spread the remaining rice on top of the burritos. Heat the green sauce in the same pan you used to saute the tortillas; pour over the burritos. Sprinkle with cheese. 375 for 35-40 minutes, covered with tinfoil for about half the baking time.

Now for the second recipe. As soon as fall comes around, I start getting an itch for making things with apples. We had a family dinner last weekend and I was assigned the dessert, so I made apple crisp. A HUGE apple crisp, with ten pounds of apples and the topping multiplied by four. I was running late, so I asked Kendell to help me, and I gave him the best job, doing the apples with the apple corer/peeler/slicer. He decided that he wants his life's work to be coring/peeling/slicing apples with that thing---he thought it was the best kitchen job ever!

I didn't get a chance to actually eat any of this apple crisp, because I was busy helping kids and trying to talk to my dad. But I was looking forward to the left-overs, which I like to eat for breakfast, with cream on top (I know. I just don't think about how fattening that is!). So you can imagine how annoyed I was when I discovered that someone had picked off most of the crispy part and left me only the apples. (I know just who this was, but no names will be mentioned. I'll forgive her eventually.) NO leftovers.

So yesterday I made a new apple crisp. And now I have all the leftovers I could want. In fact, I'm going to eat some after I finish this post! Here's my recipe for apple crisp that's so good it starts family arguments:

Apple Crisp
8-10 Fuji or Granny Smith apples (or a mix of both)
2 lemons
3/4 cup sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
3 tsp butter
1 cup flour
1 1/2 cup packed brown sugar
2 cups oatmeal (I use the old-fashioned kind, instead of the quick-cook, because the crisp is crispier that way)
2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp EACH ginger, ground cloves, nutmeg, and allspice
1/2 cup chopped pecans
1 cup butter

Core, peel, and slice the apples. Squeeze the lemon juice over them as they pile up in the bowl (this helps them not get brown). Stir the sugar and the 1 teaspoon cinnamon over the apples, then the 3 tablespoons of melted butter. Pour apples into a greased 11x13 pan. Mix all dry ingredients together. Melt the 1 cup butter and pour over dry ingredients; stir till well mixed. Pour over the apples. 375 for 20-30 minutes, depending on how crunchy you want the apples to stay. Serve with ice cream.