This Blasted Boy Child

I really wish I knew why Caleb loves to cut his own hair.  I just feel like he's old enough to look in the mirror and SEE that when he does this to himself, it looks ridiculous.  Self inflicted hair cuts started for Caleb before kindergarten started.  He figured if he cut his own hair and made himself look insane enough, he wouldn't have to go.  But BEHOLD!  He had to go anyway.  In reality, Caleb has been cutting his own hair since his little hands were coordinated enough to manipulate a pair of scissors.  I thought I had found a solution when Grandma just started shaving his head.  But then my yahoo cotton farmer lover told me Caleb looked like he just came straight from the Holocaust and every time I looked at my son after that, I felt like I should apologize to him for his grotesque appearance.  So taking the advice from a not so fashion savvy farmer, I went ahead and stopped having Caleb's head shaved and told him, "Bubba, do NOT cut your own hair.  It looks horrible when you do that.  If you cut your own hair you're going to be in trouble."  I reminded Makayla to keep her scissors picked up but we have tons of scissors in this house because Makayla is an artist and I can't open packages by hand without injuring myself.  The other day I went into the kids' bathroom to start their baths and I saw clumps of brown hair all in the sink and on the floor...and a pair of purple handled scissors strategically hidden under a wad of toilet paper on the side of the sink.  I went in search of Caleb, hoping, HOPING he had cut the hair off of one of Makayla's dolls but I found him hiding in his sisters closet with a scarf over his head.
"Get out of there and take that scarf off," I told him.
"No," he said back.
I gave him a mother look because he isn't allowed to say no and he came out of the closet but clung to the scarf.
"You cut your hair," I told him, "I saw it in the bathroom.  Let me see."
He feigned a confused look and then his eyes lit up like he had JUST now remembered that he butchered his hair.
"Oh YEAH!" he exclaimed, "I DID cut my hair!  But it was like, forever ago that I did that.  It probably growed back by now."
"You cut your hair within the last fifteen minutes," I told him, "I don't think it's grown back by now.  And it looks like you cut a lot of it.  Let me see."
"I think I am just shy today," he said.
I yanked the scarf off his head and rolled my eyes.  He had four large bald spots on various parts of his head.  It looked like he had shaved them.
"How do you even cut your hair SO short?" I asked him, "This looks crazy.  I can't cover that up."
He went from sweet to defiant and roared, "Well I LOVE it and it's MY hair so THERE you mean mother."
"And you're MY son and you have to follow MY rules and you are in VERY serious trouble for cutting your hair," I told him.  I spanked his butt and made him clean his hair out of the sink.  Then I put him in front of the mirror and showed him just how silly his hair looked but he just grinned at his bald spots proudly and asked if he could make "just a tiny other spot" on the side where he forgot to cut his hair.  Blasted boy.  Blasted bald spots.  I'm really ready for him to outgrow this hair cutting stage.  I feel like I have to explain to people that he isn't diseased and that I don't have his hair cut like this on purpose.  After school this afternoon, as we drove home, I caught Makayla in the review mirror just looking at him, shaking her head.
"Makayla, that isn't very nice," I said, "why are you looking at your brother like that?"
She looked at me with a "duh" look and said, "Mommy.  Just LOOK at him.  Look at his HAIR.  It's embarrassing."
Before I could say anything Caleb said, "I LOVE myself so THERE."
So there.

United Disaster

          So, I was minding my own business, herding my children to the car in the United Parking lot when an alarming sight caught my eye: a man who was probably in his seventies was putting his cart back up after unloading his groceries, and as he turned to walk back to his car after putting the cart up, he tripped over the wheel of the cart.  He stumbled pretty hard before falling even harder and I gasped, “Oh my goodness!” and instructed my children to get off to the side of the road and ran over to help the feller.  He was having trouble getting up and I was figuring he probably had a broken hip or something.  When I got to him I got down on my knees and was in such a hurry to get on his level and inspect him that I busted my left kneecap on the road.  I asked him frantically, “Hey, are you alright?  Can you move?  Does anything hurt?”

“My pride’s a little busted,” he said as I helped him into a sitting position.  By then others were coming over the help and at the site of his scraped forearms and how he was shaking I started crying.  I was helped him stand up as others asked if he was OK and when he was on his feet steadily again he handed me a hankie.

“I’m OK, no need for all that,” he said and I thanked him for the hankie, “I’m not hurt at all,” he told the ladies who were fussing over him, “if that’s what it takes to get a bunch of pretty girls to fuss over me I should fall down more often.”  I blew my nose in his hankie and then wondered if I should have done that.  I doubted he wanted a snotty hankie back.  His wife might want to know what on earth he’d been up to if he came home with a make-up smeared, snotty hankie.  I kind of held it in a position where he could snatch it back if he wanted but he seemed in a pretty big hurry to get out of there.  I think he was embarrassed.  I was horrified that his arm was bleeding and felt like I shouldn’t let him leave without helping him but he assured me he had a wife who would doctor him.  Then he pointed to my bleeding knee and said I needed to take care of my own self.  I’ve had plenty of battle scars in my day but this was my first one obtained during a rescue mission.  He went to his vehicle and I went to my own vehicle.  Then with a start, I realized I was forgetting my children and went back to retrieve them.  I apologized for nearly forgetting them in public and Makayla was horrified that the man had fallen and that my knee was bleeding.

“Mommy, was he hurt?  Is he going to the doctor?  Does your knee hurt?” she asked.

“He was more embarrassed than anything, I think,” I said, “And my knee doesn’t hurt at all.”

“That man could have kidnapped you mommy,” Caleb said, “I thought he was going to kill you.  I would beat him up if he to.”

“Bubba, that old man wasn’t going to kill Mommy,” Makayla mused, “Did you see how old he was?  He could barely even walk.  And when he did walk he fell down.  Mommy was just helping him because he couldn’t get up.  No one could kidnap mommy anyway.  Look how big she is.”

I gave her a look and said, “No one is going to get kidnapped, the man is fine, and I’m sorry y’all were scared.  Sheesh.  Let’s go home.”

And that is what happened last night.

Update on...Stuff!

Aaaahhh, the wonderful world of blogging.  I have neglected informing various friends and family what I’ve been up to through this blog.  I typically update everyone through frantic text messages in the middle of whatever catastrophe I’ve managed to get myself into.  It’s time for a regular blog update though and I will try to keep up with this thing a little better. 

Pregnancy Update:  Max was born August 28, 2012 and weighed seven pounds and fourteen ounces.  His birth was very smooth and I went home less than seven hours later.  When he was a few hours old his mom was feeding him and he began turning very blue.  He was rushed to the NICU and that was very scary.  His mom and dad rushed to the NICU with all the nurses and Max and I sat in the hospital bed trembling and crying, thinking they were going to come back and tell me he was dead.  I won’t get into the specifics of the story because I figure since he has been adopted, it’s not really appropriate for me to tell personal details about all this but long story short, he was fine, just had some trouble with his sucking reflex and breathing while swallowing.  He is totally precious.  Makayla and Caleb think he’s so cute and Caleb especially liked holding him.  The adoption is open so there will be many more updates on Max to come.  I spoke with his mother yesterday and she said he is a bottomless pit. 

Children Update:  These children of mine are larger than life and amazing as they have always been.  Makayla just started second grade and Caleb just started kindergarten.  Makayla has always loved school and she was excited to go to second grade.  Caleb told me all summer he wasn’t going to kindergarten unless I went with him and stayed all day so naturally I was worried sick when he did start.  Luckily the second he entered the kindergarten room, he saw all the other kids and his very own desk and didn’t even remember I was there.  Now every day when he comes home from school he says he wishes he could just go back to school once we get home.  Kind of hurts my feelings but I’m glad he likes school so much.  Both of the kids are determined to go to Midnight Madness in May.  Caleb has to read 200 AR books and pass the tests on them to go and Makayla has to read 100,000 words to go.  They’re both working hard already.  Well, for Makayla it isn’t really hard work; she loves to read anyway.  Caleb isn’t as big of a fan but if I sit with him then he does OK.  He really wants to do Midnight Madness with Makayla so that’s what his little mind is on.  They’ve both made some good friends here in Abilene both at school and in the neighborhood.  I’m working on my unholy fear that they will be snatched by a child predator and have recently began letting them play outside while I sit on the porch.  Typically in the past I would have followed them everywhere on foot.  Now, as long as I can see them playing in the green belt across the street, I don’t run after them.  Caleb has started playing football with the neighborhood boys and Makayla and the girls climb trees and play chase or just sit on the grass and watch their brothers.  I like that the kids are playing with other kids and playing outside. 

Love Life Update:  I’m becoming highly suspicious that the future Mr. Hallford is avoiding me because I haven’t found him yet though I’ve encountered plenty of yahoos that will make me appreciate him when he finally decides to reveal himself.

Since I became pregnant with Max, I moved to Abilene and got much more focused on the kids and settling down.  Running around Lubbock like a feral animal with all my friends was fun and I made some amazing memories but I’m ready for a calmer, more family oriented way of life.  It took me a couple of years to outgrow the constant running around but now that I have, I am glad for those fun years but ready for a new kind of fun.  I’m totally bored with dating superficial yahoos, going out to party, hanging out with people who mostly just annoy me.  I’m pretty into hanging out with the kiddos, doing my school stuff, and making sure our lives are simple and happy.  I still get into catastrophes but they aren’t as ridiculous as before; mostly just outrageous speeding tickets and getting in trouble at the library for spilling my soda.  I plan on keeping up with this silly blog a little better and hopefully someday I will be writing about the power and wealth I have stumbled into.  Deuces!

The First Argument

So I was minding my own business, eating my supper when Makayla announced her hot sauce was spicy.  Since hot sauce tends to be spicy I didn’t say anything other than, “Mhhmm.”  I was distracted, eager to get back to my Hunger Games book and wishing everyone would hurry up and finish so I could abandon them for my own selfish indulgences.  Micah, being a far more insightful human being when it comes to responding to the random vices of children, told Makayla that her taste buds tasted the spicy and went on to explain some totally false reason as to why people feel “spicy” in their mouths.  I was busy clearing the table and let him finish and then said, “Well, it feels like taste but really spicy isn’t a flavor.  It’s a chemical reaction; your brain recognizing pain receptors.”

“Spicy IS a taste,” Micah said, “you think your taste buds don’t know what spicy is?”  I am not one who likes to be contradicted when contradicting someone.  It irritated me that he didn’t just say something like, “Oh, I didn’t know that.  You’re a genius.”

“Do your genitals have taste buds?” I asked him and went on to explain that if we rubbed jalapeno juice all over his pecker it would burn.  “Does your nose have taste buds?  Shove something spicy up there and it burns.  You can maybe taste the pepper itself but spicy isn’t taste.  It has nothing to do with taste buds.”

We went back and forth for a while before I decided this wasn’t going anywhere and sweetly said, “Sweetie, you’re right.  I’m not going to argue over whether or not spicy is a flavor or not.”

“Oh no,” he said, “you come in and say “that’s not right” after I say something.  I’m going to go look it up on the computer.”

My mouth dropped open and my temper made me grit my teeth because his “that’s not right” comment was said in a mock girly voice and I felt like he wasn’t portraying me correctly at all.  First, I don’t have such a heavy country accent.  Second, I didn’t at all say that wasn’t right.  Not in those words.

“I politely let you know you were explaining something scientific incorrectly to a kid,” I said, “I would like her to not have false ideas on things.”

“You’ll see,” he said as he went off to his computer.  I got started cleaning the kitchen, fuming.  I wanted to break a plate over his head or even better, shove a jalapeno up his butt.  I know for a fact spicy isn’t a “flavor.”  I have no sense of smell; I was born with this genetic defect.  Because of that I can’t really taste much of anything.  Because of the mountains of research I have done and doctors I have seen, I KNOW what I’m talking about when it comes to things like this.  Because I can “taste” spicy things I’ve done mountains of research on it and learned it’s because it isn’t a taste at all, but pain receptors from the chemical reaction of whatever spicy pepper I’m eating.  I hate being told I’m wrong when I’m right but realized this particular battle was foolish.  He came back into the kitchen and I figured arguing wouldn’t accomplish anything since apparently the love of my life has a skull thicker than old school Star Jones.  Feeling stupid for getting so worked up over something so stupid, I gave him a hug and said, “Sweetie it doesn’t matter who is right.  It’s just talk about spicy stuff.  I love you.”

“Well we’re both right,” he said, “spicy is a taste AND a chemical reaction.”

I unlocked my arms from around him, took a step back and said, “It is NOT!  What biased retarded site did you go to be told that?  Spicy is NOT A FREAKING FLAVOR!”

“I asked an internet doctor,” he said calmly.  He seemed amused which was infuriating me more because in my mind, being told repeatedly I was wrong when I know I’m right, especially by some idiot “internet doctor” was just too much.

“YOU DID NOT!” I shrieked. 

“We’re both right sweetie,” he said, “No one can be right all the time.”

I wanted to rip his face off.  Kick him in the knees.  Dunk his head in my dish water.  But I just said, “OK sweetie.  Believe some quack on the internet over me.”

He made a jab about my “education,” bringing up yet again my alleged brainwarshing from liberal professors, a jab he stole from my grandpa.

“That has NOTHING to do with this and I haven’t been brainWASHED by anyone.  I form my own ideas but spicy being a non-flavor is a freaking FACT, Micah, and since it’s a FACT, no one brainWASHED me into believing some insane theory.  Biologically it can be PROVEN.”

“Not by what I read on the internet,” he said.

I heard myself make some scream/shriek noise and decided to just ignore him.  He was clearly having a good time with this and I was starting to feel dumb for getting so mad.  But for the next two days I researched and researched for him, printing off pages, highlighting key points, and citing sources.  All my spare time was devoted to compiling a book of every source I could get proving I was right about the argument.  I figured he’d feel like a dumbass and was excited to present him with my information.  He called earlier and I was too excited to keep quiet.

“I’ve been getting lots of information for you that proves I’m right on the whole spicy argument and I expect a very big apology from you,” I told him.

“I know you’re right on that babe,” he said, “I was just picking on you.”

“You’re just trying to get out of being proven wrong now that I have proof on my side,” I told him, “You can’t sweet talk your way out of this.  You even looked online and found lies to support your idea.”

“I wasn’t even looking at anything about that,” he said, “When I went on the computer I was looking at a tractor.”

I envisioned two explosive balls of fire shooting out of my ears and felt like a freak to have spent so much time proving him wrong when he hadn’t even really been participating in the argument.  He claimed he just liked pushing my buttons and said it was fun to get me all worked up.  I plan on introducing a new hobby to him very soon in the future, pottery making maybe, since he feels harassing me in his free time is acceptable.  After we hung up I sat down to lunch, still fuming and recounted the whole thing to my grandpa.  He listened thoughtfully while grandma advised I just totally ignore my beloved the next time he started being obnoxious.  Grandpa cleared his throat, an indication he had something to say.  I looked at him to acknowledge I was ready to listen and he said, “What kind of tractor was he looking at?” 

A Normal Day that I Wrote About for Some Reason

          I was minding my own business, sleeping like a champ when Caleb woke me up claiming he needed to cuddle.  I glanced at my phone and saw it was 2:00am and banished him back to his own bed.  He woke me up next talking in his sleep.  He was saying, “Alright sister.  Game over.  My turn.”  Right as I drifted off again he said, “It’s SO PRETTY, SO BEAUTIFUL.”  I have no idea what he was seeing in his dream but was very interested.

“What’s beautiful Brother?” I asked him.  He didn’t respond.  I poked him a little and he didn’t move.

“What did you see?” I asked again.  He was sound asleep.  Blasted child.  At that point I was wide awake and curious as to what dream caused such a reaction of fascination from Caleb.  I hoped I would have a fascinating dream too.  So far all I’d dreamt that night was that I was looking out at the pasture and saw multiple tornadoes tearing towards the house.  Tornadoes coming towards your house is never a good time and it sure isn’t beautiful.  It had been a while since I’d had my “flying through outer space naked” dream so I hoped for that one as I tried to go back to sleep.  Sometimes in that dream I get stuck in the orbit of some horrifying gas planet and have to hold my breath so the toxic fumes don’t kill me as I’m being dragged into its atmosphere and I wake up gasping for real life breath.  That’s always interesting though because then I wonder if I had just made it to the center of that gas planet in my dream what I would have found.  Probably a secret or something.  Anyway, I woke up at 5:30 because Caleb was shoving his freezing feet in between my calves and I let him stay there because I had to be up in thirty minutes anyway and didn’t want him lurking around while I was trying to get Makayla ready for school.  I gritted my teeth until I got used to his feet and vowed to make him start wearing socks at night no matter how big of a fit he throws about hit.  He says socks make his toes sweat and it makes his “in between toes” squishy.  I have told him he doesn’t know squishy until he steps in a fresh cow patty bare footed.  At six I went to get Makayla ready for school and as soon as her bedroom light was on her brother shot out of bed like a rocket asking what we were going to do today.  An hour later after Makayla was off to school, I asked Caleb, “What will you have for breakfast today, Son?”

He tapped his chin with his forefinger, a habit he learned from his sister and looked up at the ceiling in thought.  I looked up too.  I saw the ceiling.

“I will have a corn dog,” he said.

“You will not have a corn dog.  Choose something else more appropriate for breakfast.”

“A cheeseburger.”

“You know what we eat for breakfast,” I told him, cranky from lack of caffeine and sleep, “Now you choose or I will choose for you.  Would you like me to make you some eggs?  Or waffles?  Maybe a fried egg on a waffle?”

“I would like a breakfast sandwich please,” he said.

Oh good.  He had discovered my secret stash of super quick breakfasts that I make in the microwave for when I’m in a hurry.  They’re convenient because I can zap them for one minute and carry them around with me when I’m playing outside.  I made him his sandwiches.  He demanded two.  He ate one.  I wasn’t hungry at all; in fact I was pretty sure I was going to throw up but ate his other one.  Then I threw up.  After that was over, I lied on the hardwood floor so I could press my cheeks against the cold surface to cool off and Sassy, my grandma’s lapdog trotted over to me to cuddle.  Sassy is old now so I don’t push her away anymore or ever deny her love so I let her cuddle though I warned her to keep her dog hair out of my face since I was sure feeling dog hairs around my mouth would make me hurl.  Caleb brought me a cold rag and rubbed my back and after waking up all the way, my stomach relaxed and I felt a surge of energy.  I jumped up and said “Woo hoo!” because I was relieved that this morning’s tummy nausea wasn’t going to be a blasted all day event like it’s been more than a few times.  Caleb and I lurked all over the farm and into the brush and the trees and down by the creek until it was time for a Dr. appointment.  I had to make myself more presentable since I had dirt and sweat all over my face and clothes so I went to disguise myself into a civilized human in the bathroom.  When I came out, Caleb had destroyed the house by throwing folded blankets everywhere and tossing pillows about.  He was making a fort for Sassy he said.  That sounded reasonable to me so I told him to put the things back and go to the car.

After the doctor, we went to the library.  “We’re at the City Library!”  Caleb cheered.  I love how he calls it the City Library. 

“I will look at the movies while you look at the books,” he said, “I want more books.”

“I just got you new books,” I told him, “I am turning in my old ones and getting new ones.  You will stay with me and then when I am finished choosing books, we can look at the movies.”

He agreed that my plan was fair.  I know this because he said, “I agree.  That sounds fair.”

We entered the library and Caleb let the librarians know he was there by yelling, “Hello there girls!  How are you?”

I reminded him we must speak quietly at the library and he is not to refer to grown women as “girls” but to say “Hello ma’am.”  I had him redo his introduction in an “indoor” voice so he said softly to the librarians “hello ma’ams.  How are you ma’ams?”  He then proceeded to show them his muscles.  His real muscles couldn’t be seen because he was wearing his Octimus Prime costume and that sucker has giant padded muscles sewn into it.  He’s not aware yet that holding your mommy’s hand isn’t cool in front of pretty girls so he grabbed my hand, pointed towards the “grown up books” as he calls them and said, “Come on Mom.  Let’s go look at your books over there.”

I love books.  I love books nearly as much as I love riding horses and much more than I like most people.  I especially love to read books on world cultures and history and strolled all around the non-fiction section reading titles and skimming through books I’ve never read.  I wanted to take them all.  I finally realized I needed to go ahead and make a choice because my little guy had been very patient and when you’re four, it isn’t exactly easy to have to wait on a grown up who is looking at grown up things when your entire heart is set on finding the perfect Spiderman movie.  I chose my books and led Caleb over to find a movie.  The Moore’s squirt was pounding my bladder and I had to pee and I was getting nauseous but Caleb had been very patient for me so it was only right that I be patient for him.  I sat down in a chair while he picked a movie and asked him to help me pick something for Sister too.  We chose Charlotte’s Web for Makayla and he chose some superhero kid movie.  While I was checking out, Caleb started chatting up the librarian who wasn’t helping us.  I was about to remind him to ask if she was busy and if she had time to chat before just starting a conversation, but as I opened my mouth to tell him, that horrifying feeling came all over me and in front of the whole blasted place, I puked in the trash.  As a person who does not typically have the embarrassment gene, humiliation isn’t something I struggle with but when I’m inconveniencing the public with my stinky barf, I don’t have that great of a self image.  Then I realized I had puked in the trash can where people put paper to be recycled.  Not only was I being a public nuisance, I was messing with Texas and desecrating nature.  All at the same time.  Caleb rushed over and grabbed my hand and patted it saying, “It’s OK mommy.  It’s good you made it to the trashcan.  You need to drink some water.”  He looked madly around for some water to bring me and then he instructed a woman behind him to “get my mommy some water please ma’am.”

“I’m fine,” I said to the startled woman and took the entire trashcan full of puke out to the dumpster.  The dumpster itself made me dry heave and going back into the library seemed like the most humiliating thing ever but I wanted my books and Caleb wanted his movie.  Whatever.  I knew all of those people in there anyway and had seen most of them do way dumber stuff than puke in a recycle trash can.  After that fiasco was over, I drove home and put Caleb down for a nap.  Before I knew it, Makayla’s bus was dropping her off at the end of the long dirt road and terrified some highway kidnapper would drive by just as she got off, I threw my boots on and ran down the road until I caught up with her.  I felt like I had been running pretty fast but she told me it took me forever to get to her.  I told her she could have maybe run towards me to quicken the pace.  She said she thought I wanted to run since “you keep saying you’re getting too big too quick Mommy.  So running will make you little again I bet.”

Terrified I was setting her up for a future eating disorder with my comments I quickly reminded her that it is very important to not get too big because it is not good for our hearts and health but not being big enough is just as bad and all that yadda yadda to ensure she grows up with a realistic expectation for weight and self image.  I’m always terrified I’m going to mess up my kids with some dumb young person statement and try to fix the dumb things I do and say with wise sentiments.

Being outside and feeling the wind on my face made me feel better but as soon as I got back inside my stomach started hurting again.  After dinner as I did the dishes I was certain I would die.  My stomach cramped and Caleb had asked every ten seconds when he would watch his new movie.  I had told him repeatedly that he would watch the movie tomorrow and every few minutes and sometimes seconds he asked again.  While doing the dishes I finally snapped at him, “I will NEVER get you another movie again if you don’t stop that right now.”

The act of even talking made me afraid I was going to hurl and I leaned over and groaned to keep from dry heaving. 

“Don’t worry Bubba,” Makayla said, “She’ll forget.  Just like she forgot that she was never taking me to town ever again.”  She put little air quotes around the part where she said “never taking me to town ever again.”  My grandmother reminded me to never give a consequence I can’t go through with and told me a story of how she had handled a situation when her kids were little and reminded me that I’m the one who is in charge of them taking me seriously.  Since I stopped knowing more than my grandparents when I was about eighteen or so, I listened thoughtfully and tried to think of how I could apply what she said to what I do.  When the dishes were finally done, I finished up some chores in the back of the house and then ran outside, grateful to be in the evening sunshine and around the trees and dirt and grass.  We let the dogs out and the kids and dogs and I took off running past the tool sheds and barns and wheat fields, all the way to the path that leads you to the creek.  As I ran I wanted to close my eyes in sheer joy at the wind blowing in my face and through my hair but closing your eyes when you’re running is never a good idea so when we got to the creek path I just laid down in the grass and rolled around.  When I had rolled all my happiness out, I laid back and smiled up at the sky and clouds and sunset and stretched my arms as high as they would go so I could feel the wind between my fingers and the kids plopped down beside me: Caleb laying on the ground right next to me, Makayla sitting lady like, afraid to mess up her hair.  I showed them how the wind blows the clouds and talked about the different types of clouds there are.  I told them how lots of places aren’t like the farm and how I’d rather never be anywhere else unless of course I’m at the beach in Corpus.

“When I moved to Arizona there were buildings all around.  A person couldn’t even hardly see the sky at all.  And beyond those awful buildings there were great big mountains.  You couldn’t feel the wind and you couldn’t see the sun come up or go down.  And at night you couldn’t see the milky way and you could only see a few stars.”

They both looked at me with horror.

“Did you die?” Caleb whispered.

“No.  I survived.  But even when you are somewhere that isn’t where you really want to be it’s best to find the good things about the strange place.  It never snowed in Mesa.  And the mountains really were pretty.  But those things only help you get by.  You have to be where you love to really be alive I think.  And if you can’t be, then find the best things about that place and be happy that you have people with you who love you.”

I figured that was important.  They seemed bored.  I wondered if they ever really understood the importance behind what I try to instill in them.  I wondered what would happen if they became hoodlums or even worse, lobbyists. 

“I will never go anywhere I can’t see the stars and the sunset,” Makayla told me.

We got up and walked back to the house because it was too dark to go to the creek and I don’t like getting mauled by night creatures, especially porcupines.  Snacks and baths and teeth were all taken care of and the kids put to bed.  Grandpa came into the computer room and told me, “We’ve got a full moon out there and me and mamma’s gonna go spoonin.”  Gross.  I made a face at him and told him to enjoy himself and went to the window to look at the moon.  I smiled at it.  Later as I read, I heard the wind blowing through the trees and the coyotes howling and snuggled happy and cozy into my bed, perfectly happy with everything in the world. 

The Edible Cake and Hallway Skating

I was minding my own business, getting a lecture from my grandpa about volume control while lurking through the house when I got a fabulous idea.  I decided to create an edible cake for him.  I announced this to change the subject but he still wanted to discuss my “storming around” the house.  In my defense I wasn’t storming at all.  I was galloping to gain momentum to slide across the wood floor like a professional hockey player.  With enough momentum I can get all the way down the hallway if the rug or wall doesn’t get in my way.  One time while I was sliding down the hall Makayla barged through the front door and I was sliding at such a high speed that as she flung the door open, I slid right into it and fell backwards.  Last night I went to slide down the hallway but I forgot I wasn’t wearing socks and just kind of skidded until I fell down into a weird belly flop in the middle of the floor.  Makayla looked out from her room and looked at me and said, “Are you trying to do the worm again?”  I was pretty embarrassed about that and told her I was “stretching.”  She believed me.  Why I just so happened to be stretching in the hallway, on the floor, sprawled on my belly must not have been suspicious to her. 

Anyway, I told my grandfather perhaps my volume was not my problem but his since he’s got oddly large ears and he told me he was hearing impaired and I conceded that ear size has nothing to do with ability to hear, I suppose unless you were born without ears, and agreed to be quieter when sliding down the hallway.  After dinner I created my cake.  At first I was going to make it from scratch but was pretty much forbidden to do so since my grandma was thoughtful enough to buy me those easy little box cakes.  Apparently she doesn’t want me blowing up, imploding, igniting, or creating un-oven friendly things in her oven.  My grandfather voiced amazement that I was even allowed in the kitchen and I chose to be the bigger person and ignore his comment.  Since the lame box cake was ridiculously simple to make it turned out to be edible.  After I iced it I hollered to Grandpa three times, “Would you like a piece of this cake?”  He didn’t answer.  I sent each child to ask and he didn’t answer.  Grandma asked and he didn’t answer.  Grandma finally said, “He’ll have his later.”  Fair enough.  Makayla announced, while eating her cake, “Mommy finally made a normal cake!”  My grandmother thought this was funny.  After my children were done eating their cake my grandpa went into the kitchen, peered down at the cake and said, “What’s this?”

“That’s an edible cake that I created,” I said, “Y’all all laughed at me.  And now look.”

“No one offered me a piece,” he said, basically pouting.

I rolled my eyes at him, “We all four asked you if you wanted a piece.”

“I figured you wanted it with ice cream anyway,” Grandma said.

“Like we haven’t learned his odd habits in the entirety of our acquaintance with him,” I said to grandma, then to him, “We’ve known you for a year or two.  You eat your cake with ice cream.”

“Didn’t no one offer me a piece,” he said, just to be annoying, “I’m hearing impaired.”

“You hear just fine when I’m walking quiet like an Indian down the hallway,” I said, “but I offer you a piece of your favorite dessert three times, have two children and your wife offer you some cake, and you claim to have never heard these offerings.  How odd.”

He mocked my “Indian walking” and said my galloping down the hall made grandma bounce in her chair.  He demonstrated what said bouncing looked like and appeared to be having a demon exorcised.  I don’t gallop that damn hard.  I ignored his performance and thought about the horrible cake episode in “The Help,” and decided against making such a comment.  That would have just been in bad taste.

Sticker Patches and Humans are a Bad Combination

Grandma and Grandpa announced that they were going to town to “Wally World” and I decided to take that opportunity to brush their dog, Jake, since he’s starting to resemble a giant ball of fluff with two little eyes. 

“Want to see the way I do it?” Grandpa asked.

Since I know how to brush a dog I really didn’t care to see a demonstration but sometimes Grandpa has new tricks so I said, “Sure.”
We went to the back porch and he proceeded to pick at Jake’s fur so that the part that was shedding just came right out.  Then he stuck the hair he had removed on my shirt.  I thanked him and got to work with the actual comb.  Within ten minutes I was bored with the task and realized it would take at least an hour.  Since the sun was burning on my face and the breeze was perfect, I decided I’d rather spend an hour lurking through the wilderness and figured I could brush Jake later.  There’s a creek close to my grandpa’s farm, with hills and caves and all sorts of cool stuff and I spent a great deal of my childhood tromping all over acres and acres of brush land.  I also spent a great deal of my teenage years sneaking off to the same places to smoke cigarettes and drink beer and skinny dip with my friends.  But today, I decided I would take my son to some of the calmer parts of the creek and show him some of my favorite spots.  Since the creek is a pretty good way from the farm, I took Jake with me and decided Taylor Swift would enjoy exploring. 

          We left the farm and started down the dirt road that leads to the creek.  Jake always stays off to the side of us or directly in front of us and most of the time if I stop he won’t go another step until I start moving again.  Caleb didn’t like that he wasn’t right with us and I explained that that was Jake’s way of protecting us and Jake was just keeping an eye on what was around us.  Taylor Swift stopped literally every five minutes with stickers in her paws.  I hadn’t considered that her feet weren’t tough like Jakes yet.  I ended up just carrying her the majority of the time.  We left the dirt road down a path I knew wouldn’t have too many thorny trees, yucca plants, cacti, and patches of stickers.  Caleb and I climbed a big hill that’s right above the creek and as we looked at rolling hills and the creek and endless land, Caleb said, “Mommy, this is where God lives.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I just do,” he said.

We made our way down the hill to the creek.  I showed him lily pads and found him a bird nest.  I showed him plants that rattle and a tree with branches you can swing on.  We played for about an hour by the creek and I told Caleb to stay put while I climbed to the top of a mound of rocks to see if I could find Jake.  I climbed to the top and whistled for him.  A few minutes later he came out from another part of the trees and I told him to stay close.  I was climbing down from the rocks back into the ravine and noticed my son and Taylor were trying to make their way over to me.

“Wait!” I hollered as I made my way down the rocky hill.  There were sticker patches and thorns and I didn’t want Caleb roaming without me or Jake right there since he would probably try to hug a snake or rabid armadillo or something.  I scrambled down and misjudged how steep the hill was and one minute I was on my feet and the next I was sliding down on my back.  Not only did my decent put thousands of thorns in my shirt, when I stopped sliding down, I rolled over onto my stomach right into a sticker patch.  I stood up awkwardly and heard Caleb yelling.  I figured he was yelling because my graceful decent from the hill scared him but I soon found he and Taylor were both stuck in their own sticker patch.  He was standing there with stickers stuck to his superhero costume and Taylor was whining.  With my arms spread I waddled over to him and realized I wouldn’t be able to rescue them with stickers all in my shirt.  The slightest movement made the stickers poke me and tear my skin and after trying to brush them off only to get them caught deeper, I decided the only thing to do was take my shirt off.  I took it off carefully and threw it on the ground and rescued my son and pup.  Taylor Swifts paws were bleeding and Caleb had literally hundreds of stickers all over his pant legs.  I sat down in the dirt, not the sticker patch, in jeans and a bra, and got to work getting the stickers off of him.  Then I got to work on my own shirt but there were so many little thorns from when I rolled over tumbleweeds and apparently even a cactus, that it was hopeless without tweezers.  So I picked up my dog, grabbed my son’s hand, and started walking home.  In my bra.  I was hoping with my whole heart that my grandparents would not be home yet and thirty minutes later, when I arrived at the farm, saw that they were home.  I covered my front, rushed in the front door, and said, “Don’t ask,” when they both looked up at me.  Grandma went back to her puzzle book without a word and Grandpa went back to his computer without a word.  They’re used to me.  I was relieved some cowboy or oil people didn’t come across the crazy lady without a shirt on, lurking through random brush land holding a puppy and a little boy in a superhero costume.  I think some would find a site like that odd.

Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Could Bake Like Me

So I was minding my own business, cleaning Taylor Swift’s poop from my grandma’s porch in the freezing cold weather when I got what some would call a “wild hair up my butt” and decided to make enchiladas.  Typically my culinary skills are more humorous than productive but enchiladas I can do.  After dry heaving from my task, I went back inside and announced my plans.  Grandma and I checked the freezer and discovered I would need to go out to the well house to fetch some hamburger meat.  My grandma and grandpa are never short on beef since they butcher their own cows, one of the reasons I no longer allow myself to get emotionally close to livestock.  It’s difficult when they’re babies because they aren’t hideous yet but as they get older, uglier, and more annoying, establishing emotional boundaries is much easier.  Anyway, I went out to the well house to fetch a pound of beef and inspected what else they had in their stock freezer.  There were bags upon bags of chocolate chips.  I resisted the urge to open a bag and inhale the contents and ran inside to announce that I would be making chocolate chip cookies.  Halfway to the house I realized I forgot the hamburger and had to go back and get it.  I announced my plans upon entering through the back door, while also announcing I had stepped in either dog or cow shit which was impossible to see because of the snow.  My grandma looked slightly annoyed, either from the poop or my eager plan to bake or both.  It is well known that 97% of the time my baking results in an explosion or dry heaves.  I have even turned substances appropriate for human consumption into poison.  It felt like poison anyway.  The last time I baked Makayla said, “You’re like a chef on the cooking show only you’re the one who gets yelled at.”   I made dinner, washed dishes, and got to work on my cookies.  Grandma had already gotten all of my supplies ready since I have a bad habit of just starting my baking project and finding out halfway through that I’m missing important things that I need.  That’s when I improvise.  Out of flour?  Corn meal is like flour.  Out of vanilla?  Try whiskey.  Grandma went to the living room to her chair, a good spot since she could keep an eye on what I was doing from there.  The first instruction was to place two sticks of softened butter in the bowel.  Grandma had already asked if I wanted plastic or glass and I assured her plastic was a much more appropriate item for me to handle.  Especially since she likes her glass bowels and I have a habit of breaking things.  I held up the two sticks of butter so she could see and said, “It says these need to be soft.  Are these already-“  I cut myself short as my stealth grip sent butter oozing between my fingers and it exploded out of the paper.

“Well shit.  It begins,” I said.

“What?” Grandma asked.

“It’s fine!” I hollered back, “Everything is under control.”

Next the recipe called for ¼ cup of sugar.  Naturally I dumped a cup of sugar into the bowel because I thought it had said one and one fourths cup.

“Crap!” I yelled, “It’s ruined already.”

I explained my mistake and went to dump some sugar in the sink.  Grandma hollered at me not to do that and to just not put as much brown sugar in.  Duh.  She also instructed me not to get shells in the batter.  She told me not to splatter batter everywhere with the mixer.  I mixed the ingredients together and asked her if it was fluffy enough since the recipe instructed me to mix until fluffy.  She assured me it was.  The second step was flour, vanilla pudding mix, baking soda, and chocolate chips. 

“I forgot the eggs!” I screeched.

“No you didn’t,” Grandma said, “I watched you put them in.”

Ok.  Good.

Since the recipe called for instant vanilla pudding, I went about making the pudding.

“Just the mix Jess,” Grandma said, seeing me contemplating the box of pudding to figure out how to make it.

“Oh!” I said, “That’s much easier.”

I dumped the mix and flour and chips in the bowel.  I started mixing and remembered the baking soda.  Then I went on mixing and was very alarmed at what was happening.  The dough was forming one large ball all around the mixer.

“Ummmm,” I said, “This is odd.”

I continued mixing and the ball got bigger and bigger until all the dough was just a big ball around the mixing blades.  I was about to put the mixer on full blast so it would spray it all off and figured I’d catch as much as possible in the bowel but grandma came in to assist me and laughed at my dough ball.

“I have never seen someone blend like that!” she said, claiming I nearly made her pee her pants.  Apparently I was supposed to put the flour and stuff in a different bowel and slowly blend it in with the fluffy stuff.  We scraped the batter off back into the bowel and I mixed it with a spatula.  Then I spooned drops of dough onto a cookie sheet.  My grandmother studied my dough balls and told me to make them a little smaller.  I told her I’ve always been a fan of bigger balls.  Once the dough balls were in the oven my grandma turned on the oven light and I sat in front of the oven to watch them cook.  “They aren’t cooking!” I informed my grandmother.  She shooed me out and told me to come get them out when the timer went off.  When it did, I flew into the kitchen and pulled my cookies out.  We put them on paper to cool and Grandma took a bite out of one.  She claimed it was good while offering me a bite.  I searched her face for signs of deception or distress.  She showed signs of neither.  I took a bite and the cookie was actually good.  I finally baked something edible.  Not only edible but enjoyable.  I have pictures for proof.

Quick Update

I’m not sure the last time I updated this thing.  Not only have I been stupid busy, my laptop is in the shop.  Or at Best Buy getting a new screen.  I’m at the grandpeople’s house now, picking up my offspring since they spent the night last night.  Immediately upon arriving an hour ago, I raided the fridge and asked grandma to make some coffee since I still haven’t mastered her new coffee pot.  Anyway, Matt and I broke up a few months ago.  I’m not going into any details on a public blog, but basically I got sick of dating a fourteen year old girl.  Since then I have encountered a few characters.  There was the scientist I dated for a short time.  After a month of seeing each other regularly we decided to tell the Facebook world we were in a relationship with each other.  An hour after the update he called, frantic, basically hysterical.

“Oh my God, something really really bad has happened,” he said, “it’s really bad.”

“What’s up?” I asked.  I was already used to his dramatic outbursts and had been extremely busy inhaling a bowel of ramen.

“My mom and sister saw our relationship update and they’re really mad.  They want me to date this girl they’ve been trying to set me up with and they said they don’t want me to date anyone else but her.”

I was annoyed that this was the “really bad” issue and said, “I fail to see why this is our problem.  They’ll get over it.”

“No!” he screamed, which startled me slightly, “my mom and sister don’t just get over things.  Plus the girl they want me to date had cancer.”

I was becoming irritated with the conversation and let him know that.

“Where’s your compassion?” he asked, “my mom already told her that I was going to date her and now she’s heart broken.  She had CANCER five years ago.  She’s already seen enough pain.”

“This is the most retarded conversation I’ve had in over a week,” I told him, “I have no idea why I haven’t hung up on you yet.  Calm the shit down and tell those people to go bother someone else.”

“We have to take down our relationship status and pretend like we’re just friends until I get this straightened out,” he said, “give me a few months to ease mother into it.”

“Unacceptable,” I told him, “But good luck with yourself if you do that.”

“My sister and I were verbally abused when we were kids,” he said, “so my mom is really protective and she just isn’t ready for me to date anyone she hasn’t known for a while.”

“Verbal abuse is what parents do,” I said, “grow some balls or something but I’m over your retarded freak out.”

I hung up on him.  The next week his mother and sister called him every time we were together, yelling at him for not dating the girl they had chosen for him.  They told him how cruel he was for rejecting someone who had survived cancer.

“Look on the bright side,” I told him during dinner, “that girl is ALIVE.  Cancer isn’t a goddam crutch.  This girl is throwing a fit and she gets a group of retards all worked up because she had cancer five years ago?  Sounds like someone should bitch slap some common sense into her.”

He was horrified and told me all the negativity was causing his spiritual life major trauma.

“My bed levitated three feet off the ground last night,” he said, “and some shadow was screaming latin at me.”

“We both know that did not happen,” I said, “enough.”

“Jess, it did.”

“That is called schizophrenia,” I said casually, “I suggest you seek medical attention.”

After that, I pretty much decided he was a freakshow and something gross was going on between him and his lunatic sister and creepy mom.  I told him he reminded me of a VC Andrews novel and not to contact me again.  Between that moron and now, I’ve experienced some lunatics.  There was the guy who drives yellow vehicles and sent me a picture of himself holding a whole bunch of cash.  I was unable to take that yahoo seriously.  There was the bodybuilder who spent more time than me making himself look pretty and constantly griped at me for my eating habits and “poor skin regime.”  There was the guy who claimed my love for the ninja turtles was a sexual fetish.  Retard.  So that’s what has been going on in my ever stable love life.

The kids and I moved into a new apartment recently.  I love it but hate how messy Caleb is able to keep it.  We have this rail upstairs that he loves to throw things over and he throws things faster than I can clean.  Makayla is a good girl about stuff like that and quick to try to help when he destroys everything we own.  She’s also really good about reading to her brother while I attempt to clean the catastrophes he creates all over the house. 

That’s about all I have to update right now since I’m about to go to Pizza Hut.  There was alarming curiosity over the dumb scientist which is why I even mentioned that yahoo so now we can all stop talking about it.  Namaste friends.