Dear Santa - mom needs a new job...

I was cleaning out her backpack this morning and found this letter, addressed to Mr. C. (Santa Claus). I will let you attempt to read it first and then translate it in a second...




LMAO

Here is the translation:

Dear Mr C - I hope that I am on the nice list. I would love that. I would be
good. P.S. Jenna P.P.S. So will you put me on the nice list? And Mr. C, I love
you. Oh and I hope that you love this letter. Oh and Mr. C, will you let my mom
be a elf working at your work? Cause I would love that. From Jenna to You.

Now I am not sure if this is because she thinks Santa needs some more effective marketing and I am just the person to do it, or she just hopes that me being an elf working there will score her some better Christmas presents. LOL.

Say Cheese

We grew up in front of the camera, so it's no wonder we now choose to stand behind it. Me and my sisters are obsessed with taking pictures. I think we have literally documented every major, and not so major, moment of our lives, since the point our parents bought us our first very own 35mm camera (actually I think mine was a 110, do they even make those anymore? What about Advantix... whatever happened to those? Ha).

But I digress.

Picture-taking, documentation, photo albums and finally scrapbooks have encompassed so much of our memory-making, that they have not only chronicled the memories of our lives, they have become a PART of the memory-making.

Somewhere along the line it went from being a hobby to being something I could actually make some money doing (in order to pay for the outrageously expensive equipment I drool at while browsing photog sites online).

And unlike those fiercely loyal photographers, I have no loyalty to brand. I've tried Canon and Nikon, Olympus and Kodak. I have probably tried a version of every camera-making brand in the U.S. at some point. As long as it takes a crisp photo quickly... well I am happy.

So I am excited to break in my early christmas gift from my boyfriend, my Sony Alpha A-200. Already I am impressed with the quality of photos... and what better excuse to harrass my children like celebrity paparazzi, than making them help me break in the new cam.

Jenna was less than thrilled. All the rest of my photographs of her were of the back of her head or her hands in front of her face "Brittany"-style. Sigh. Better luck next time.

Nate on the other hand was a more willing participant. I will spare you the extreme closeups of the taco meat from dinner hanging out of his mouth while he cheesed it up for me... and instead give you the most gorgeous blue eyes I've ever seen (apologies to my blue-eyed boyfriend, but he is a close second).

And then I will leave you with a shot of my boy showing off his battle wounds. He got into an altercation with the swing at school. He swears the swing looks worse, but I am not so sure.

In Memory of my favorite Veteran...

He was 19 and had just finished his third year of service in the Navy (thanks to the fact that he illegally enlisted at the age of 16 by lying and saying he was 18). Mature beyond his years, he was devilishly handsome. He had the same color eyes as Frank Sinatra and the same charming smile. Dressed in his uniform, he was quite the sight for most young girls.

As he walked into the party with a buddy in tow, he scanned the room for anyone he knew. He always did this. Looking for a familiar face to ease his initial shyness in a new setting. His eyes landed on her. As his heart did a jump and he caught his breath, his hand involuntarily grasped his buddie's arm as he stopped in his shiny shoes.

"What?" his friend said, looking at him quizically.

"That's her." replied the young sailor.

"Who?"

"The woman I am going to marry."

"Do you know her?"

"Not yet," he replied with a sly smile on his face, feeling his pulse even out again and the color return to his face.

She was 16. Never been kissed, just as the saying goes. Wavy brown hair with natural streaks of blond, ice blue eyes and skin as pure as porceline, she was certainly a vision of fragile beauty. This was her first party her parents had let her attend without them. She was wearing her best party dress and had fussed over her hair for nearly two hours. However, all she had done since arriving was stand in the corner and giggled with her girlfriends from school. She had been sheltered most of her life, which had left her painfully shy in social situations like this.

She felt his eyes on her before she saw him. When she looked up, he was in front of her with his hand out and a warm smile on his face. While she looked into his warm and sparkling eyes, feeling the laughter within them, he introduced himself. She looked down quickly, her face flushing. She mumbled her name to him and then quickly glanced up again. He was definitely laughing at her, barely concealing it. If she wasn't so embarrassed, she would be angry. At herself or at him, she wasn't sure.

She decided she wouldn't stand there and be mocked, so she turned and excused herself to the powder room. Her skirt twirled around her legs as she spun away and wiped the smile from his face. He had never longed for someone so much in his life. How could a perfect stranger make his heart beat so wildly? He fought the urge to run after her and pull her into his arms.

Is this what they meant by "love at first sight?"

He could certainly believe it.

She found herself breathing heavily and flushed looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. Who was this boy? Or should she say, Who was this MAN? He was different from the other boys she knew, that took only one look to know. He felt wildly out of her league, barely out of childhood herself. But there was something strangely magnetic about him. Something that made her want to run into his arms and lay her head on his chest to breath in his scent.

What a shocking thought! Her mother would be appalled knowing such things were going through her head. But she couldn't help it. From the minute she looked into those deep blue eyes, she wanted to drown in them. That's why she had to run away. She never felt anything like that before. It was involuntary impulse and she was afraid to leave the bathroom in case she saw him again and was unable to control herself. What kind of fool would she look if she were to do the things running through her mind?

Her breathing leveled out and she decided she better rejoin the party. She slowly opened the door and as soon as she did she saw him standing there. She caught her breath, suprised. He was leaning casually against the wall waiting for her, his legs crossed and a cigarette in his mouth. Upon seeing her, he put the cigarette out on a nearby table and swiftly went to her and pushed her into the bathroom and shut the door, before she had a chance to protest or for anyone to see them.

Once she caught her breath, she slapped him. Eyes wide, he grabbed her arm and lifted the palm of her hand to his lips and kissed it. Her heart skipped a beat at the feel of his soft lips on her skin. No one had ever kissed her in such a way, and she felt tingles from that spot run through the rest of her body and her knees went weak.

They stood there for what seemed forever just staring at each other, no words exchanged. Slowly his arm wrapped around her waist until he had her pulled against him. She didn't protest this time. Just kept staring at him.

He put his other hand on her face and said "I have to see you again. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?" She slowly nodded her head in agreement. He kissed her forehead and let her go and walked out of the bathroom.

She let her knees go weak and sat on the toilet to let her heart slow to a decent pace, her hand on her heart. She didn't know who he was, but she knew she had to see him again.

Somewhere deep inside of her she knew that he was the missing part of her and that she would love him for the rest of her life. And at that same moment, he was walking home with his buddy, telling him the same exact thing.

It was 1957, by the end of the year they would be married and by 1960 she would be pregnant with their third child, my stepdad Don. A beautiful love story told to me since I was a child by my "Uncle Marvin" who lost the love of his life when she was only 29 to Emphazima. She left 4 children and a legendary love to the man that swept her off her feet. Not a day went by that he didn't miss or love her. And it was this story that made me believe in love at first sight and soulmates.

He was the glue of our family and was always the one to keep the conflicts to a minimum and to mend broken bridges that happen in a family as large as ours. He believed in our country and fighting to keep it free. He worshipped God and second only to that was John Wayne. He treated his wife like a treasure that God gave him. And he was quick to discipline his children, but they also knew that his pride for them ran deep and true. And even though I wasn't "blood" related, I never felt it because he loved me as much as any of his other grandkids. And I loved him like a grandfather.

Marvin passed away a couple years ago and I know that he and his child bride are in heaven now with two of thier four children that have already passed on as well. I feel them here watching over us and I thank God that their love blessed so many lives, including mine.

Rest in peace Uncle Marvin... your blue eyes are always sparkling in my memories.

In the midst of the storm

All around me familes are struggling financially... parents deal with increasing guilt over their parenting in the age of ADHD, Autism, Teen Violence and Prenancies... employers are trying to decide how to report profits but still pay for employee healthcare and benefits... and homeowners are struggling not only to pay their mortgages, but increasing fuel and energy costs, homeowners association fees, and grocery costs that have nearly doubled in the last few years.

Some nights I can't go to sleep with worry plaguing my every thought and emotion. How am I going to pay rent - I am already 2 weeks behind? How do I afford to move to a better neighborhood to get access to a better school for Jenna and Nate? Is my ex's emotional instability affecting their lives in a negative way, or will they be resilient enough to get through it? Will Nate grow out of his ADHD or will he forever have to maintain a strict diet and take supplements and maybe someday stimulants to have a "normal" life? How do I protect their innocence in a world of violent video games and sexual-explicit media and T.V.? And how do I balance being a good mom, a good employee, a good friend and a good sister/daughter... and yet stay true to myself and my own needs and desires as well?

I know I am not alone. Our country is going through a transition period like we have never known. We have spent decades being wasteful and self-absorbed... and now we are paying the price econimically, eviromentally, and morally. There isn't one person that our current economy isn't affecting... it's pretty much across the board and trickling into our education systems, our religious foundations and our families. It is touching us on EVERY level.

No wonder so many people in America are on SSRI's (anti-anxiety meds) these days. I am one of them... and even with my daily dose, struggle with constant anxiety about my life and my children and my career. But I am learning to simplify and try and focus on the positive.

In the midst of all of this, we have been focusing on our time as a family. Watching our attitude towards each other and people around us. The kids and I talk about how we should focus on our blessings and the wonderful life God has given us, instead of what we don't have and comparing ourselves to others. It's really working. I see a difference in my attitude and in the children. We have more smiles lately and less frustration. Life is fun, if you can focus on the joy all around you.... and joy is infectious. Smile and laugh through life and watch how others begin to do the same.

Like a Virgin

I was eight years old when I learned about the "birds and bees."

It was a sunny afternoon, I had just dropped my backpack down at the front door and went straight to the kitchen for a snack. My mom was in there getting some stuff ready for dinner, I could hear my little sister in the back room playing with her dolls.

"Mom, what's a 'virgin'?"

She looked up from the stove at me with wide-eyes and then slowly narrowed them, spatula in the air. Her shoulders slumped and she said, "Give me just a minute here and we'll talk about that. Where did you hear that word?"

"I was at Bible Class today and they kept talking about 'The Virgin Mary'. Why did they call her a 'virgin'? ... Oh and I heard it on a T.V. show the other day too, but that time they were talking about a guy at their school."

She quietly finished making dinner, set it to the side to stay warm and told me to come sit on the couch in the living room. She brought a pencil and a pad of paper with her. Man, she meant business. This was not going to be any explanation.

Curiously I looked at her as I sat down, feeling a bit apprehensive at her seriousness.

A few diagrams later she had thoroughly explained the female reproductive system, the male reproductive system and how they delicately worked together to make a baby. Following that was a stern lecture about how this process was meant by God to be an act between a husband and wife that loved each other.

And then she began to cry.

Tell an eight-year-old little girl that a penis goes in a vagina to make a baby and THEN start crying... and you have pretty much engraved the moment into her mind forever. And possibly scared the living day lights out of her.

The reason for the tears was soon explained. My mother put her hand on my shoulder as tears streamed down her face and said that sometimes people who weren't married fell in love and made babies. That it was NEVER a mistake, it just wasn't the way God intended it and made it much harder for everyone involved.

A light bulb began to go off in my head. I realized that most kids probably don't remember their parent's wedding day like I did. I remember it because I was 3 years old on that day. And the man I now called "Daddy" didn't actually meet me until I was old enough to know I was the only kid in nursery school that didn't have a daddy.
I looked at my mom and I started to cry too. "Who is my daddy?"

She hugged me and told me that someday when I was old enough to know, she would tell me more, and if I wanted to meet him, that she would be okay with it. For now, my Daddy was the man that came to every school program, that took us to the zoo, and who was the only person I wanted when I fell off my bike and skinned my knee. She said that making a baby didn't make you a daddy... loving a child like they were your own did.

Finally I sighed and wiped my tears, looked back down at the drawing my mother had made me. An hour or so had passed since I had gotten home from school. From the drawings I looked back at my mothers face, eyes rimmed red with tears, but with a soft smile on her face.

"But, I still don't know what 'virgin' means."

At that, my mother started laughing and so did I.

Blackberries & Big Wheels

We use to pick blackberries together, her and I. I didn't like blackberries, but it was fun picking them along the railroad tracks beside our apartment complex. Our fingers would be stained deep purple, her tongue and lips would match. I still like rasberries better.

She had chubby cheeks and the sweetest smile. Made even sweeter by the silver caps in the front. You never see kids with silver caps anymore... I guess they use something else now? We weren't suppose to walk by the railroad tracks, but my mom didn't seem to be around much during the day when we were out playing. As long as we were home by the time the street lights came on, we were free to play at our own pleasure. (Not something we as parents have the luxury of doing today).

"Mandy, you want to play Barbies with me?"

Sigh.

Faintly I was tempted to go play my favorite game with my little sister, but then again, I was 10 now. I was too old for Barbies.

"Let's play Flashdance instead"

"No, you always hog the living room floor"

We would bicker back and forth like this all the time. We didn't really have anyone else to play with, but with five years age difference between us, there was little choice. We were stuck together. Most of the time I was annoyed by her constant presence. Sometimes I was grateful to not be alone.

Especially late at night. In the dark.

Or when I came home from school and my mom was crying in a corner. Overwhelmed by life and betrayal. I'd take my sister's hand and we would go outside into a world of make believe. Where we could be anything we wanted and go wherever our imaginations could take us. Far away from being poor and sad.

I use to hold her down, pinning her arms under my knees, straddling her and tickling her until she nearly peed her pants. She would squeal. I loved the feeling of power and dominance I had. Sad, but oh so true. Little did I know she would grow up to be about 5 inches taller than me. I wouldn't attempt that trick now, I assure you.
But I was fiercly loyal and protective as well. One day, two little nieghborhood girls yanked my sweet little sister from her big wheel bike by the hair of her head. I was sitting on the top of the stairs playing when I witnessed this. I ran down them two at a time and yanked one of the little girls off the bike by her pigtails and grabbed the other one by the hand and told them to never touch my sister or her things again or I'd make them very very sorry they did.

They ran away crying. Straight to their mom. About 15 minutes later, a very large woman with over-bleached blond hair and blood-red finger nails grabbed me by the arm and started yelling at me about being a role model and not bullying little babies (ha, her "babies" were the biggest bullies in our apartment complex). I christened her "Bleachy Mama."

She had the intended effect though. She scared the crap outta me. I ran home and told my mother what happened.

The next chain of events will be forever carved into my memory. My 95 pound (if that) mom grabbed a baseball bat from our toy box and stomped down our stairs towards Bleachy Mama's apartment, with me and my sister following at her tail.

Banging on the door with the bat (nice one Mom!) she had the fiercest look in her eye (don't mess with a Mama Bear's cubs). I don't remember my mother's exact words to Bleachy Mama, but it was somewhere along the lines of "don't touch or talk to my daughters again or I'll kick your fat ass". Actually I am pretty sure those were her exact words.

The two little girls stood behind there mama with wide eyes. I am sure we had a similiar look on our faces as this all transpired. Then Bleachy slammed the door in my mom's face and we went home.

Funny thing is, about 3 months later... we were all best friends, picking blackberries together by the railroad tracks. I ended up teaching one of those little girls how to dance to my Cyndi Lauper tape I dubbed off the radio. They never asked to ride my sister's big wheel and I don't ever remember seeing Bleachy Mama again.

The Journey

I was just thinking about what made me want to become a writer. My earliest short-story was written in second grade, for Mrs. Walker, as an extra credit assignment. It was right before Christmas, and I had decided to get my "My Little Pony" stamps out and illustrate a story about Jesus's birth, including some of my favorite pony characters, instead of the usual sheep and donkey. The pink and red ponies decorated the outer margins, surrounding a magical story about a baby's birth and how the ponies traveled back in time to witness it. I still have it packed away in a memory box somewhere.

Mrs. Walker was very impressed with my creativity, grammar and imaginiation (but not so much my spelling - I still struggle with that). Her praise and encouragement became a drug and it started a habit and joy of writing and sharing.

In Junior High I dabbled in poetry. Sappy prose about kissing boys and losing a best friend. Much of it was unoriginal, but it did all rhyme, even if the tempo was a little faulty at times. I could sit for hours composing them, filling my head with words and emotion and then putting it down on paper.

High School brought out my true voice through writing. I was both on our newspaper staff and in a Creative Writing class, as well as an Advanced-Placement Honors English. Every waking hour was about reading, researching, anaylzing and writing. And I kept a detailed journal of writing that wasn't school assigned as well.

This was all pre-computers, and we didn't own a typewriter, so my middle finger on my right hand still bears a rough callus from years of putting pen to paper, literally. Most of the time the tips of my fingers and the bottom of my hand was stained with ink or pencil shavings. I always had a notebook in hand... in order to interview someone for a story, or just to write a long love letter to my boyfriend. I wrote pages and pages everyday.
It wasn't until recently that I realized what inspired my love of story-telling.

While I was sitting down, trying to think of something to write about, dozens of interesting stories about my mother's life became flooding back to me. I am sure this is because my mom and I stayed up until 3 am on Saturday going through family history and geneaology on both sides. Names and stories I've heard hundreds of times sitting at the kitchen table with her came flooding back.

Of course I am a writer... a story teller... my mother had such a descriptive way of telling a story when we were children, it just came naturally to me. Someday I'd like to write her memoirs. She has led such a hard, but intersting life. I want to carry on her legacy and family history for generations to come.

Thanks mom for not only giving birth to me, but for sharing a part of yourself through your stories, so that I could find who I needed to be.