Potato Salad School

We have friends and family coming over tomorrow, so I've just finished making a giant batch of potato salad. It's my mother-in-law's recipe, and it's the only one I ever make anymore. Of course, it hasn’t always been my favorite. It was love at first sight when my husband and I met. I fell in love with his family as well. Their taste in food, however, was another story. The goulash was good. The nachos were great, but I just couldn't understand why this family insisted on putting green olives in everything. I’ve often heard that they are an acquired taste. At that point, I still didn't care for them much. Imagine my surprise, then, when they even showed up in the potato salad! I was beginning to worry I might starve at family functions.

Fast forward many years. My husband and I had been married for almost a decade. We had three beautiful children, and I had learned to love green olives - especially in Cathy's potato salad. She was called upon to make it for all the picnics, potlucks, and gatherings. The last few get-togethers had been difficult, however. My mother-in-law had cancer, and it had begun to manifest itself in interesting ways, including some we did not expect. There was, of course, the fatigue and nausea. But, there were other things, too – more campout weekends together; the re-telling of childhood stories; the increasingly-frequent exchange of wan, knowing smiles.  

She arrived at my house one afternoon with three huge bags of supplies - potatoes, bowls, special kitchen equipment, and (of course) green olives. Apparently, Potato Salad School was in session, and I was ready to be a diligent pupil. Because it wasn't a recipe she had ever written down, but rather a labor of love each and every batch, we mixed, and chopped, and tasted together. I took copious notes. By the end of the afternoon we had a big bowl of what was unquestionably her special potato salad, I had a recipe in hand, and she wore a tired but triumphant expression.

It was then that I really stopped to take a good look at her. Her hair had been short, wavy, and black before the chemo. The wig she had chosen that day was a chin-length, blonde bob. (Even in the face of such loss, she chose to find the bright side, experimenting with hairstyles she never would have been able to achieve otherwise.) She was thin, and didn't have the stamina she used to. In that moment, I suddenly realized Potato Salad School was about far more than just passing along a recipe. It was one part rite of passage for a daughter-in-law, one part passing-of-the-torch for a mother-in-law. It was, in short, the assurance that her potato salad - and all that it entailed - would continue, even if she did not.

Cathy passed away about a year later. It had been a long, hard process, and we were blessed to be by her side during the weeks she was in the hospital and Hospice. The whole family gathered with my father-in-law back at their house the morning after she died, numb and unsure of what to do. I found myself drawn to the kitchen, and began dragging out her giant bowl, methodically peeling potatoes, and hunting around in the cupboard for the jars of green olives that I knew I would find there. After all - the family was together, and that meant someone had to make the potato salad. I’m not sure it tasted as good as hers, but it was a comfort to have it there anyway.

Since then, I’ve been the one expected to make it for all the picnics, potlucks, and gatherings, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Every second helping and satisfied “mmmmm” are reminders of my beloved mother-in-law, all the love she had for her family, and our special afternoon together where I learned so much more than just how to make potato salad. 

Image courtesy of Simon Howden/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Chasing Butterflies with Sarah

Listen up folks - I've got an important announcement to make. I've been saying it to my children for years, and have even lectured students in my classes about it. It's time I sit you all down and have the talk with you as well. Get comfy, 'cuz there's some preachin' comin' your way.

If your life isn't poignant, you aren't paying attention.

That's it. Do you need me to repeat it? If.your.life.isn't.poignant.you.aren't.paying.attention. It's as simple as that. Go ahead - let it sink in for a minute.

I think it's important to start off with a good, solid understanding of what poignancy really is, and what it isn't. Most of the time this word evokes feelings of deep sadness or mourning for people. And, it can be that. But, it's so much more, too. Merriam-Webster dictionary describes the word poignant as piercing, deeply affecting, cutting, designed to make a lasting impression. There can be pain in the poignant, to be sure, but there can also be unfathomable joy, peace, revelation, desire, empathy, epiphany... the list goes on and on. The best moments of poignancy, if you ask me, are the ones that contain both ends of the spectrum - the comfortable and the uncomfortable - at the same time. Those highly acute moments - which stretch our emotional muscles to their fullest, until they are positively taut and buzzing - are the places where we truly experience what it feels like to live; where the most complex things in life are boiled down into one self-contained, momentary emotional high note.

Let me give you an example. The other day I took my girls to the zoo. We ambled through the ape house, traipsed by the tigers, and loitered in front the baby lions. We shared happiness, jokes, questions, gestures, and memories. These things were good, but they were not poignant. That didn't come until we sat ourselves down in the theater, giggled at each other in our goofy 3-D glasses, and watched as the a movie scrolled across the giant IMAX screen in front of us. Typically, I do not find that screen moments = poignant moments, which made it all the more painfully and startlingly wonderful when I looked over and saw my youngest child chasing the butterflies that appeared to leap off of the screen toward her.

She is allllllllllllllmost six years old. That means something. Anyone who has ever had kids, and watched them grow beyond that age, or anyone who honestly remembers what it was like to be a child of five years old, knows that five is significant. It is special in a way that no other age is. (Yes, yes... I know that can be said equally of every other age as well. But, that doesn't make it any less true.) Since she is our last, this is the last time I will be a mother to a five year old. In the fleeting days of this year of her life, in the shadowy darkness of that theater, I witnessed the special gift of five-years-old in the most poignant of ways possible. All of the innocence and incorruptible curiosity that is five was positively leaping from her dancing eyes and outstretched hands. Elation! Abandon! Freedom! Excitement! It was all there, on display, for what I knew would probably be one of the very last times ever for her as my child, and me as her mother. As I watched her, I couldn't help but feel an immensely proud pain in my heart. It was as though that bubble of joy that she exuded was being drawn up with the rushing winds of time. I could not experience her five-ness without the immediate and stinging realization of her imminent six-ness following behind to swallow it up. The moment was as delicate as the butterflies she was chasing, and every bit as fleeting, as well.

That was poignancy. It was dropped into my lap like a bittersweet gift. Thankfully, I've learned enough to savor such moments. When Sarah's joy had subsided, and she took her seat again, I looked around and noticed a handful of other beautiful, young children reaching toward the dancing images. A few parents took note, wearing knowing smiles like my own. Many shushed their excited kiddos, coaxing them to sit down once again and be quiet. Most, however - most! -  missed the experience entirely. That is why I am lecturing you. I don't want you to miss out.

It seems to me that so many people today, tired of their lives of quiet desperation, seek the calm, the smooth, the easy, the expected. Contentment is enough. Complacency. Sameness. Equanimity. I understand the urge to have these things. We should know them well, and live much of our lives in their comfortable embrace. However, a heartbeat requires peaks and valleys. Without them, we are flatlined. We are dead. It is the same for our emotional hearts. Relying on the safety of the known narrows our capacity to feel the highs and lows; to learn from what they have to teach us, to be filled with the knowledge and reality of their existence - even when painful.

I guess that's it. Lecture over. I truly hope you either really enjoyed it, or really didn't. Whichever it is, I win, since either reaction causes a bit of a blip to the heart rate on the ol' emotional EKG. Like any good teacher, I can't leave without giving you some homework. Below are several opportunities for you to work your poignancy muscle. I hope they help you hit some peaks and valleys, in order to get warmed up for the rest of your day, the rest of your week, and the rest of your life. Trust me on this - poignancy is out there - all around you - all the time. I truly believe that there is beauty, love, pain, grace, mercy, challenge, joy, etc, etc, etc. in every circumstance and every life. In short, the poignant is all around you. At least, the capacity for it is. Whether or not you allow yourself to find and experience it is often more about whether you are willing to look, than where, or even how hard.

Oh, and one more thing - there will be a test on this. It's called life, and I sincerely hope you do well on it. 

Not Your Typical Sports Report

1.) Read synopsis. 2.) Look Through Photos. 3.) Think and Be Moved

Big Baby, Little Baby

The Ending to an Old Fashioned Love Story

A Day at the Park 
And Yet, He Loves Us Still

Happy New Second!

Well, it's 2013. Despite what those rascally Mayans might have predicted, the world didn't end (at least, not here in Western Iowa), and the inexorable parade of time keeps bass-drumming its way down the avenue of life. New Year's Eve has never really been a highlight holiday for me. Around here, we tend to celebrate in as low-key of style as possible - generally in jammies. (Sure, we get strange looks at the black-tie parties we attend, but at least our dry cleaning bill is lower!) All joking aside, the reason you'll find the Farrier family at home on December 31st has as much to do with our philosophy in life as it does with our desire to be comfortable.

My understanding is that at a typical, big New Year's Eve party, the celebrants eat tiny food off of toothpicks, drink way too many mixed alcoholic drinks, then finish the evening off with a countdown, confetti, noisemakers, and a single kiss at midnight. What's up with that!? First off, if the food is any good, why would you want tiny portions? And, if it's not good, why would you want to eat it? How fancy can a party be if they're too cheap to get out the silverware, and force you to use toothpicks instead? That concept right there is enough to keep me at home.  Secondly, how much fun can a party be if the hosts have to ply me with enough liquor that I won't remember the party? How much fun can a party be if all the other guests have been plied with enough liquor that they won't remember the party, either?  See? Doesn't make much sense when you stop to think about it, does it? The only good thing about being at a party with that much free-flowing booze is that you won't be able to recall having acted like a total idiot, and neither will anyone else who was there. Don't be fooled into thinking that means none of you acted like total idiots, though - especially in the days of camera phones.

Finally, there's the fanfare and hoopty-doo of the countdown itself. I don't get this. At all. Are we really that desperate to be done with one year, that we're literally counting down the seconds until its demise? Seems a little macabre and mean spirited if you ask me. Sure, there are some times when I'd like to see the clock tick a tiny bit faster - during boring meetings, while driving on long trips, and when someone else is in the bathroom and I really need to go. Most often, however, I find myself wishing I could slow the clock and savor the precious moments of life a little bit longer, not the other way around. It seems like only yesterday that my children were born, yet I now find myself surrounded by graceful, intelligent, lovely young ladies. The reality of desperately wishing for time to fly by - even if it is only the last few seconds of a year - is that you're also wishing yourself out of the best stuff that life has to offer: time. Time to hug your kids. Time to tell your friends and family how much they mean to you. Time to put your hands to a task that will make the world a better place. Time - it's already a finite, vanishing resource in each life. Why would you wish it away faster than it's already disappearing?

Perhaps, however, I've got it all wrong. Maybe it's not the ending of the old year that gets people so audibly excited, but the beginning of the new one. Can that be true? Are all the streamers and noisemakers really about the fact that the last digit of the date will now be one bigger than it was before? To be honest, that's always brought more hassle than excitement to me. My checks almost always wear a strange, smudged, hybrid number until well in January, when I finally get the hang of writing the new one correctly. I sometimes wonder if the people at my bank worry that perhaps I've had a small stroke, or something.

What is it about the rolling over of the clock on New Year's Eve that causes us to be made aware of the freshness of possibilities for our lives? I understand the importance of a brand new calendar, a brand new year, and brand new chance for things to be brand new. But, while the symbolism, vocabulary, and hype might make it seem that January 1st is the only (or best) time of year to embrace such sentiments, I'd like to offer an alternative philosophy. It's a good one, I think, and the very same philosophy that I mentioned at the end of the first paragraph, and which keeps me on the couch instead of out and about on New Year's Eve.

Every day is a new day, filled with new opportunity. That's it. It's not just the January 1sts of life that give us the chance to renewed. It's every day. More than that, it's every hour, every minute, every second. Literally. How long does it take to make the decision to do the right thing? How long does it take to say the words, "I love you"? How long does it take to share a smile? To open a door? To savor the sunset? To give someone hope? This, people, is the good stuff in life. This is the substance of what we're here for. And, the best news of all, is that we have the chance to be brand new (and help others be brand new) each and every second of each and every day. Even if you're at home, and in your jammies.That's the beauty of this philosophy.

So, I want to wish you all a very happy New Year. But, more importantly, I also want to wish you a very happy New Month, New Day, New Hour, New Moment, and New Second. Because, honestly, these are the things worth celebrating.

Brassiere Basics

I'm a big girl. You know - curvy. Feminine. Buxom. I guess what I'm trying to delicately hint at is that I've got boobs. Which, of course, leads to the inevitable need for a bra. I say need, here, in the most fundamental sense. I don't wear one to ensure a 'smoother profile' or 'better posture'  - two of the many lies promulgated by bra manufacturers. No. My motivation for struggling into one each and every day is more a sense of self-preservation. You see, after breastfeeding three babies, they've become a tripping hazard. I can't say for sure, but my guess is that I'd be violating an OSHA mandate if I didn't keep 'the girls' safely contained - for my own safety, and the safety of others. A bra for a well-endowed woman is really more about structural support than sex appeal, which is all the more reason why you'd think someone like me would invest in top-of-the-line gear. Alas, that is sadly not the case.

Why am I exposing myself (figuratively and a bit literally) and writing about such things? It's all my bestie's fault. She is one of those people who is funny, cute, and always looks pulled-together and neat. During a break in a conference we attended together, she commented about how much she loved my dress, and asked me to take off my jacket so she could see the back. Thrilled to have impressed my fashionista friend, I started to slip my arm out of the sleeve, and then froze. I hemmed. I hawed. I made excuses, and blushed furiously. Finally, I had no choice but to admit the truth - I couldn't take my jacket off because the halter neckline of the dress would expose the back of my bra. Usually, this would not be a problem between buddies. However, my bra, on that particular day, looked like something out of a redneck fix-it shop. You can see, then, why I was hesitant to show it off.

The implement itself wasn't all that unusual. It was your typical Walmart bra - white, with a three hook closure in the back, and made for nursing. The problem was, I hadn't nursed a baby in two years. Since the time it was purchased, I'd also gained some girth, and had added a handy extender to give me some extra breathing room. The extender was black. And six hooks wide. And had been repaired in hot-pink thread. I might as well have used duct tape and baling twine when it came to aesthetics. The final result couldn't have been much worse.

My friend, being the intuitive gal that she is, began to throw questions my way about the offending item of clothing. In short order she had guessed that I was ashamed to show it because it was a nursing bra, despite the fact that I was no longer a nursing mother. Thankfully, she accepted that as the reason why I was hesitant to flash some skin and show off the back of my dress, so I was spared the embarrassment of having to actually reveal my neon stitches and mismatched extender.  I did, however, have to sit through a mild chiding about the importance of finding the right bra. Arguing was out of the question - partly because I knew I deserved the lecture, and partly because I was afraid she'd want to point something out and discover just how shockingly bad my undergarment really was.

At any rate, she was right. Since then, I've tried to be more mindful of my choice in brassieres. I no longer own a single nursing bra, and am down to just one extender, which happens to be the same color and width as the bra it is affixed to. Moreover, just last week I actually discarded a bra after the underwire broke, rather than simply pulling both wires out and continuing to wear it as-is, which is (I'm ashamed to say) something I've done in the past (Hey, at least it's economical...)

All in all, I'm glad to report that I've taken some major steps in the right direction, and am well on my way toward having an arsenal of support garments that's both attractive and strong enough to tote the load. And, not a moment too soon. After all, I'm raising three daughters who (if genetics are any indicator) are likely to be similarly well-endowed. I'm determined to not let them down when it comes to brassiere basics. I'm sure the answers are out there - some mysterious combination of fact, science, lore, and spandex - hidden deep within the pages of the Victoria's Secret catalogs, blueprints in the basement of the Vatican, and the annual OSHA safety guidelines. If all else fails, I can always get out the extenders and pink thread. They may not be pretty, but at least they work.

On Getting Older

I'm getting older. At least I'm in good company, though. Turns out, you're getting older too. We all are. Despite scientific, medical, pharmaceutical, cosmetic, and even surgical advances,  you cannot stop the onslaught of time. It is relentless. I have recently come to discover that it is hairy, as well. Allow me to explain.

Picture it - Mother's Day. After church my adoring family had announced that they were going to take me out to the restaurant of my choice to celebrate my role as matriarch of our little clan, since that's what tradition (and Hallmark) require on this made-up May holiday. A few minutes later we were perched on greasy seats at a wobbly table in a local fast food joint.  (Yes, that's what I chose. Partly because I love their burgers so very, very much, and partly because the faster we ate our food, the sooner I would be able to go home for a  much-anticipated Mother's Day nap. Don't judge me.) 

Anyway... the sun was streaming through the window. My children were grinning in my direction (they liked that I chose the fast food place too.) My husband was staring intently at me. I was just thinking how lucky I was to have a healthy, happy family, and a man who still found me beautiful after so many years of marriage, when he leaned forward, brushed my cheek softly, wrinkled his brow, and said, "Is that a hair?" I paused, french fry in midair.

"Is what a hair?"

"That." He pointed. "That thing. On your mole."

Oy. Now those are words you don't ever, ever want to come out of anyone's mouth about you. Especially not your husband's. Especially not on Mother's Day. Especially not in public. My greasy hand instinctively went to my face. (Which, in hindsight, wasn't such a smart thing. Who wants a pimple on top of a hairy mole, after all?)

"I think it is. I think there are two, actually." He said, with great interest.

"Nu - uh!" I gasped in horror, and excused myself to rush to the bathroom. 

In the ladies' room, I locked the door and peered into the mirror. He was right. Though the hairs were blonde (thank goodness!), they were there, nonetheless - long, mocking, and a reminder of the fact that I was getting older. I think all women eventually come to the place of thinking they've either turned into hideous old crones, or (even worse) their own mothers. That's how I felt. I plucked the hairs, washed my hands (because touching mole hairs is gross, you know), and returned to the table. My husband grinned, and inspected my face closely.

"You got 'em, eh? Nice job!" He offered an upheld hand for a high-five.

I figured that since I had officially turned into a witch, I would be able to vaporize him on the spot with one glare from my wizened, cloudy eye. After all, though he hadn't technically caused my facial follicles to explode, he had been the one who noticed them doing so. Same difference, right? When I realized that my pouty stare hadn't worked, I couldn't help but grin back at him, though, and return the high-five - an action typically reserved for victors in sporting events or for moments of great triumph or importance. In retrospect, I realized that it was the perfect gesture.

For one thing, life is a great race. The most we can do is endeavor to run our race well, to the very end, until we cross the finish line and share the fullness of the victory of Christ. The mole hairs and other unpleasantries we get along the way are simply indicators of the mile markers passing by. High five - you're still running your race! And, the fact that I have someone to share my life with - even the unpleasant bits - who loves me through thick and thin is a great triumph in and of itself. High five - there are people in your life who will run your race with you, from the highest highs, to the lowest lows, even if you turn into a troll.  That's pretty sweet stuff indeed.

Since then, I've discovered a few more signs of age, and I'm sure that trend will continue. But, it's all good. Every hair, sag, and wrinkle I come across is another reminder of the fact that I'm still here, and still going strong. Life may not always be pretty, but it certainly is something to celebrate.  I'm getting older. But, I'm in good company. You're getting older too. Can I get a high five for that?

Lee Ann

It's my best friend's birthday, and I want to shout it from the rooftops! (Actually, six months and three days ago, when I first started this blog post, was my best friend's birthday. But one of the many reasons I love her so much is that she tolerates my procrastination.) I have a really good plan for a really cool birthday gift that I'm really going to make for her eventually. Really. Honest. But, since I am a procrastinator and always run late (see previous sentence), I at least wanted to take this chance to tell all of you (my devoted, faithful readers) about my best friend, Lee Annie.

Ok - first off, her name is just Lee Ann, not Lee Annie. But, she and I have been like two peas in a pod since I was born (and she was six weeks old), and we used to giggle in utter abandon and delight about how well our names fit together -  just like us. We would skip through the park, hand-in-hand, in our matching, hooded capes when we were little and be content in the knowledge that we had the world by the tail. To be honest, I still feel that way when we get to hang out (though the capes no longer fit, and matching clothing is a bit strange for honest-to-goodness grownup ladies like ourselves).

It helped, of course, that we have a shared red-neck upbringing during our tender, formative years. Though, truth be told, if push ever came to shove, she'd out redneck me in a competition any day of the week.After all, I've never had a pet raccoon, squirrel or alligator. Let alone several of each. She has. True story. Anyway - even if that were to happen (is there such a thing as a redneck competition?),  I'm pretty certain that our attachment would survive. I think it can make it through whatever life might throw our way. In fact, it kind of already has. We've done everything from living a few blocks apart, to having several states separating us. Even more amazing, we've even survived living together! (Briefly, and when we were very young. There were no squabbles over the division of rent or utilities, but the nightly arguments about whose turn it was to wash and whose turn it was to dry was every bit as rough as any adult disagreement could ever be. I'm sure of it.)

Despite such seemingly-insurmountable challenges, our friendship is holding strong. I'm sure there are a lot of reasons for that. First off, our mothers are still friends. Our children are as well, which makes us the gooey center of a lovely, multi-generational friend sandwich. We also, finally, have the joy of being buddies within fairly close geographic proximity (not as close as we were before I had the nerve to move to the other side of the state, mind you...) But, most of all, we are still friends because we both know waaaay too much about the other to leave the friendship without serious fallout. I'm pretty sure either of us could ruin a potential presidential campaign for the other, for example, just from the information we know about the other's teenage years. The thing is, though- we wouldn't.

I know I can trust Lee Ann to keep my secrets - from what I looked like the one and only time I wore a two-piece swimming suit, to just how ratty I let my undergarments get before buying new ones - to the very end. She still chuckles at my lame jokes, and guffaws at the really good ones. Hearing her ring tone on my cell phone is enough to cheer me up. When I pulled the first nasty, long hair from a mole on my face, I texted a picture of it to her (along with a friendly reminder that I might be turning into an old crone, but she is 6 weeks ahead of me in the process, since she's the older one.) And, I'm pretty sure the only reason we haven't each jumped the parenting ship and headed for the border is because we remind one another - on a daily basis - that it's normal for children to scream and whine, that it doesn't mean we're bad parents if our children scream and whine, and that if we don't stick around for the long haul we won't be able to re-tell the stories of when our children screamed and whined when they are listening to their own children scream and whine. And that, my friends, is what real friendship looks like.

Grooming Tips for the Uninitiated

I believe I've mentioned before that I'm not exactly what you might call a girly girl. (If I haven't - what was I thinking? There's enough blog fodder there to last for months!) I do try to stay presentable, of course, even if my standards are way lower than those of most of the ladies I know. (Hint: I do not have makeup. None. Don't even own a tube of lipstick.Seriously.)

For me, grooming generally involves brushing and flossing (the former everyday, the latter as often as I remember, or when an overwhelming sense of guilt prompts me to action, or when a visit to the dentist is imminent.), washing my hair (Suave shampoo and conditioner, often not even matching scents), and shaving (for special occasions, or at least before doing so would clog the bathtub drain - whichever comes first). Beyond hacking back the tangled undergrowth of underarm hair once in a while, and battling bad breath, I'm not over fussy when it comes to grooming. That is why it is all the more perplexing (to me, and especially to them) that God gifted me with three lovely girls.

My younger two, so far, are on board with my fuss-free philosophy. In fact, they'd probably never brush their teeth or hair, if given the chance. However, my oldest daughter is dangerously close to actually being a teenager, and even more dangerously close to acting like one. She has discovered all kinds of new-fangled things: like straightening irons, sweeping updos, and 'product'. This last one really threw me for a loop. I took her for a simple haircut about a year ago, and she and the stylist (barber, for us oldschool types) chatted away comfortably about 'product' the whole time. Seriously - it was liking trying to decipher a secret code. From what I gathered, there is apparently shampoo and conditioner out there that does stuff other than just get your hair clean and tangle free. I'm not exactly clear on all the details, but I have learned that it costs more than 88 cents a bottle, and is dearly coveted by my daughter. I'll have to look into this more.

For now, I am just trying to keep up. When she asks me about a specific nail painting technique or piece of fancy-pants hair technology, I usually just smile and nod. (And call my girly friends.) But, despite feeling like a blind person in a foreign (and expensive) land, I couldn't be happier. This is why motherhood is so great - I'm going to get to learn something new right alongside her. Inside I am screaming, "Don't buy into the Hollywood lies! You're beautiful the way you are! Run! Escape! Flee while you still can!" But, I somehow doubt that haranguing my pre-teen with these esoteric sentiments would be the best choice. So, I'm gonna learn to get girly too, even if it comically (though temporarily) disfigures us both. Remember - I'm going to have to teach this girl about makeup in a few years. Yikes.

For now, she's grateful for my help - however little I have to offer, and I am learning how to browse in the cosmetic and haircare aisle without breaking out into spots, seizures, or sermons. I think we're going to make it through this, and (if I can get past my prejudices and preconceived notions) we might even look good doing so. Watch out world - the Farrier girls are coming thru! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go figure out what on earth shine serum and straightening balm are. They sound like the perfect antidote to expensive dental and orthodontic visits, but I'm betting I've got it all wrong...

Hair!

If I never hear the word hair again, it will be too soon. You see - I have three daughters. And, they all have hair. And that hair - it has to be brushed. I know - none of those things are startling revelations in and of themselves, but there is a deeper meaning behind each one that has led me to consider encouraging them to enter a Buddhist monastery, but only for the haircut and to save on laundry expenses. Let me explain.

First off - I have three daughters. You know - girls. That means they have feelings. Lots of them, and they like to express those feelings. All the time. Out loud. I usually don't have conversations, per se. Instead, I'm often on the receiving end of a rapid-fire, three-fold conversational assault. The pre-teen fires, and I volley back, simultaneously returning a query from my seven-year-old. We continue this parlay for whole minutes at a time, while I dodge the constant tommy-gun prattle that my four-year-old deftly aims my direction. To put it lightly, they like to talk about what they're thinking, feeling, and experiencing. They are each very strong, but none is what you might call the silent type. That's because they're daughters.

The next deeply unnerving truth in my life - my daughters all have hair. Yes, I'm glad they have hair, especially in light of the fact that the oldest was nearly bald until she was 2 1/2. But, those days are gone. Now, they're all fully-tressed, each with lustrous, healthy, gorgeous heads of hair. One has highlights that would make even the most skilled hairdresser weep with jealousy. One has hair so benevolent and compliant that it can practically curl, shine, or French-Roll on command. The other has such perfect, uniform, ringlet curls that we literally have to schedule an extra fifteen minutes into our errand-running days, just so we aren't made late by all the people who stop to compliment her. In short, these girls have got it going on in the hair department. Why, you ask, does that make me want to weep copiously and head for the hills? Simple - with great hair, comes great responsibility, which leads me to point number three.


Hair must be brushed. Seems simple enough, doesn't it? But - let me assure you - when you combine point number one (girls who love to talk about what they're feeling) and point number two (girls with tons of hair of varying temperaments), it makes you really start to reconsider the full ramifications of point number three (that hair must be brushed). Sure, the act of hair brushing itself is simple enough. But, so is changing a flat tire, unless it's 32 degrees, raining cats and dogs, and the cars are honking and speeding by your head, mere inches away. This, in a nutshell, is how I've come to view our daily grooming ritual. I feel like I've got post-traumatic stress disorder from my previous run-ins with tangles, tender heads, and tantrums. It's gotten so bad lately that I've begun contemplating alternatives to the dreaded morning ritual. Perhaps they don't really need their hair brushed every day after all... I'm sure they would look very good in hats... How long does it take to do cornrows?... Hmmm...

In the interest of full disclosure (and, mostly, to make sure you don't think ill of me or my wonderful children), I should note that we have tried every tangle spray and different brush type in the universe, but to no avail. And, though I do sincerely (ardently, feverishly, fully, and earnestly) hope that my children will grow out of their tenderheadedness, I don't look for that to happen any time in the near future, since I still suffer from the dreaded disorder myself. We generally run a pretty tight ship around here when it comes to behavior, but I don't blame the girls for their vociferous reluctance to get their hair brushed. I, on occasion, still let a mild utterance or shriek fly when encountering my own tangles, after all.

So, there's nothing left to do but restrain myself from drastic measures, and keep enduring the screaming, struggling, fighting, flailing, ouching, oohing, ahhing trio, until their tresses are tamed, or baldness becomes the new style for little girls. After all - I have three daughters. They all have hair, and hair must be brushed. And so, we soldier on together.

Presenting My Findings

I was chatting with my husband on the phone today and he told me how sweet our youngest daughter has been to him this morning. Before he leaves for work each day he always goes in, kisses the girls, and tells them goodbye. Typically, he gets snores, snorts, drool, and grumbles in response (especially from me, I'm ashamed to admit). But, apparently this morning our four-year-old opened her deep, dark eyes for a moment, smiled the biggest smile you can imagine, and told him how much she loved him, and couldn't wait until he got home from work again. Then, she insisted on one more hug before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Fast forward about an hour. The same, sweet child had come into my room sometime in the interim, and snuggled down in bed next to me. I awoke to see her precious little face, and I wrapped my arms around her, marveling at what a miracle each and every new morning is. After a moment, she opened her deep, dark eyes, stared intently into mine, and said, "When are you making shrimpy noodles for me?" Hmmm... Somehow that didn't go like I thought it would. But, that's okay, because a mom is not a dad.

Dad is fun and spontaneous. Dad is the bringer of treats. The taker to new places. The fun driver. The adventure seeker. The excitement in an otherwise monotonous life. Dad has cool stuff that is off limits and infinitely  more appealing because of it. Even though he is a grownup, he still buys stuff just for the pleasure of having it - the quintessential definition of a toy. Plus, to my girls at least, Dad has gifts and talents that they can only dream of. Not only can he fix any broken item and always find the right battery or bulb, but his mysterious anatomy allows Dad to pee outside. Awesome.

Mom, on the other hand, is not so spontaneous. Mom is the maker of food. The everyday chauffeur. The monotony in an otherwise exciting life. Mom has ordinary stuff that is (at least, in the minds of the kids) common property and infinitely more expendable because of it. Mom never was a child, and only buys things that are useful, necessary, and on sale. Not only is Mom the essence of prudence, but her anatomy doesn't do any cool tricks except, apparently, for enabling her to find things.

Look, I watched 'the film' in fourth grade and paid avid attention to the wonder and magic of the female reproductive system. I understand fallopian tubes, and ovaries, and complicated hormones as well as the next gal. Yet, despite three pregnancies, two ultrasounds, and full-color photographs of the exploratory surgery to my lower abdomen (I'll have to explain later), I have yet to understand how a uterus helps women find things. But, it must be so. No one wanders around my house plaintively whining, "Daddy, can you help me find my..." And, I'm certainly not the one who constantly asks the other members of the household where things are. Nope. Quite the contrary - apparently I am the one who always knows where things are (or, at least, should).

Naturally, I have concluded that beyond just being able to create and grow a baby, a uterus must also be a tracking device. Someday a white-coated scientist will discover a little, blipping microchip-like structure embedded deep inside a womb, and the mystery will finally be solved. Mind you, for such a find as that, it will have to be a female scientist, of course.

Until then, I will be content to not be able to water the flowers anatomically. I will also be more than happy to be the finder of lost things, the ho-hum helper, and the maker of shrimpy noodles. Dad may get the morning and evening hugs, but I get all the rest while he has to be at work. The greeting he gets tides him over until he returns home again at the end of the day. The greeting I get is filled with the promise of hours and hours together. Dad's spontaneity and my monotony make a fine balance for our family, and one that serves us all very well. In fact, I think you'd be hard pressed to find a better combination. And I should know - apparently I'm equipped to find anything...

Photoblog - A Camping How-To

 Last week I introduced a new type of post on Musings entitled 'Cheaterblog', where I borrowed (stole) a really good idea and presented it to you - my readers. This saved me valuable time and brainpower that I was able to put to use for such important things as websurfing, watching movies, and Spider Solitaire. You should expect to see further such posts in future.

Following those themes of flexibility and trying new things, I've decided to create yet another new type of post for my Musings - the Photoblog. Up to this point I've included only one image per post, usually taken off the internet - a habit for which I am fully expecting to be sued, jailed, or written a very nasty letter eventually. Before that happens, however, I thought I'd at least try throwing in a few of my own feeble photos. Voila - the photoblog...

A Camping How-To

 Have you ever wanted to go camping, but not known how to go about it? Do you dread the preparation it takes to get a family ready for a weekend outing in the woods? Or, are you just overwhelmed by the thought of undertaking such an expedition? Dear friends - camping needn't be a chore! Just follow these easy steps, and you'll be enjoying the great outdoors in no time!

Step 1: Preparations at Home

 Before you set off for the weekend, you'll want to be sure that you've left everything at home in tip-top order. Doing the little things like shutting windows, turning off the hot water heater, and making sure that no electronics are left running will save you money and peace of mind in the long run. Oh - and don't forget to leave plenty of food and water for your pets. The new 'self feed' systems are very convenient. 

The next step involves gathering the items you'll need for your weekend. While packing up your supplies, it's important not to go overboard and pack too much. Generally you'll know it's time to stop just before the liftgate no longer shuts. If you have extra room in the back, you've forgotten something. Go back and start over. 

 Step Two: Travel

 Now that you're all set, it's time to start your adventures. A map (or GPS), clean windows, and plenty of snackage are important for the drive - especially if you have children. The first two can be skipped entirely and still result in a successful trip as long as there is plenty of the latter. Since space might be an issue, you will want to emphasize the fun of 'snuggling' before you set off. Also, take pictures of traveling children early in the trip (before they are angry at you and one another). The best time to snap a candid shot of your happy tots is right before you pull out of the driveway. 

Teaching children to look at the beautiful things all around them out the windows not only helps them develop a keen sense of observation and an appreciation of the splendors of the great outdoors, but it also provides microseconds of silence and prevents you from having to play the license plate game for the entirety of the trip. Things you might teach them to look for include interesting buildings, beautiful scenery, and roadsigns that will be helpful to get you back on your intended path after you get lost.

Step Three: Arrival and Setup

Upon arrival, it's important to follow all of the required protocol for the campground in which you'll be staying. Usually this is simply a matter of filling out some paperwork, providing a method of payment, and then spending 25 minutes trying to get the registration card (3 x 5) to fit into the rigid plastic sleeve in the campsite marker (2 x 4). It will usually be close to dark by the time this is done.

Of course, the rest of your setup varies widely, depending on your method of camping. Those who have RV's simply pull into their space, press a button to level the vehicle, then (and this is the most important part) figure out which way to point the satellite in order to pick up the best TV stations. If you are not fortunate enough to have such a camping rig, you can at least hope to be related to (or make friends with) someone who is. The availability of indoor plumbing in the middle of the night is a powerful motivator for relationships.

 
For old-fashioned campers (like us) setting up the tent takes anywhere from approximately 30 to 234,345,054 minutes, depending on how long it's been since your last camping trip, and how much your children try to help. It will most assuredly be dark by the time you attempt this feat, making it all the more challenging and rewarding. Anyone can set up a tent in broad daylight. It takes a real outdoorsperson to best all those poles and stakes in the pitch black.

After your shelter is set up, the next step is to make it homey and comfortable. Hanging pictures, installing custom curtains, and re-carpeting are not advised. The usual method involves throwing sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows inside, and falling into a heap in your grubby clothing. Regardless of how careful you are in putting bedding inside, it will go from this:

to this: 

in a matter of hours. Don't worry too much about it. Order can be restored, and the loss of blankets throughout the night is one of the natural mysteries that goes along with camping. 

Note: site selection has a lot to do with how enjoyable and memorable your trip will be. The best campsites will provide both qualities. Some will be pleasant, but soon forgotten. Others will be memorable, but for all the wrong reasons. The subtle and crucial differences between memorable and enjoyable can sometimes be hard to anticipate. For example, selecting a sight close to the train tracks might *seem* like it would fulfill both criteria. However, after the 15th train has passed 20 feet from your tent in the middle of the night (horns blaring and lights flashing) you will realize that this trip might be heavy on the memorable, but light on the enjoyable. The best you can hope is to keep a positive outlook, take some interesting pictures, and plan on sleeping in when you get home. 

Step Four: Food
 There are many schools of thought when it comes to camp cooking. Some say that 'roughing it' requires the exclusive use of cast-iron cookware over an open fire. Others take advantage of the conveniences available through modern technology and rely on cook stoves, electric skillets, or state-of-the-art, built-in convection ovens when they're in the great outdoors. While I can see the benefits and detriments of all of the various options, I have found one fool-proof secret for camp cookery: bacon. Regardless of the meal, time of day, camp setup, or weather, bacon is a proven winner. Observe: 

Camper Without Bacon

Camper With Bacon

 Note the smile in the second picture. And the bacon. Other foods, of course, can be added to the meal. Toast and eggs are a particularly good choice.

Step Five: Entertainment
While the exercise it takes to setup your campsite and the consumption of bacon alone can be enough to ensure a successful outdoor experience, most people choose to engage in other forms of entertainment as well. Common camping pastimes include hiking, fishing, biking, sightseeing, and trying to find firewood.

In our family, one of the chief pleasures of camping (or any other get-together, for that matter) is card playing. I don't mean to brag, but we can pretty much beat the pants off any anyone, at any game, at any time of the day or night. Ever. Just sayin'

Playing cards while camping requires only a few things. The right supplies (note the card try - a *must* in our game of choice),

Finesse (look how carefully he's settling that card into the tray),

And, enough room (both for the cards to be laid out, and for the egos of the players. The latter is much bigger.)

Caution: playing too late into the night can sometimes cause a nasty case of card zombieism. The initial warning signs include:

Euphoria at winning,

Exhaustion,

And full-blown zombie symptoms.

The only known cure is to beat the pants off the afflicted persons (figuratively at first, literally if it's a particularly nasty case). Be sure to keep some sort of proof of your win, because poor card playing and excellent lying often go hand in hand. (Publishing the results on a famous blog with millions of readers world-wide is a nice added precaution.)

Step Six: Packing Up and Heading Home
Eventually, the fun of camping is overcome by the financial need to get home and back to work. That, or lack of sleep from the passing train will compel your physical body toward home and bed, sometimes even bypassing your brain and any conscious thought entirely. Either way - at some point you've got to clean up the mess - er, campsite - you've made. One final photograph of your site will serve as a pleasant reminder of your trip. Cuteness during the pic is both hard to come by (after not showering or sleeping) but nice to include if possible. Note how adorable the duo in this picture is...

 The first step to cleanup is to empty the contents of the tent. After that has been done, you may take the tent down. Failure to complete step one will almost assuredly complicate step two, and make it even more unlikely that your tent will fit back into its original packaging. This is, by means, necessary for a successful camping experience, but does provide plenty of opportunity for bragging rights. If you are unable to shrink an entire shelter back into a nylon bag the size of a loaf of bread, you can always use a duffel bag, suitcase, or plastic tote. For those of you who engage in one of the latter activities, just note - you are not as cool as my rockin' husband, who has been successfully re-rolling our tent into its original packaging for 12 years. Just sayin'.

After your site is empty and your vehicle is full, it is time to get on the road. But - don't despair. The fun of your few days of camping will not soon be forgotten, especially since it takes approximately ten times longer to clean up and unpack than it did to actually take the trip. But, such is the life of an outdoor enthusiast.

Step Six: Gratuitous Photos
I had a few more pics that were just too cute to not include. Enjoy!