If You Love Melynda READ THIS

    Here's the deal, Melynda from Crazy World NEEDS our help. If you don't know what I'm talking about, please go here:

This may be goodbye for now

    She's gone legally blind in BOTH eyes. I visited her recently and it broke my heart. She doesn't have ANY of the supplies she needs (such as a talking blood sugar monitor for her diabetes, or computer programs to read her emails, texts etc. aloud).
    A few weeks ago, Melynda lost her house. Then, Meaghan (her daughter) almost died from a cyst that attached itself to an artery and leaked! Now this. Melynda is obviously sad about losing her driver's license and independence. She WILL conquer this, though; she's a survivor.
    Her strength and resolve astound me. I'll never forget when someone tried breaking into my house. Melynda stayed up all night guarding my house from across the street (because Cade was gone).     
    She couldn't see, but said she'd still 'watch' AND listen. I laughed thinking she was joking, but come to find out, she was serious. That woman stayed in her driveway ready to fight Lucifer if she had to. 
    I went outside at one point. Melynda couldn't see me even in the lights from my porch. I looked over, so proud to call her my friend. She wore shorts, a babydoll top and a sassy hat. It was COLD outside, but nothing will get that woman down--and even the cold elements don't bother HER--because she's better than Xena, really.     
    She smoked into the wind, looking serious the whole time. I kept thinking how amazing she is. She couldn't see my house, but by golly she'd rather die than go to sleep and feel like she wasn't guarding it for me somehow.
    I asked her about it later. "Why did you stay up? I know you couldn't see."
    "So what if I couldn't see them! THEY could see me. I can't imagine someone trying to break in, when someone else seems to be sitting there watching."
    That's just Mel, classy and brilliant all the time.
   Any time I was sick, she'd make me food. I swear I'd sneeze and she'd make me a lasagna. Sneezing led to a good time! I learned to LOVE getting sick just so I could get yummy food.
    The point is, she's really been there for me--and she's epic--but right now it's my turn to be there for her!
    A few days ago I helped her apply for disability (she couldn't see the form let alone drive to the place). We're talking with a rep on the phone again today and filling out more forms.  It might be months until she qualifies, but she's trying to do everything she needs to.          
    She's already battling depression. She needs a purpose, some love, some support. Melynda will be fine. The woman who guards houses--even blind--that's my buddy. Anyone like that WILL beat this, but she still doesn't have what she needs. Having the proper tools would help so much.


    I've thought long and hard about this. Here's my idea:
    How great would it be if Melynda could EARN some money to be able to afford what she needs?! Her own hard work--her own TALENT, paving a way for her to succeed even through this! Many people have left her comments asking if she'd turn her blog posts into a book. Months ago I read those comments and begged Melynda on your behalf. "Please let me publish some of the stories from your blog. I could split them into the four seasons and then your readers can have four fun novellas to read anywhere!"
    "I don't know, E."
    "Listen," I said. "People LOVE your writing. This is a good idea."
    She paused.  "Having a book published is a big dream of mine. But do you think it's good enough?"
    I'd sneezed that day--so she'd made me lasagna. I shoveled some food into my mouth, then swallowed and licked my lips. I set my fork down hard. "Listen, woman. I wouldn't offer to publish just anyone, seriously. My reputation is on the line, too. Writing is my lively-hood now. I believe in you. This should prove how much. I would publish your work in a heartbeat. We need to edit it and do some fine tuning, but that's how it goes with anyone. You want your readers to have a quality product they can enjoy. Then after publishing those, you need to make a cookbook with this recipe for lasagna included! Are you up for it?"
    "Novellas, huh?"
    "Yeah, because they're convenient not only at home, but in the office, at doctors' offices and in personal bathrooms."
    She laughed. "Nice."  Then, she finally agreed. We put one book together. Fishducky edited it months ago. I created a cover and formatted it. Here's what we came up with:

    We sent it back to Melynda, but her eyesight went downhill fast after that and she never got to really "SEE" her book.


   Here's the deal, Melynda's book is now in the review process! I plan on working my butt off to get this project done by March 1st! 100% of the profit will go to help Melynda.
   If you'd like to add this to your to-read list, please go here:

    Anyways, I wrote this today because Melynda still can't access our blogs and I know she can't read this. 
    I'm trying to be sneaky and surprise the woman.  Ka-pow!
    She needs something positive to happen in her life. She's lost her house, her sight; her fifteen-year-old son moved to Italy; now, she almost lost her daughter! The woman NEEDS a break.


    She'll be thrilled to have a published book, and know others are enjoying it! Plus, I'D be thrilled knowing she can make money to afford what she needs.


    Do you have any additional thoughts or ideas? I know you love her as much as I do. Melynda and I each started blogs and we gained an extended family in the process.




    In closing, I just have a few fun things to share.  

    I've decided to blog Monday-Thursday because I'm a blogaholic.
  
    Melynda originally started a blog for the famous Fishducky, but now all three of us came up with a plan.  Fishducky will be featured every week on my blog instead so Melynda won't have any added stress.  
    I remember thinking if I could just get Fishducky to comment on my blog, then I'd be golden.  Now she's writing on it every Friday--Fishducky Friday--and I've made the big time now!  So, get ready--it's gonna be great.


    Also, I was having such a hard day yesterday since it was the day Zeke died.  Late last night I read each of your comments and they made everything so much brighter.  What a blessing to me!  Then, to top all of those sweet things off, Rick Gualtieri wrote the kindest--MOST HILARIOUS--review of "The Golden Sky," my tribute to Zeke.  You really need to check this out if you have time.  It was the icing on the cake of your kindness--seriously:

Review: The Golden Sky

    And the last news I'd like to share, is how I'm featured on Splitter's blog today for asking the question:

    Why do men only remember the last 30 seconds of what a woman says? Why isn't it 15 seconds or 60? What's so magical about 30?

    He's epic, enough said.  Go see for yourself.

Ask Tom Tuesday: Are You Listening to Me?

 

A Hippie and Some Missing Keys

    Yesterday my keys went missing. I was really upset with myself until remembering where I'd seen the keys last--with Cade.
    I called him. "So you see," I said. "None of this is my fault. I'm faultless in every way, like Mary Poppins, and I'd like to know where YOU lost the keys."
    Silence on the other end as he picked his jaw off of the floor. "I'm so sorry. I thought I hung them up."
    "Thinking . . . Remembering . . . I wish that could help me, but alas, I checked there. The keys ARE NOT hanging up. You've hit criminal status."
    "Why's that?" he asked.
    "Don't act naive with me. I'm sure lots of criminals steal things and then 'lose' them."
    I wish I could have seen his face, really. The pause said it all.
    "Plus," I went on, "this really sucks. Now, I can't bring the kids to school today."
    The Scribe squealed behind me because she'd been up since five AND she loves eavesdropping. "No school, Hippie! This is EPIC!"
 The Hippie groaned, though. She may be carefree and go-with-the-flow, but she LOVES school. "It's library day."  She frowned.
    "Just 'cause I can't take you doesn't mean you won't go.  I'll find someone to pick you up," I said.
    Cade laughed on the phone. "I hope you'll find the keys soon. Call me when you do."
    Oh, he has the faith of a mustard seed. There I was thinking things were worse than Hell on a Sunday, and my husband was filled with faith--what a beautiful day!
    It was six in the morning at this point. I'd been searching for an hour. There was something in the van that I needed.
    I got desperate at one point. When you're truly desperate around here, you go to the two people who can help. They're like "the Fates" just smaller. They're the two people cunning enough to steal keys, yet smart enough to hide them.
    "Do you know where the keys are?" I asked the Zombie Elf and then Doctor Jones (my three and one-year-old).
    "Keys?" the Zombie Elf asked. "I just want a dinosaur."

    Moving along, I went over to Doctor Jones. She nodded and clapped. I followed her EVERYWHERE. We went upstairs, downstairs, in closets. The whole time Luna (our husky puppy) followed us. We found many treasures I've been missing, like a tiny glass baby representing Zeke (my son who died), a fairy statue, my favorite bridge for my violin!
    After what seemed like a lifetime, I finally turned to Doctor Jones. Treasures filled my arms, things that squirrel had hidden from me!  "Do you really know where the keys are?"
    "No." She giggled and toddled off. I thought how next week is her second birthday. I can't let that moment dictate my choice of gift. 
    I set my bundle of precious items on the table and slumped to the floor. The dog licked my face and then practically knocked me on my back and rested on me. "Luna, do you know where the keys are?"
    She looked excited--actually thrilled. She suddenly ran to the back door and pawed at it.
    "Good, girl!" I jumped up. "You know? You do! I'm here. Show Mama where the keys are. Good, girl. Show me."
    Before going outside I turned to the Hippie and the Scribe. "I'm going outside with Luna. Keep looking for the keys. This is important."
    They both got up, a bit too slowly if you want to know the truth. The Scribe didn't want to find the keys and the Hippie is like molasses and hardly anything makes her hurry anyway--even library day.
    I went out with Luna. We traveled across the yard. I even brought treats. She sniffed and then dug a hole. I gave her a treat. "Good, girl. Are you close?" She dug some more, sniffed, then went to make a new hole. We went through over five treats, each time I rewarded her for digging a hole. (Yes, I'm an idiot.) After a dozen holes, the Hippie came out all dolled up, wearing her fancy coat, scarf, crazy plaid jeans, a mismatched polka dot top and a fuzzy headband.
    "Whatcha doin'?" she asked.
    I just glared at her. Didn't she know I'd been on a mission?  My husky/HOUND DOG was on the trail. We had the scent of metal and we were going to find those keys!
    "I'm playing with the dog," I said sarcastically because sometimes I'm a sucky mother. "What do you THINK I'm doing?"
    She followed us after that, not answering my snarky comment. I refused to give the dog more treats, but I did clap. "Good, girl. Are we getting closer? Come on. You're so good."
    "I didn't think we were supposed to encourage her to dig holes?"
    "We're not, Honey." I turned to Luna. "Come on. Dig faster, girl. You can find 'em."
    The Hippie looked at me like I'd fallen from the loony bus. She followed us for a while longer. "Mom," she cleared her throat after a LONG time. "I don't mean to interrupt you with . . . whatever you're doing, but I found something."
    I just turned to her. There was dirt on my hands at this point. My eyes probably bulged. My lips twitched and I couldn't help it.  What could she have found--I wondered!
    "Yes," I said sounding like a greedy child, who wants a sucker.  "Go on."
    "Well, I forgot, but last night when no one was looking, I went out to the van to get something.  Anyway, I must have left the keys in my coat pocket." She handed them to me. "Are you okay, Mom?  I thought you'd be happy.  But . . . You look really white."
    "Yes, Honey.  I'm . . . fine," I lied to my own child!  "How long have you had these?"
    "I found them right after you came outside to play with Luna." She studied my face. "Are you feeling sick again? You don't look good."
    So first she kept the keys from me FOREVER--then she wanted to hurl insults? I didn't look good--seriously?  Didn't she know what a terrible morning I'd had?  Was I supposed to be a beauty queen first thing in the morning?!
    "Just give me a moment," I said, trying really hard to be nice, after all she had found the keys.
    I started walking toward the side of the house and Luna--that muddy dog--followed me. I'm sure we looked like a pair. I still wore my pajamas. My hair hung in clumps. I had mud on my face and hands, but by golly I had my keys again!
    "Well, while you're busy playing with Luna over there, I'm going back inside." The Hippie waved, completely clueless and bounded into the house.
    It wasn't until she shut the door, that I screamed at the side of the house. The sun sent desperate rays--the butt-crack of dawn. A few neighbor dogs howled in response to my pain, like that time Wesley screamed in "The Princess Bride." I might have woken up everyone in a five mile radius, and I DID NOT care!
    I know it's terribly funny now, but after spending two hours searching for keys, you try laughing when you've followed a baby and then a muddy dog around forever--like your life depends on it.


    So, now that I've officially trained Luna to DIG HOLES FOR A LIVING . . .  I have a digger, four wild kids, a husband (who I apologized to), a shiny set of keys, a holey yard AND a God who loves me. Who could ask for anything more, seriously?  My life is complete.

I just blogged every day for a year!

    When I started this blog, it was on a whim. The Zombie Elf (my son) kept shoving my journals down the vent, where they got ruined. It was a bit romantic thinking of all the words and stories that fill these vents, even if there was a down side. Anyway, after keeping a journal years ago, I knew how therapeutic it was for me, but not at $20 per book--that cost more than my Starbucks addiction! Then one day I got this crazy idea. I could blog--I could blog every day for a year straight. I'd write funny, wild, embarrassing and even sad things. I didn't think anyone would actually read it, but as long as the Zombie Elf didn't shove my computer down the vent--I was golden!
    "That's a lot of blogging," one person said.
    "Well, that's how much I write anyway. I might as well put it where the Zombie Elf can't throw it away. All those papers in the vent, that's a fire hazard!"
    Another person encouraged me. "You have so many funny stories, you really should write them down where others can enjoy them." I scoffed at the time thinking the only thing I'd ever write WORTH something was my journal about Zeke.
    Many other people said they'd like to see me try blogging for a year, but they didn't want me feeling bad if I couldn't do it. One person even made a bet with me! "If you can't make it EVERY SINGLE DAY for a year, you have to take me out to lunch. If you do though, I'll take you out."
    That was it. No one makes a bet like that against me and gets away with it! I started my blog that very day, January 25th, 2011.
    Now, I didn't know very much about blogging. All I knew was that two of my friends had blogs about writing and my southern neighbor had a crafting one. I browsed through their posts and immediately came up with a title for mine "The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom."


    I wrote this silly blurb for my profile and then posted the story about how I got mad at Cade and dragged a toilet into the street. Here's the blurb I wrote:


       Elisa spends most of her time taking care of four rambunctious kids who are better than green eggs and ham.  They're pretty darn fun, but despite that, after she had kids, her boobs shrunk, she lost hair, but gained a greater sense of humor!
      When she's not scavenging through the vents, which her son (the Zombie Elf) thinks are the best place to hide things, she's sewing, playing her violin, or writing.


Here's the toilet post: When You Have To Go




    What followed still amazes me. It was slow at first. I only had a couple comments per post. I had a few hundred friends on facebook, about fifty followers on twitter. As time went on, I started explaining how my book about Zeke (my son who died) would be released on his birthday in November.
    I got sponsors! Entire organizations helped me promote it. Power bloggers read about how my son died and they decided to help me as well. When someone searched "Writing Mom" on google, my blog came up third! People started paying me to advertise on my blogposts. My book "The Golden Sky" made it to the top 100 selling books on Amazon (for the death and grief category) in 2011. I was able to donate over $800 to this cause and those struggling with infant loss! I went from making a silly blog and a bet, to having a year that has changed my life forever.
    I now have over 4,300 friends on facebook, over 1,900 GFC followers on my blog and over 7,500 followers on twitter! This is astounding for me, the girl who didn't think anyone would read a blog about simple life--let alone "The Golden Sky."

    These amazing things are because of you! I'm so blessed--sooo absolutely touched by all of your support. I started a blog and gained so much in a year. But the greatest thing I've gained are your friendships. Before starting my blog, Cade was hardly ever home. I'd play with my four kids, write, sew. And although I constantly played with my kids, I really missed adult interaction. Sure, I would go out to fast food with friends once a week, but that seemed like the highlight of my week.
    Now, everything is exciting and an opportunity to share it with you.
I went from the timid girl who wouldn't share my mind or seek out conflict, to a confident person, ready to stand strong and not let people walk on me.


    Plus, I love reading your posts, sharing in your joys, struggles and triumphs--those stories brighten my day. I hope each of you know how much you affected my life for the better. The days are so filled with excitement. Blogging has opened up a whole new world for me.




    Sorry this post is running so long, but it is my last one before I switch to my new schedule of blogging every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I still can't believe I made it!


I just have a few announcements:
 
    "The Sword of Senack" will be released on St. Patrick's Day. (I know it's later than I said before, but my content editor has been working so hard; she suggested we give ourselves just a bit more time to perfect it.)

    I'd love to do another blogfest to celebrate this event. Maybe we could each write a fictional post meant for YA--I'd love to read what you'd come up with. Do you have any ideas? I'm up for anything. "The Sword of Senack" is the fantasy story I told my kids when they struggled after Zeke's death. It's about a boy who runs away into the ocean. His siblings then embark on a journey to try and find him in the ocean's depths, but in the process may find the truth about themselves instead.

    Also, "Bible Girl," (the prequel to "The Golden Sky") is coming out on April, 21st, 2012.

    For more info about upcoming events, please visit my author website.

     Click on this picture to visit my site:

 

    I've also released pictures of Zeke (my baby who passed away--mentioned in "The Golden Sky").

 

  If you'd like to see him, and pictures from the time written about in that book, click here:

 

    This year is shaping into an amazing one as well.
     Thank you for all of your support! I'm so excited for 2012!

You'll never believe this!

I'm still in shock--really.


    When I saw her number on my caller ID, I didn't know what to do. She'd sent me a text earlier. The message broke my heart because I know how hard life can be sometimes. "The relationship just isn't working out with him--after years. So many things have to change and will change," she said. "Can you meet me at the mall?"
    "Sure," I said. But after hanging up, I felt nervous. I felt bad for her, but at the same time, what if she didn't show up and I drove all the way to meet her? Maybe it was bad to think about myself when she was going through so much. It just isn't like me to run somewhere on a whim, though--not since I have four kids.
    "Scribe and Hippie," I said, pulling on my shoes. "Can you watch the babies for a few minutes while I run to the mall?"
    They seemed excited to babysit. Maybe this was a bad idea. It wasn't like they'd throw a keggar, but they are MY children after all. That could spell an imaginative DISASTER. "Yeah, but what for?" the Scribe asked, suddenly seeing money signs. "You wanna pay us?"
    "Ummm. No. I don't think so. Today you're going to babysit out of the goodness of your own heart."
    She just looked at me. "I can still do that and get paid. I feel extra goodness when money is involved."
    I raised a brow.
    "Next time," she blurted. "But WHY are you leaving? I thought you hated the mall."
    I didn't want to tell them. I know it's terrible, but there was no reason for them to know until I got home. Some things in life are too hard to explain, anyway.
    "Well . . . a friend needs . . . something. I'll hurry as fast as I can."


    Snow whipped around the van as I drove. I thought of how strange life is, how completely odd. Some days it doesn't make sense, while others, it seems we're right where God wants us.
    I couldn't think of the real reason I drove, just in case she wouldn't really come. It would break my heart again and I couldn't take that.
     This is a hard time of year regardless. Zeke died on January 30th of 2003 and it still hurts. Plus, we just got rid of Luna, my dog and it still stung. The point was, I'd told the kids to take care of her and they hadn't. That husky pup, became my dog, MY companion. but I've never been the kind of mother who makes idle threats. No matter how much I loved the dog, the kids didn't hold up their end of the bargain and I had to follow through.
    It was hard to think about, something I'd always regret, so I pulled my mind from those thoughts and I focused on the girl's dilemma. Break-ups are hard. Years ago Cade and I were separated after Zeke died. Once Cade said, Zeke looked too much like me and it was hard seeing MY face everyday. It was heartbreaking--more than I can say, but we made it through. Maybe I could tell her about that. Maybe I could give her my journal so she could read the love story for herself!
    I thought and thought, surely I had a copy of it in the car. When I got to the mall, I dug through the trunk and finally found it "The Golden Sky." I wrote a note in there, hoping it would help her because if certain moments are meant to be, this was one of them.
    I put money into the book, $300 to be exact, the same amount Cade's employer overpaid us and that we have to give back this week--the same amount we got for Luna. I just kept thinking of all the strange coincidences. If Cade's employer hadn't overpaid him, I wouldn't have had the money in time.
    It seemed to take forever, but the girl did show up. I handed her the book. "I'm a writer. This book came from my heart. Maybe it'll give you peace. I put the money inside."
    She smiled, looking tired and sad, but grateful. "I really appreciate you doing this," she said. "Not everyone would be willing to give me a refund."
    I wanted to run to the back and look through the car's window. I restrained myself, though. "No problem. In fact, Friday night, I was so sad, I prayed that if we were supposed to be her pet owners, that you'd give her back."
    "You're kidding," she said. "That's the same night my relationship ended. I was supposed to stay at home and train the dogs, but now I can't and she'll just be in a kennel all day. I just remembered how hard you cried when we left. I knew you might want her back."
We talked a while longer, me holding back tears, and just wanting to see my puppy's eyes.
    Finally, she opened the back and I saw Luna! You wouldn't believe how excited she seemed. I put her in the van and we drove away. It wasn't until I was halfway home that I had to stop. I got in the back and hugged her. Tears poured from my eyes. "Oh, puppy. Good, girl. Good, girl. You came back to me! I didn't know if I'd ever see you again, but you came back!"

Me (still in my pj's, sorry) with Luna today.

    When I finally stopped hugging her and we'd driven all the way home, I couldn't wait to see what the kids would do. I let Luna in and a cheer of excitement went through the house. My girls cried, too. "Thank you, Jesus," the Scribe said.
    As we sat around, each telling Luna to sit and giving her treats, I explained. "I told you to take care of the dog, but you didn't so I had to sell her. Well, we got her back, and now she's my dog and my responsibility."

Luna waiting for a treat.

    "How did we get her back, though? People just don't buy dogs and give them back a week later?" the Hippie asked. "Do they?"
    "No," I said. "In fact she could have made $200 off of her, but she decided to offer her to us first instead. I prayed the other day, though.  I asked God that if we were supposed to be Luna's family, she'd come back to us.  And she did."
    I hugged Luna again.
    "What did you learn from this?" I asked my girls.
    "That God answers prayer," the Scribe said.  "Mama, you weren't the only one who prayed."
    Her words made me smile.  "What about you, Hippie?"
    "I prayed too.  I'm still shocked though.  I never knew God would break up a couple, just so we could get Luna back.  Don't you feel kind of terrible inside?"
    I snorted.  "I don't think that's why they broke up.  Plus, who knows, maybe they'll get back together."


  Anyway, I'm still in shock, but so happy I can't believe it.  Isn't it awesome that small miracles can happen?!  Isn't it wonderful that God still answers prayers every day!
     
    For more about Zeke and his story, please go here:

The Golden Sky

I Want to be a Plumber

    The kitchen faucet broke. It was literally spraying everywhere like the fountain of youth. But I didn't want to take a shower in my kitchen, (since the neighbors could see me through the window) so I shut the water off. Cade's been so busy at work, I knew he wouldn't be home forever. And the last thing the poor guy wanted to do was fix the faucet. That's when I decided to fix the stupid thing myself.
   No one believes that I can do these things, not really. Salesmen in the store are THE WORST.
    This whole thing reminded me of last February; I kept seeing cute recipes on everyone's blogs. I felt bad for not having one of my own. So I contributed something that's more my style.  It wasn't how to cook quiche or how to create a perfect potato soup.  Instead it was: How to make a spud gun, so I could have a weapon to fend off predators! I know it might not seem convenient, but can you imagine breaking into someone's house, only to get filled with potatoes--not a pretty picture!

(Yes this is me trying to be silly--after all, how often do you see someone all made up--with a spud gun?!)

    Anyway, if you'd like to make your own potato launcher, go here (to my recipe): Spud Fun


    Back to the point, I had to fix my faucet. I went to the store and asked a nice man where the basin wrenches and water supply tubes were.
    "What are you gonna do with those?" he asked like I might bake a cake, right there in the store. "I hope you have a nice, strong man to help you."
    "I'M going to replace my faucet." I smiled sweetly, almost wanting to curtsy and then slap him with the hoses he'd helped me find.
    "Oh, ma'am. That's man's work."
    His words AND TONE made me angry, but I wouldn't be rude--not really. "Well, I can work just as good as any man." I looked him up and down, obviously judging him. He stood well over my height.
    "But you're so skinny, and small."
    Thanks for stating the obvious, buddy. He was a bigot, but you didn't see me pointing out HIS flaws. "You'd be surprised what women can do. I used to be a diesel mechanic. Some of the men would ask me for help with things because I could fit places they couldn't. I didn't care if I bruised my fingers and hands because things were so hard to tighten. I made good money to support my daughter and that's all there was to it. You do what you have to, Sir."
    "It still ain't woman's work." He looked at my boobs, like a pig in heat!
    I could have said so many rude things. How I pushed five babies out and that earned me the right to try fixing my own damn faucet. I wanted to ask if he's ever seen real pain or experienced it. Had he ever had to do whatever it took, just to make a dime and live decent so your kids could see the next day. But I already knew his answer--he was no oracle. So, I left because I had no idea what he thought earned one the right to fix their faucet--other than being male.
    After that I vowed to do the best job replacing my sink--for every woman who's had to fix something and then felt put down by men! I kept picturing that guy's mug-shaped face! I'd show him.
    I turned my radio to oldies, because my daddy always listens to oldies when he fixes things. Those two go hand-in-hand. I knew, without oldies blaring beside me, I'd be nothing--I wasn't sure why, I just knew.
    I pulled up YouTube and watched a few videos about installing faucets. One by "Eye Handy" almost killed me. In another video, the woman wore a string bikini--AND PUT THE FAUCET IN WRONG. She forgot the plumber's putty--talk about a leaky faucet. That was the sexiest install--EVER--though. 
    But did I really need to almost be naked to install my faucet? I didn't think so! That's when I watched a Lowe's video.
    The guy made it sound far too simple. "Then you just disconnect the water supply, do this and this, and you're done."
    Wow, I knew they'd taken bits out of the video to save time, but if I was as cool as the guy on camera, I could replace my sink in under two minutes, right? WRONG!
    While I worked on my faucet, the kids learned a whole new language.  Was that worth the effort--HELL yes it was--I was sticking it to the man. I cursed the guy from Lowe's and his simple, this-is-so-easy dialogue!  
    I took apart the pipes leading from the garbage disposal because I had no room to move before that. At one point a bolt fell on my cheek and unfortunately the Zombie Elf learned the word "shitballs." 
    "Get him out of here. This is no place for children," I told the Scribe.
    "But this is our kitchen?" she said.
    "Not now it isn't.  This is a war zone!"  
    It wasn't until Doctor Jones turned the dish washer on--and excess water flew into my face--that I thought I might die.
    Although, I felt like giving up, I refused. My baby waved to me. "Ma. Ma. Wa. Wa."  She giggled although it WAS NOT funny.
    That's when I heard the music. "Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie," I sang as the gushing water slowed and left me in a pool of yuck. "Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry. Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey in Rye. Singin' this'll be the day that I die."  And I really thought I might die.  I've never hated the dish washer quite so much.
    I was in the midst of a war, fighting injustice, trying to be strong. And those words about death and cars--they suddenly gave me strength. I understood then, why my daddy listens to oldies. They're a necessary part to fixing things; they give you hope and light in an otherwise bleak world.
    Bruises covered my hands, especially my left hand since I ended up using a regular wrench and it hurt trying to tighten it like I must.
I finally stood from the sink, bent one last time to make sure it looked good and smiled.
    All the kids were back in the kitchen.  "Mama did it," they sang my praises, like I'd become Selena Gomez!  I felt amazing and capable!  I was their hero.
    "What's the big deal?" the Scribe said.  "All mothers do this kind of thing.  You do what you have to."
    I just looked at her and smiled.  That's my girl, I thought.  She's going to accomplish great things and no one will hold her back. 
    "The sink looks great, but there is one problem," the Hippie said.
    "What?" my heart nearly stopped.  
    "I can see your butt crack," the Hippie said.
    "Oh, that?  That's fine, Honey. That means I'm a certified plumber now. Plus, some people work in their bikinis."
    I touched the faucet, so proud, until I realized I put the thing in backwards! The nobs turned the wrong direction. The hot water felt awfully cold. The cold streamed burning hot! 
    I gasped.  They'd made it wrong! Well, not really, but that was a fun thought--for two seconds.

    I did get it fixed, all the while hoping Cade would be proud. "You have a good day?" he asked, greasy from fixing a rig at work. I love that he works construction, and that I didn't marry a pansy.
    I pulled up my pants and spit into the snow. "I fixed the sink. I know some people think it's man's work, but maybe it isn't. At least that's one less thing you need to do."  I realized then, it didn't matter what anyone said; I'd fixed the thing so Cade would be proud.
    It wasn't until he tried the sink that the cold water started leaking underneath. I hid it quite nicely, shoving a bowl under it and smiling so Cade would hopefully look at me and not the sink.
    "You got a leak there," he said. "But it's a small one. I'm real proud of you.  One tiny leak, we can fix that easy."
    I can't hide anything from him; we talk and he practically peers into my soul. Why had it started leaking, though? I racked my brain, thinking of anything, the washers, the supply hoses.  WE wouldn't fix it, I would.  Then, the problem hit me.
    "I meant for it to be like that. The other supply hose I got . . . was too small . . . but I figured I could fix it later . . . a tiny leak is nothing; that's better than no faucet at all.  I can run to the store tomorrow."  (And tell the mug-faced jerk--politely--how I'd installed it myself.)
    So, that is my project for today. It's not as cool as a spud gun, but it's far more useful. 
    I HAVE to fix that sink, and prove certain bigots wrong.  Women can do amazing things--anyone can if they put their minds to it.
    Plus, plumbing isn't just for men or women in bikinis--it's just not!


    When your husband isn't around to fix things, do you take matters into your own hands? Do you fix things in your bikini since it seems to be all the rage?

The Mayan Calendar and the Oracle

Just an update on a couple of things before I begin this post.
Regarding the last few posts:
    Yesterday, I ended up calling the school to find out what time I should get the Scribe from detention. "Should be around 4:30," the counselor said. "That seems strange the principal would change the punishment, though. I specifically wrote in the computer how your daughter was a victim and her punishment would only be losing her email and having this on her record."
    "Well, her name's been on the board for two days saying how she needs to go to detention. Oh and, nothing's been cleared up. The class still thinks she sent those emails."
    The woman paused. "Is the other girl's name on the board?"
    "Not that I know of," I said.
    "Oh, no-no-no. This isn't how things go. Can I call you back, Ms. Hirsch?"
    "Sure."
    Come to find out. Someone got the names mixed up! The Scribe (after all she went through with being framed in the first place) was about to pay for what another girl did! She didn't go to detention with the Mop Head Lover after all.
    I did get a strange call later that night, though. They asked me questions about the Principal's actions. The woman said, "Unfortunately, things went poorly. Feel assured, the situation will be addressed and hopefully these people will get their acts together."


    So, now the whole fiasco is FINALLY OVER, let me tell you about yesterday. 
    I went to the gas station again because oracles WORK there. An old woman sat on a bench. A sheep dog rested next to her, and although she didn't look at me, I knew she noticed me. Her eyes studied everyone with interested, as she pet her dog all the while. She smiled and nodded. I found myself missing my dog so badly then.
    I know we gave Luna away because it was the right thing, but now I'm doubting myself. Sure the kids didn't feed her on time or play with her, but I always did. She ate the fancy dog food. We'd snuggle and run around, me laughing and her licking my face. When I'd write and edit, she'd sleep under my chair, or just chew on her bone.     
    I thought about all of this as I watched the woman with the dog. I guess I'd just wanted to make a point to the kids. THEY were supposed to take care of her, not me. THEY wanted a dog, and I told them if they didn't take care of her, we would sell her. But somehow she became mine--what was that about--and I've cried just thinking about how much I miss her. Writing doesn't even seem fun, without my husky muse.
    Plus it reminds me of another profound loss and the anniversary of it which is so soon.  After all, Zeke (my son) died at the end of January; this is always a hard month.  As soon as February comes, I feel better, but right now, it's hard not being sad.

But enough of that!
    I went into the gas station and vowed to be happy. I couldn't get depressed about the dog again or Zeke for that matter--my journal was just published--I'm supposed to be smiley about EVERYTHING. We'd had a hard enough week just with school.
    The oracle from the previous post wasn't there, unfortunately, but his sidekick was. "Do you have a little sewing kit?" I asked the attendant. (We were on the run and I needed to fix a rip.)
    "Ummm . . . I actually think we do. I stocked the other night." He smiled, proud of himself when he found it. "If you're ready, I can help you over here."
    I stood ready to pay, and the man decided it would be great to interrogate me. "You come here often?"
    Okay.  "Well . . . yeah. I guess."
    "You sew?"
    "Yeah."
    "You like sewing?" he struggled finding the bar code on the kit.
    "Yeah."
    "What's the sewing kit for?"
    Now stop right there. What was with the twenty questions? He was a nice guy and all, but I felt flustered standing there answering things. We were the only people in the store and I kept thinking about Zeke and then my dog. I just needed something to cheer me up. So, I got an idea, smiled and decided to try being witty--nothing cheers me up faster than witty banter--seriously!
    "The sewing kit? It's for the end of the world," I said, keeping a straight face.
    "Are. You. Serious?  Tell me you're kidding."
    "Oh, I'm absolutely serious. When the end of the world hits, if I survive, I could stay in this same pair of clothes FOR YEARS. All I needed was a sewing kit." I pointed to the kit. "Now I'm set.  Looky here."
    "Wow. I've heard a lot of people believe in the Mayan calendar."
    "As well they should. Plus, if everyone would live like this year was their last, they might have better lives. Live like it's 2012--I've always said anyway."
    He just gaped.
    "Well, have a good year. I hope your last months on Earth are epic. Make 'em count. Oh and don't forget to buy yourself a sewing kit! It's a good thing you have a few left."
    So, he totally believed me, and I sorta loved it.
   That night when I got home, I knelled down and prayed--not about the end of our world, but for something just as important to me--my dog. I know it sounded stupid, but this is what I said, "God, if we weren't supposed to sell Luna. If we were the right family for her, and good enough for her, please let the woman who bought her . . . bring her back."
    I felt like an idiot.  I STILL feel like an idiot; it was my choice to sell the dog. Plus, I started crying really hard, and felt like I sold a member of our family for $300 measly dollars. We already spent the money we got for her; at least I can fix up some problems in our house now. But, then, to top it off, Cade's employer payed him $300 too much on accident. We have to pay it back next week (no biggie) but it just seemed odd. There was that $300 again, haunting me and reminding me how much I'm like Judus.
    Well, at least I know Luna is with someone good. And she did find a nice, strong male dog to marry.
    Have you ever had doubts about something like this? Am I being completely shoot-myself-in-the-foot dumb? Wait . . . don't answer that.
    I guess the real issue is, I loved that dog, but this reminds me a little bit of when we pulled the plug.  Zeke had to go . . . it was the best thing for him.  I was nineteen and I made the hardest decision of my life.
    For more about Zeke and his story, please go here:

The Golden Sky

   

The Scribe Plays "The Happy Game"; Part II

    This is a continuation from yesterday: The Scribe Plays "The Happy Game"; Part I
    Just to recap: 
    All of the kids in the fourth grade have email addressees (provided their parents said it's okay and sign a paper). The kids were instructed to never write mean or gross emails and to NEVER give their password to anyone. The Scribe gave out her password to a "friend." That girl then went home and sent a few sexually horrific emails (under the Scribe's account and name) to other kids in the class. The Scribe was questioned. A bunch of the children in class were told what happened and then questioned. All of the kids thought it was the Scribe who sent those yucky messages. It wasn't until the end of the day that the Scribe's "friend" confessed.
    So, yes, I was upset that the Scribe gave out her password, but I did feel she played the role of a victim in this particular situation. Plus, it affected her social standing. Although the principal questioned her for a long time, the woman never called me. And the next day, despite going to the office twice AND calling the school four times, the principal still wouldn't speak with me.

Onto the post of today:

    At Fishducky's advice (and Bud's--the man who wears a pink hat AND was lucky enough to capture Fishducky's heart) I sent the school a polite email. 

    "This can be resolved quickly. I love the Scribe's school; it's wonderful. This doesn't need to be an issue, I just want to talk to the principal. My daughter was terrified going to school today; it would be nice to hear your side of the story. The other students should know she didn't write those emails. I don't want to take legal action, but I need a response soon. I'll be sending this same letter in the mail and as a fax just to make sure that you get it. -Elisa"

    After actually putting on some makeup and donning my boots, I got a call from the Scribe. "The girl who wrote the email didn't come to school today," she whispered. "But it's still terrible. One guy is calling me 'the Mop Head Potty Mouth.' Mom, can you come and get me?"
    "Scribe, you're made of stronger stuff than that. No, I can't get you, but we are going to sort this out."
    "One good thing did happen," she finally said, sniffling. "My teacher felt so bad for what's going on, she brought me into the hallway and hugged me. She even said she's going to give me a plant after school."
    "That's awesome! Just hang in there. Show 'em how tough you are, okay. You're the Scribe--you've been through worse. You're the same kid who put cat poop on a teacher's chair and survived!"
She cleared her throat. "That's right. Who cares what they say . . . But, Mom, what's a 'mop head?'"
    "Not you," I said. "Hey, since you called, are you in the classroom?"
    "Yeah."
    "Can I talk to your teacher?"
    Her teacher got on the phone and as we talked for just a moment, the teacher started crying. "I feel so bad for what happened to the Scribe," she said. "But I can't tell you anything else. The principal told me specifically, if you called, you need to know this is a bigger deal because it was on the internet. You have to talk with the principal."
    So, how fabulous was that?! The one person I was supposed to talk to, wouldn't return my calls.
    I got some strong coffee at a gas station after that, and I'm embarrassed to say, when the guy asked how I was, I said a swear word.
    Okay, I know swearing isn't against the law, but swearing in the presence of a practical stranger . . . maybe that should be. The guy stared at me all strange like I'd laid an egg right there in the store--a cuss egg.
    "Fine," he folded his arms. "You're never shitty. You're always happy. What's wrong? I got time for Miss Sunshine; I can't stand seeing certain people all worked up. You tell me and we'll sort this out."
    So I told him over my cup of Irish cream delight! He nodded and groaned, "Not the Scribe. She's always a peach when she comes in here."
    "Oh, yes," I said, my eyes bulging.  "The Scribe."
    "You get your butt back to the school, is what you do. If you need support, I'll go too, on break! I may have a soft underbelly, but I can look mean when I want to." Then he told me a sob story 'bout when he was a kid--that guy with the burly arms and tattoos. He got framed too and it set up his whole life for failure. "I got into drugs, then," he continued. "If they wanted to believe the lies, then I'd just do whatever they accused me of. You want your kid to fail?"
    "Ummm . . . no." I'm sure my face was white. I kept picturing the electric chair.
    "Then get over to that school. Show her she has a Mama who gives a damn. Give her what some of the rest of us never got--a backbone . . . a chance!"
    I kinda limped from the store because when you've spoken with an oracle, the conversation can be so powerful it leaves you weak. Who knew the local oracle moonlights as a gas station attendant!
    An amazing friend agreed to watch the babies and just after I dropped them off, I got a call from the school.
    "Hello, I've been assigned to the Scribe's case. Is this Ms. Hirsch?"
    Her case?  Wow, that was electric chair talk.  "Yes," I said sounding like the perfect mother who bakes, dances and sings AT THE SAME TIME! I turned from the ball buster of moments before, to the (quite ball-less) Elisa I usually am. "It's so nice to get your call. My daughter's having such a hard day at school. Can you tell me what's been going on?"
    She told me the ins and outs of the crime. I felt like a detective talking to an informant. We would crack this thing! We would!
    "We already know your daughter didn't send those emails, but we're assigning a computer programmer to track down the IP addressees so we can properly punish those involved. Your daughter will have to go to three hours of detention since she gave out her password, though. This will go on her record, but only that she gave her password, which is very minor considering what is going on the other kids' records. Not only were terribly messages sent, but some of the other children responded in a like manner."
    I have to admit, I was a little worked up about the detention thing, but instead of acting angry and throwing a fit, this is what I said, "The Scribe's had a tough time. She's struggled with reading and math. She hasn't wanted to go to school. Last year she used to call home sick--constantly. But that all changed this year. She found a best friend. She reads all of the time. She's getting ahead in math. I actually wrote a letter about her teacher and plan on nominating her for teacher of the year. I'm so thankful for her teacher, and proud of my daughter. But you know, today she called home saying she didn't feel good again. One of those emails even went to her best friend! It's sad watching someone get ahead, just to stand by while someone else tries ripping it from them."
    There was silence. Then finally, "I'm going to clear this up with all of the students. They need to know the Scribe didn't do this, especially her best friend. Thank you, Ms. Hirsch. I'm sorry your angel had to go through this. Be expecting a call from the principal shortly."


    I felt much better. I finally took the letter I'd written about the Scribe's teacher and submitted it to various sites. Here's the last section:

    Mrs. X has changed my child's life. She's left a lasting mark that no one can take away. I'm so thankful for the confidence and courage she's instilled in my child, and I will always be grateful because in resurrecting my child's love of education, she's saved my hopes in it as well.

    I printed out two copies and immediately decided to bring one to the teacher and one to the office so they could see how much we love the Scribe's teacher. The end of the day came and the principal still hadn't called me. I know everything was resolved, but for some reason it really irked me how I wasn't worth that woman's time.
    So, after school, I gave the teacher the note, hugged her and told her she made a bad situation good. Then, I went to the office. All of the teachers had left to do Zumba in the gym, but I silently bet the principal was still there. "Is anyone here?" I asked.
    After a moment, the principal came out. "Why yes," she said looking at some papers in her hands. When her eyes met mine, she froze. "You're the Scribe's Mom, aren't you?"
    I took the envelope containing the sweet letter I wrote about the Scribe's teacher, and I tapped in on the counter.
    "Yes, I'm the Scribe's mother."
    "Oh," she fumbled with the papers. "I'm sorry we played phone tag all day."
    Okay . . .? I HAVE caller ID. Can you call it phone tag when only one person has been calling? The woman hadn't called me once!
Her eyes went to the envelope which I kept tapping on the counter. Her face puckered as if she'd sucked in a fly. "What is . . . what's that?"
    I let her stew for a minute. I wondered if she assumed it was some legal document, or some other terrible thing. After she'd suffered sufficiently, I handed her the envelope. "It's a letter saying how amazing the Scribe's teacher is. I think when someone DOES their job and works hard to make the students and parents feel this is a safe learning environment, they should be recognized. I nominated her for teacher of the year. I even sent this to the local news station."
    She looked paler than before--if that was possible. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry for what happened with your daughter. It really wasn't her fault. And me, I'm so new to this."
    "It's . . . okay," I said after a moment. "The counselor who I did talk to was very helpful. I'm glad she called. All I really needed was to talk with someone. The longer things went, the more worried I became."
    She nodded and we shook hands. "It's so nice to meet you. It always means a lot when people praise our teachers."
    "And I figured it might make the school look good, too." I paused. "Being a new principal . . . that would be tough."
    "But meeting understanding parents and helping their kids, it makes it all worth it."
    "Thanks for your time." I waved.
    "No, thank you. I really appreciate that you stopped by." And that was all I'd needed the whole time was to feel like the Scribe mattered, and our needs were important. It was a roller coaster, but I hope we all learned something. The best discovery of the day though, was the oracle at the gas station. I still can't believe he was willing to go on break and help me wage war with a school. Some people are too awesome--seriously--that makes me want to work at a gas station so I can go into "oracle training."

    As we drove home last night, I turned to the Scribe.  "Do you still have to go to detention?"
    "Yes," she said.  "On Friday, for three hours with the boy who calls me 'the mop head potty mouth.'"
    "Oh, man.  That should be interesting."
    "Tell me about it," she said and forlornly stared out the window.  
    I sure hope today will go well for her.  Cade chuckled when I told him.  "Life has a funny way of sorting itself out," he said.  "She'll be all right.  You just wait and see.  For one thing, I bet she'll never give her password out again."
    I laughed.  "I bet you're right about that."

The Scribe Plays "The Happy Game"

    As we sat down and the Scribe told me her story, my face went from red to white.
    "They brought me into the principal's office," she said, "and told me I'd sent some very bad emails."
    At the beginning of the fourth grade, every child was sent home with a permission slip. If the parents signed it, then their fourth graders could have an email address. I was pretty iffy about the whole thing, after all the Scribe is only ten. She started crying after realizing I might not sign it. "Everyone else will have one though," she said. So, we read the rules together; how she couldn't send mean emails or ever give her password to anyone else. We signed the papers and apparently that was the beginning of the end.
    "What were the emails?" I asked her.
    "They were so bad, the principal talked about Social Services." She paused waiting to see what I'd say.
    I took a deep breath.  "Can you show them to me?"  What had she sent?  I know she's a prankster, but she's fun not mean.
    "I don't know, Mom. They were really bad . . . The office was supposed to change my password, but if we hurry, I can show you." She ran over to my iPad and started typing. When I read the emails, I knew at once that the Scribe hadn't written them. They were sexual and terrible. I was shocked and a bit sickened any fourth grader would know details about such things. Plus, the Scribe has been grounded from her little pre-paid phone and the computer, so I knew she didn't send those at the time it said.
    "You showed me this so I would know you didn't do it?"
    "Yeah," she said. "They figured that out in the office pretty fast. They made me take some tests. They had me spell different . . . words. Then they started asking me who I'd given my email password to."
    "Did you tell them?"
    "NO! I wouldn't rat out a friend."
    "But, Scribe. If this person sent out these terrible emails and signed them with your name, they aren't a friend."
    "I don't know." She got tears in her eyes. "Maybe my friend is sorting through stuff--terrible stuff you can't imagine. All she needs on top of everything is to get in trouble. But no matter how long I kept my mouth shut, the principal had different people ask me questions in different rooms for a long time. They called other kids into the other rooms and talked to them alone. The girl who did this finally confessed. Only after I heard her tell the truth, that's when I agreed."
    I sat stunned.
    "But why didn't the principal call me?"
    "Well, she said since I wasn't in real trouble . . . All I did was give my password out.  Maybe she figured you didn't need to know?"
    That made me tense.  I remained calm though, for my girl.  "Why did you give your password out, anyway?"
    "The girl said if we really were friends, then I would give her my password. That made me feel pretty bad, so I gave it to her."
    We drank some hot chocolate, which I was thankful for because even then (especially after selling cookies) I was still feeling a bit weak from being sick.
    "Mom, I'm scared to go to school. They said we can't talk about it anymore. But everyone was questioned and the whole class still thinks I did it. Kids were making fun of me."
    "Don't worry. I'll clear this up tomorrow."
    "You will?" she asked.
    "Oh, yeah. You're my baby. I'll sort this out even if it kills me."
    "Mom, I'm having a bad day. We gave Luna up. Now I had to tell you about my friend gone bad. Can we play the Happy Game?"
    "Sure."  I remembered a time long ago when I carried a baby who would probably die.  The only logical thing was to play the Happy Game then, too.
    "Well, today I can be happy because they usually make you wait in the office, but today I went right in. Plus, I've always wanted to see what the principal's office looked like and now I know!" the Scribe said.
    I laughed. "That's right, you do know."

   "And I got to . . . hang out . . . with the principal. She's a very busy woman; not every kid can say she has time for them!"

    "You're awesome," I said. "Just your attitude shows that you'll make it through this. Hang tight, it'll be okay."

 

    The next day I was pretty heated, though; I wasn't to the boiling point, not until I went to the office FOR THE SECOND TIME.     
    "Can I talk to the principal?" I asked.
    "Whose mother are you?" the woman asked.
    "My kid's the Scribe."
    "I'm sorry, but we can't take walk-ins. Can I get your number?"
    What was it, a hair salon?!  "Someone else took my number, but no one has called me and I keep getting transferred to voicemails."
    "I'm sorry, but we're doing our best."
    I looked at her patronizingly. Doing her best . . . seriously? Doing their best would be letting me talk to the principal about why she questioned my daughter forEVER and didn't call me.
    "Everyone wants their ducks in a row," the woman finished. "We have a lot of parents to deal with.
    Deal with . . . so now I was a walk-in burden!
    "That's fine, but I need to talk to someone soon. My daughter was terrified to go to class today. All of her peers still think she sent those yucky emails. This isn't right."
    So, I left and did what any good mother would do--I called Fishducky! 
    When you're getting ready for war, you need the good ones on your side. Sometimes you need to take off your thong, put on your big girl panties and get ready to bust some balls.
    The thing is, I'm one of the nicest people around. I'll do anything for anyone (except Miss Priss). I would have been like the Scribe, standing up for some bully when it would cost me everything--not because I was scared but because I felt bad. Even if I do sound like a pansy, I'm not. Maybe my friends will tell you I am, but they just haven't seen me make it to the boiling point--that isn't pretty. I dislocated a kid's jaw in junior high, just because he touched my leg. I even gave another guy a bloody nose in high school because he tried grabbing my boob. When enough has happened--that's it. I don't care how bad I feel for you--I won't be spineless and get walked on forever.
    I nodded as the famous Fishducky talked to me. "Okay," I said. "That's what I'll do. I sure appreciate your help."
    Her advice was pretty good. It didn't involve any balls, or me busting them, but it was a start. And deep down, I thought her idea just might work.


To be continued . . .

Unpression Has Begun

    If you don't understand the title, please go here:

I suffer from compression

    The Scribe and Hippie didn't come out of the school, so I ran in to get them.  Something was about to change in their lives and I had to tell them as soon as possible.  
    I found them in the Scribe's classroom.  "Hurry kids.  We need to get home.  But on our way, I need to tell you a story."
    "I need to tell you a story, too," the Scribe said.  "It might even be more important than yours."
    I studied her.  "Maybe.  I doubt it, though," I mumbled.
    "She might be right, Mom," the Hippie said.
    We sprinted from the school and none of us said anything for a moment.
    "Mine can wait," the Scribe finally said.  "You go first."
    I nodded.  "Once upon a time, a little boy lived happily.  He was darling and perfect.  Everyone loved him, especially his parents.  But as fate would have it, his parents both died when the boy was very young and the state had to decide who would take him."
    "How terrible," the Hippie said.
    "And sad," the Scribe agreed.
    "Well, the boy had a very fun aunt and a kind uncle.  Neither of them were married, but they had good jobs.  They both always wanted a boy and so they each begged the judge to give them the child.  After a few meetings, the judge decided to give the boy to his aunt because she was a woman.
    "Things didn't go as they hoped, though.  At first the aunt gave her nephew all of the love in the world.  She spent every moment with him, playing and laughing.  But soon she forgot about him and delved into her work instead.  Sometimes he would get fed late, or not at all.  She hardly spent time with him.  Often he found himself sad and lonely, until the judge found out and made the aunt come talk to him.
    "The aunt was reprimanded.  The judge told her to feed the child on time and give him attention.  She really did mean well, and she changed for a while, then things got even worse than before, and a whole week went by without her even giving him an ounce of attention.
    "The judge finally called the aunt and boy into his court.  The uncle was there, too, and he had proof of how much he loved the little boy.  He also had proof that he would spend time with the child every day, and feed him fancy foods and delicious desserts--even take him on trips.  The judge knew beyond anything, the uncle meant what he said."
    I turned to my girls at this point.  "If you were that judge, what would you do?"
    The Hippie answered first.  "Well, I don't want to be a nasty, old judge, but if I switched places with that little boy, I'd run far away from that aunt until I was at my uncle's house."
    "If I was the judge," the Scribe said," I'd give the boy to the uncle, then I'd tell the aunt how terrible she'd been and say she shouldn't have children."
    I took a deep breath and tapped the wheel.  "I'm glad to hear you say that; it means I made the right choice.  Kids, this conversation was about the dog."
    They gasped.
    "No.  NO!  We didn't know this was about her.  We wouldn't have said all that stuff . . ." the Scribe faltered.  "We wouldn't have been so harsh . . . if we knew it was about us."
    "No matter who it's about, right is right." 
    "How you said the aunt didn't spend time with the boy for a whole week . . . that was about us, too.  Wasn't it?" the Hippie asked.
    I nodded.  "You wanted a dog, but you don't spend time with her.  She's cold and alone outside.  I kept telling you that if you didn't spend more time with her AND feed her when I told you too, that we'd have to give her away."
    "But we did play with her . . . once in a while."
    "Once a week isn't enough.  That's no life for a dog.  She's a husky, girls.  She needs to run and play. She needs a family who is right for her needs, and we're not it."

    I started crying because it was hard.  I wouldn't let my girls see my tears, though.  So, I tried thinking of happy things, like the fancy car parked by our house, and the fact that the couple who stepped from it had come to buy our dog.
    The newlywed couple had a male husky.  He obeyed and seemed very well-trained.  After I greeted them and let Luna (our dog) out, she was so wild that I was embarrassed.
    "I just don't have the time to train her.  My husband works A LOT, and raising four kids is enough without adding a dog to the mix."
    Luna ran up to the male and they got along, instantly sniffing and brushing against each other.
    It still stung letting our puppy go, even though we knew it was the right thing.

    I cried when they left.  The Scribe and Hippie didn't seem as shook up as I'd expected.  And instead of me comforting them, my girls comforted me.
   "Now I know what you were saying," the Hippie said.  "They are better for Luna."
    "Yeah, and look at the bright side," the Scribe said.  "Our baby just grew up and got married.  Sure we'll never talk to her again, but it's sorta romantic."
    We laughed after that.  We went out selling girl scout cookies to take our minds off of things.  We all went out selling them for two hours--those kids are hard workers.
    It wasn't until we got home that the Scribe decided to tell me her news.
    "I had to go to the principal's office today," the Scribe said.
    "Why?"  I stared at her blankly.
    "It was terrible.  They talked about the police and social services.  I was in there for two hours."
    "What?!"
    She looked nervous just talking about social services.  One of my good friends is a social worker, so the Scribe knows all about what they do.
    "Tell me everything," I said, and we sat down for a very long talk.  The whole time I kept thinking how mad I was that the principal interrogated my child, and didn't think it was necessary to call me.

    To be continued tomorrow . . .   

A Memory

    My blog has been what my journal once was. It's amazing looking at old posts and reading what happened. There were so many things I'd forgotten from last year. I guess I was reminded of all of this because since my phone died, I had to use an old SIM card. It had numbers from people I don't talk to anymore. It was sad scanning through four names of people who have died.
   I thought of my grandma and her spunk, my grandpa and his kindness. I also thought of Cade's grandma as well as a good friend who have since passed. Somehow that made me start reading some of my first posts. It's fun looking at the past. But what it reminded me of even more, was a couple of years ago.
    Can you imagine a time so terrible, you've practically blocked it out? I had one such time. But I wrote everything down, and through those words, my memories lived. My friend encouraged me to read the journal. I sent her and my brother a new part of it each day.
    They both said they cried and laughed. I cried too, but what I found in those pages wasn't what I had expected. I didn't see so much pain, instead I saw hope, and a reason to forgive myself.
    It was like looking at my childhood, but finally seeing things as an adult would.  I'd done the best I could, and that was something to be proud of.
    My friend who read "The Golden Sky" first, wrote a post about it today. If you have a chance, here's the link to that story:

The Art Of A Memoir: The Golden Sky 

P. S. I hope you're having an amazing day. I'm still pretty sick, and I'm so sorry I haven't been able to read many blogs in the last few days. 

My mom came to help me yesterday and I slept from 8-5. Thank God for good moms.  Hopefully I'll be feeling better soon.  The Zombie Elf and Doctor Jones promised to help make some soup with me.  That should get us all feeling better super fast!