Lies I have told my children

...and you should too.  There is much to be said for magic in real life.  I'm not talking about Wickans or Disney.  Rather I am discussing the magic of childhood which can only be sustained by parental units... or parental units in training such as me.  Trust me when I say that these "lies" will help you through your day.

1) Any muffins I feed you will be whatever flavor you want them to be by virtue of them being Gabbie muffins being served by Gabbie.  If you ask me if they are plum muffins and I ask if you like plums and you answer "yes", then they will magically be plum muffins.  The same will be applied to cookies, cakes, cereals, sandwiches, etc.

2) Magic stuffed animals will be distributed at bedtime, nap time, and playtime as required.  Magic stuffed animals (which can only be magic when the Gabbie Lady says so) can be used to cure a) bad dreams, b) the inability to sleep, c) illness of any variety from tummy aches to ant bites, d) and fear.  If you try to switch your magic animal or fight for one of the other magic animals the magic is lost.  It is crucial that you believe the stuffed animal will work or, again, the magic is invalidated.

3) Anything you do- whether it is reasonable or unreasonable- can and will be stopped with the line, "I don't want to go to the Emergency Room today- knock it off."  I don't care if you thought it was a good idea- if you utter the phrase, "Hey Gabbie! Watch this!" I will take you down.

4) Anything can (and will) be forgiven and forgotten with a smile, a polite tone, an apology (if necessary), and an act of kindness.

5) Gabbie's are magical.  I can fix anything... and I will fix anything... because I love you.

6) I have eyes in the back of my head... that can see through walls, floors, siblings, and ceilings.  I WILL see you get out of bed, I WILL grab you and lovingly tuck you back in, and later you I WILL make you fold laundry.

7) I can tell when you are lying.  Okay, maybe I can't but law of averages the kid that denies it most emphatically (except if his name is Jonathan), avoids eye contact, and somehow knows "who" did it that couldn't possibly be him is the guilty party.

Unsent Letters October 2011

Dear Jon,

When someone dies I don't like the phrase, "we lost him."  It makes me think that we have misplaced him and like all things that are misplaced we will find it again eventually.  Similarly I don't like the phrase, "he passed away," as if he were a wanderer and was never intended to stay for long.  I can't speak on "heading north", "over the hill", or "kicking the bucket" as they all stem from WWI and I try not to insult such euphemisms.  I think people disguise the loss so they can pretend that they don't feel the loss.  I'm beginning to accept this as a step of grief.  


A week ago Tuesday we lost you.  I say we because in a way, every member of humanity lost something that day, the only difference between those who didn't know you and those that did is that everyone else is blissfully unaware of what they have lost.  I cannot boast being among your close friends or even your friend, but my brother and my college roommate were very close to you.  I will never forget the first time I saw you but I cannot say as I remember the last time.  I cannot say I always liked you but I know you were trying to do God's work.  


I can't rationalize why you died, or why you had to die.  Even more than that I cannot explain why you had to hang on so long, living in pain.  I pray that such memories are forgotten in heaven.  I cannot understand why you died so young, especially when you were doing so much good.  I can say that I've never gone through such denial in my life though.  I've laid awake in bed with a guilty conscience, wishing I had been nicer to you. I sat and wondered how easily it could have been me.  I can't say as I've finished with the seven stages of guilt yet but I think I've finally reached the stage that I believe that I will.  


Your death has taken it's toll on all who knew you or went to school with you.  Shnaider said that "In a just world the clocks would stop today.  The bells would ring, and th enation would [morn] a fallen hero.  As it is, the Hero[es] life will be a beacon of Inspiration to Us all," and for once I agree.  Laura kept repeating, "I can't believe you're gone.  Put in a good word for us," but of all the facebook wisdom that I read the day that you died, I believe the best one was from Seneca.  " The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.  I know wherever you are is a happier place than where you were when I knew you and that you have found peace.  I hope you're up there with God having the time of your life after death and someday I hope to join the party.  


Until then, good-bye Jon.

Why parents should not buy duct tape

My reasoning in my belief that parents should not buy, own, or borrow duct tape falls into my concurring belief that everyone should avoid temptation.  This might seem rather ridiculous because, after all, most people use duct tape for it's intended purpose, or something along those lines, but on more than one occasion I have consider (fantasized really) about using it for it's unintended purpose.  Namely, to use this....

to do this...

Or this...

Or this...

(Admit it- who WOULDN'T do that to Megan Fox?)

Or this...

Or this...

Hopefully I'm not alone in my crazy ideas but who among us hasn't considered running away from their children, or hiding in the closet?  Today, when Tia asked me to see if the children were done, I responded that they should be done cooking by now, and I was semi-serious.  Oh ho ho, children.  It is not Baba Yaga or the wicked witch who lives in the woods with the candy house that you should fear- it would be me. Mwahahhahaha.  

Lest I seem too demonic let me illuminate the fact that I never ever considered the alternative uses of duct tape until Four and Six spent ten minutes begging me to buy pink, purple, and blue duct tape while waiting in the LONGEST check out line ever!!!!  It was only then that I considered how well the colors might go if pressed over their cheek bones.  Before I forget, I didn't buy the duct tape... or any other kind of tape... no matter how tempting it was.  After all, I am on a budget.  

Lastly I would like to say that as horrible I am for my own private thoughts, perhaps my audience will think better for me because as bad as I am, I never actually did this...

... and instead only posted about it.  

The Club

Anyone who is a parent is part of this club.  Any adult who loves a child is part of this club.  Any adult who has ever gone out in public with a child is part of this club.  Older siblings will never understand this (or at least I didn't) and most people will miss it entirely unless they are part of the interaction.  Yes, I am talking about that most sacred acts of passage, that most noble rite, that impossible, that immeasurable, I've finally realized that I'm part of it- yes, I am talking about the club.

There are many restrictions to the club- for being such an open group we have very defined rules.

1) You must love a child more than anything, including but not limited to, your sleep cycle, your ego, and your sanity.
2) You must have taken this child out in public.
3) You must have been embarrassed by said child at least once in public.

If there are any more qualifications I have yet to discover them.

I found out about the club a few weeks ago I went to the store with two little girls.  To be fair it was the fourth stop on what was allegedly a short trip of errands but that had turned into an all morning event.  They were amiable, chatty, pleasant even, but the moment we parked the car in front of HEB I was wishing I was the toddler!!!!  We passed through the magic doors and immediately I heard cries of, "Gabbie, can we have a big cart?  Gabbie, can we have one with a car?  Gabbie, will you push us?  Gabbie, why not!?!?!!"  I could expound about the rest of the trip but let me reassure you that we could not go more than three feet without hearing BOTH of them scream that they wanted something.

Finally (blessedly) we got to the checkout line and my eyes started to wander.  Alright, I was really trying to zone out my smalls, but you understand.  I was hoping that everyone around us was blissfully ignorant of the noise that the little people were making but I was sadly disillusioned.  I was moping about this and that, dear readers, is when I saw him.  A kind looking gentleman, older than Tia and Tio, but younger than my parents, caught my attention.  He was trying desperately to not crack a smile, and was failing miserably.  Then our eyes met and in an instant I knew what he was thinking.

He was thinking, It's gonna be okay.  I've been there.  This age isn't forever.  Things will get better.  No one cares if they are a little noisy, they're kids and you are tired.  I mulled this over for a minute and then I caught that attempt to hold back a smile and realized he was saying one more thing.  Thank GOD it's not me. 

Well dear, kind sir, thank you for cheering me up.  Thank you for not glaring as if my very presence with my smalls was insulting.  Thank you for being a source of camaraderie and thank you for reassuring me that someday (some blissful day!!!) they will outgrow this stage, but next time, dear sir, could you try not to gloat so much.  Some of the gloat dripped onto the floor.

The bride

Everyone has a moment in their life that changes them- or I dearly hope so.  Hopefully it stops you in your tracks and hopefully you are forever changed by it.  Perhaps it is a ridiculous hope, but I hope it stops you in your tracks, makes you cry, and then makes you grateful.  At the end of every summer I think of one that happened when I was working in a bridal shop.

Contrary to popular belief, brides are not happy people.  In fact they are some of the most miserable human beings that I have ever come in contact with- bar none.  Ironically most of my best friends are either marrying them or becoming them.  Being friends with them can be akin to purgatory on earth (and I mean that in the best possible way), but make no mistake, working for them is hell.  My job was office managing, which meant I kept track of all incoming and outgoing orders, organized all the dresses, shoes, under gardments, veils, jewelry, tiaras, etc.  I called every bride, bridesmaid,  Mother of the Bride, Mother of the Groom, Grandmother, and flower girl.  I cleaned the shop, organized the shop, and went crazy with the shipping tape. That was fine... except when the shop got busy and I had to go and help the brides... *shudder*  But I digress.

One day I was tasked with sending back the dresses that were never picked up.  Some of them were because someone lost their job, some times the dress hadn't fit, once or twice the wedding had been called off, a LOT of times the bride had changed her mind, but there was one that stuck out in my memory.

Her name was Crystal Ball- I remember because I snickered the first time I read it.  I never met her in person but I prayed that I would be there to give it to her when she came.  She never did.  I will never forget the day that dress arrived.  It was my size and the most beautiful dress in the store.  It had the green accent which is my favorite color and it was the short version so it would have fit me too.  I loved that dress.  I wanted to wear it- just to try it on- but of course I never could.  I lovingly checked it in, hung it in it's place on the pickup line and waited every day for the bride to come and pick it up.  When returning any dress, especially when the dress has been purchased in full, paperwork requires that I give a reason.  Most of the reasons were bland and boring.  This one required me searching in the computer.  As I read through her file I felt like I was getting to know her as I read the different dresses she had looked at, the bridesmaids she had chosen, even the flower girl she had lovingly cared for.  Finally I found the reason for returning the beautiful dress.  It read as follows.

"Fiance killed in Iraq." 

The unforgetable classic, American Pie sung by Don McClean echoes in my head.

"I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died." 

I remember that day well though I couldn't tell you anything else about the day.  I just remember my boss coming into the back room to find me crying at the foot of a wedding dress.   I always thought I was made of stronger stuff.   Those who know me know I don't cry easily.  I don't cry frequently.  I can count on one hand how many times I've cried in the last three years, but I cried that day.  I will never forget that young woman who changed my life without ever meeting me.  I wish I had met her- had looked her in the eye- just to see her joy- but I'm glad I never saw her pain.  Maybe someday I'll be able to understand why that had to happen, though I doubt it.  Do me a favor and when you read this, pray for her.  Pray that she's moved on in the years since then.  Pray that she's found something to make her happy.  Pray that she never forgets.

1571

I realize this morning that I am channeling A Catholic Guy's blog here but forgive me as I feel this is important.  In the past I have loudly announced that I did not like History until I was in college (thank you, Dr. Baxa) and that I never really learned any of it until I was in college.  This morning I was reminded that every once in a while something must have sunk in because the children's history/religion lesson was not a new page but an echo.  It took me a minute to realize this as Tia uses simpler language with her children than my high school history professor (whom I firmly believe was intent on making my head spin).  Today's lesson was on the Battle of Lepanto.  

In the world of 1571 Muslims and Christians did not get along (not unlike today) but then there was no media to frown upon them and no U.S. to beat them into submission.  What was better was the Spanish Naval Fleet naval force, who stood between the Turks and the rest of Christian Europe, were outnumbered, less experienced, and less mean (as Tia said.)  The Turks made no excuses- they would kill any man, woman, or child who would not convert and join them.  Recognizing how dire the situation was the King and Queen of Spain equipped their soldiers with a rosary, general absolution, and required that all those in the fight use both.  Most men carried their rosaries into battle, praying for victory as they went.

The Turks were defeated and never tried to take Europe again.  Pope Pius V created a new feast day- Our Lady of Victory which eventually became the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, celebrated on October 7th.

Growing up around the Norbertines at Saint Michael's Abbey in El Toro, California I frequently heard the phrase, "Where are your weapons?  Would you go into battle without your weapons?"  At the time I did not understand that they were talking about rosaries and religious medals.  I could not comprehend what you meant- now I do.  I have a nervous habit of playing with my necklace which holds my chastity ring (which is too big for my fingers) and my Saint Gabriel medal.  I usually have a rosary around my neck as well (hidden under my shirt) along with my scapular.  I jokingly call them my Catholic stamp but I keep them as a reminder of who I am inside and who I fight for- not in battle- but in prayer.  I fight for the right to be Catholic.  I fight for the right to be Christian.  I fight for the right to be a good person.  I fight for everyone I've ever known, will ever meet, and never will ever see in this life.  I fight with the devil with the only weapon that I have- prayer.

The Alphabet according to Star Wars Geeks

*written this morning at breakfast*


A is for Anakin
B is for Boba Fett's blaster
C is for Chewbacca all ready for disaster
D is for the Death Star
E is for Ewok
F is for fight where a lot of guys get beat up
G is for Gungans
H is for Han Solo
I is for Imperial Royal guard
J is for Jedi and K was really hard
We settled on Kenobi, saying "You must use the force"
L is for Luke and Leia, who sometimes act like dorks
M is for Mara Jade (who all the real geeks know)
N is for Naboo where Queen Amidala's from
O is for Owen Lars who is the brother of Luke's dad
P is for Palpatine who is really, really bad
Q is for Quigon Jin
R is for Rebel spy
S is for Star Wars, cause I'm that kind of guy
T is Taun-Tauns who smell better when they're dead
U is for Ugnaught, an alien race who spend life with the clouds around their head (cause they're from Cloud City)
V is for Vader the one with the red light saber
W is for Wicket or favorite Ewok leader
X is X-wing
Y is for Yoda- Judge me by my size and you'll end up just like Boba
Z is for Zardra the forgotten bounty hunter
Which brings us to the end, stick around and next time we'll do Star Wars fashioned numbers.
Thank you for your time and we hope you are impressed.  Listen to the force and you'll always do your best.

Socks

I love doing laundry.  It is one of my favorite chores.  I mean how can you NOT love turning something soiled and dirty into something fresh and nice smelling?  And on top of that it's all soft and warm.  Laundry makes me want to just bury my face in it (not that I ever do that) and give it a big warm hug.  And then you get to fold it, and make it nice and orderly (stop laughing people who know me) and on top of all that- you get to make SOMEONE ELSE put it away!!!!  What's not to love?

Yep, laundry is pretty sweet... except for socks... I don't much care for matching socks.  This might be partly because my socks never seem match... even when I'm wearing them.  This could be attributed to the fact that the gremlins are constantly stealing one sock from every load of laundry... but always the left one?  Maybe they are right brain?  Or I might hate matching socks because they get everywhere... and I do mean everywhere.  Or it might be because every load of socks is an exercise in futility because I live with five children who are incapable of putting their socks in their dirty clothes baskets... or even wearing their socks for a full day.  And then if by some miracle a pair manages to get into the laundry basket and into the SAME LOAD of laundry one of them is SURELY going to get stuck in the crevice of the washer or the dryer (where I find no small amount of legos, froggy toys, and loose change) and will never be found until three days later no matter HOW MANY TIMES I check it.  I can't even keep the socks straight in my sock drawer!!!! Therefore it might be understandable that I don't like socks.  If I didn't need them so much I would burn them all!!!!!!!!!!!!  Well, not really, but you know what I mean.

Anyways, from the beginning of living in Texas I have made it perfectly clear to small people that washing and drying and folding socks is an act of patience, diligence, servitude, a small case of martyrdom, but most importantly it is an act of love.  This is so much an act of love that I have taught my smalls the following phrase-

Ahem, repeat after me.
Thank you, Gabbie.
Thank you, Gabbie.
I love you, Gabbie.
I love you, Gabbie.
You are awesome, Gabbie.
You are awesome, Gabbie.
I will wash your socks, Gabbie.
Nooooooo!!!!!!!


No matter what you think, they are always listening... and even they won't match socks for me.

My very perfect goddaughter

I am very proud of the fact that I do not have all of my parents phobias.  High on the list is my Mother's fear of spiders, mosquitoes, cockroaches, snakes, frogs, lizards, skinks, rats, mice, guinea pigs, or anything else that is small, crawls, climbs, slithers, or scurries.  I would even hazard to say that most of these "creepy crawlies" I rather enjoy.  Consequently I have little fear of them- the balance being that I tend to scream when anything, varying from a spider climbing out of my basil to Grisha dropping an ice pack onto my foot, usually causes me to hit a high G three octaves above middle C.  On the flip side of things I am usually the first one to pick up a crawling bug or lizard that has wandered into the house.  Mosquitoes, wasps, bees, and cockroaches are the exception.  They get lambasted on sight and vacuumed up to quell any fears small people (or big people) who are afraid of them.  My very perfect goddaughter has acquired much of these same characteristics.  She can catch the swift footed anollis that live in our backyard, squash the quickest spider that gets carried in on the basil, and is usually the first to spot any baby birds that have appeared in our Swallow's nest.  She does not scream.  She does not panic.  She is very, very perfect.

A few weeks ago we went to the Houston museum and we very happily visited the butterfly exhibit.  Within those doors we saw everything from the cicadas that we hear so frequently to the butterflies that we are currently raising.  We even saw a tank full of hissing cockroaches (Tia carefully skirted the opposite side of the room in order to avoid them.)  In one tank there was a tarantula, happily perched in the top corner, lying in wait for whoever dared to enter, and shielded from view unless looking directly into the top of the tank.  I admit, I was not expecting to see her, perched so daintily, surveying the world from her webbed throne, and I did manage a gasp that sent Tio snickering.  I regained some of my dignity when I showed Eight, Seven, Four, and my goddaughter, Five, to the lofty widow who surveyed them modestly.  They had much the same reaction as me (though I didn't cry like poor Four did.)  Too late we discovered that Four does not like spiders of any variety and seeing one so close to her face that was larger than both her hands was more than we could expect her to take.

Four regained her composure a few minutes later when we sat and watched the butterfly cocoons and the birth of many, many butterflies of varying colors and shapes, size and style.  She was entranced.  A few minutes later we took all of the children out into the butterfly garden where it is hard to get more than a few inches from the elegant creatures and where frequently they daintily land upon the visitors to their world.  A rather pretty purple one was resting by a flower and Tio went to take a picture of her with Four.  I suppose up until that point she thought the butterflies were not real, like at Disneyland.  Then one dared to fly inches from her face and she screamed and broke into sobs that could not be stopped until Papa had her in his arms, protecting her from the dangerous predator, the evil, the sinister, the malicious butterfly.  Five did not entertain any signs of fear.  She walked right up to them, put her finger out, tried to poke a few into flight, and warned everyone that to poke them too much would mean that they would die.  She was most entertaining.

On our way out of the butterfly garden I walked with Five, considering how lovely she is, and how I could not ask for a more perfect goddaughter.  She's not afraid of anything, I considered as she stepped quickly, from stair step to stair step, not giving any attention to spiderwebs or ants or even the people who filled the garden.  She was lost in her own little world... and then a butterfly flew in front of her.

At the time she had been singing and without missing a beat she raised the paper butterfly guide she had in her hand and took a whack at that beautiful butterfly.  Fortunately the butterfly was not as stupid as he looks and managed to drop and dodge her well aimed hit but I was left floored.  My godbaby- my sweet innocent goddaughter- tried to knock a butterfly out of the sky.  Well, I always wanted her to be like me...  now I might have to work on that tender, loving, care thing...

Hellfire

Eight years ago this fall, California was plagued with a series of wildfires that engulfed an expanse of the state from San Bernardino to San Diego.  Under the guidance of the famous Santa Ana winds, the wildfires grew and killed many people.  15 fires began in under a week, which is now known as the fire siege of 2003.  A number of the fires began on my birthday- it was my Quinceanera.

My Mother, my sister, my dog, and four of my closest friends were in the San Bernadino mountains when the fires began.  We were ordered to evacuate and as we drove down our mountain was engulfed in smoke.  I remember very clearly the smell of smoke in the air- the silent fear that had replaced our laughter- looking down at my feet to see my golden retriever curled up with his head in my lap, his tail between his legs- gazing out the window to see darkness, though it was still day, and the only light not coming from the fleeing vehicles came from the fire that was racing over the next hill.  The sun did not set that day- it was eliminated.

My mind raced to J.R.R. Tolkien's The Two Towers and a line by Legolas.

"A red sun rises- blood has been shed this night."

Later an arsonist was charged with starting them and many people died.  One, a young girl, was a close friend of one of the girls who was with me at my party.  Every time my birthday passes I think of her.

Fast forward to present day.   Austin and the surrounding area is being plagued with wildfires.  Texas has been suffering through a drought all summer and a sudden change in weather brought cooler weather but also heavy winds, which have only fueled the fire.  No less than five wildfires have swept the landscape since Saturday and thousands of people have been evacuated- hundreds have lost their homes- and much of the Bastrop State Park has been consumed.  The Boys Scouts of America, Catholic women's groups, and countless Churches have banded together to bring aid to those fighting the fire, provide shelters for those running from it, and give what they can to those who have lost their homes.  At least two people have died and this morning they suspect arson.

I am far from a good person- in fact I am quite certain I am a terrible person- but this is largely because of my anger.  Every morning that the fires continue, and we can smell the smoke and see the dark clouds in the distance, I have to reassure five small children that everything will be okay- that we won't be evacuated- that the fire will not come close- and I have to lie.  I find it very difficult to tell the children not to be frightened because I'm scared too.  Rationally I know there is very little likelihood that it will come- that we will have plenty of warning- that everyone will be okay.  I remember back in California, the years following the Siege of Fire.  The mountains were black for years- and then I moved away so I don't know if they still look the same.  I cannot think of California without remembering that horrible month where ash rained instead of water.

Two days ago the Bastrop fire- the worst one thus far- jumped the Colorado River- our greatest defense- and hasn't stopped, therefore I find myself asking for prayers.  Prayers for those lives that have been lost.  Prayers for those that have lost everything.  Prayers for Texas and the wild land that won't be the same for many years.  And prayers... for those that started this- I ask you to pray for them... and pray for me that I might be able to pray for them too.