If You're Glad it's Christmas time say "Ho, Ho!"

It is now official. I have entered the world of Christmas programs. Isabelle had her very first Christmas program yesterday... her debut. At three years old it was pretty much hysterical as well as quick. Nonetheless, the church where her preschool is held was packed to the rafters (literally, the choir loft was full) with parents, grandparents, and siblings all anxious to watch their own "little person" in their moment of glory.

And sure enough, Isabelle paraded out in her brand new jumper and black ballet slippers, sporting a Santa hat that was crammed onto her head in such a fashion that I had a flash of her as a cross between Happy and Dopey of the Seven dwarfs (something with her big round cheeks and the way she was walking and her grin, big enough to light up the church by herself) Standing right in the middle of her fellow classmates, she sang all three of her songs, "Jingle, jingle," "Hat, whiskers, belt, and boots," and "If you are glad it's Christmas time say Ho, Ho!" She even did little bows in between the songs.

Of course, I turned into the typical fool of a parent and waved at her like an idiot, semi-stood to get pictures, craned my neck in various directions, oohed and aahed, clapped enthusiastically, and totally and utterly failed to even notice any of the other children at all. I had eyes only for my Isabelle. The whole program lasted maybe seven minutes. And it was totally worth it.

Our kids can turn us into complete morons and what perhaps is even better is that we do not mind in the slightest ...... so, what if you think I am a complete geek? I was watching my daughter sing about Christmas, and she is only going to be three once, right? Besides, someday when she is like twenty-six I am going to tease her about how big her cheeks looked with that Santa hat mashed on her noggin and how proud she was of herself standing up there (and then she is going to rip on me because I am going to get teary-eyed remembering it) and it will be great because that is what Christmas should be all about anyway. So, there is another really good Christmas memory to file away.

Tree Update: Will wonders never cease? For the first time since Isabelle entered this world our tree has thus far remained in the upright position without once taking a nosedive (pause to knock on all wood at hand) May I add that it is a truly beautiful tree this year, we picked exceptionally well, and I am remaining cautiously optimistic that all will be fine (barring any assaults upon the tree by the cats or Isabelle, of course.)

Christmas Magic

I like to think we all still have that little thing in Christmas that is magic to us. Ya know, that one little item/tradition/habit that for even just a millisecond makes us forget the adult we have become and remember the kid we once were. In the movie, "The Polar Express" it is the little jingle bell from the harness of Santa's reindeer ..... for me it is and always has been the snow globe.

This came to mind this past Saturday as I began pulling out the Christmas decor, putting up my various Santas and snowmen and evergreen garlands around the house. The tree will be done later and will take much longer, getting its own day or days (as you all know from previous blogs on it! We will see how this year goes!) but what I really am always anxious to get to are my collection of snow globes. I began my collection after I got married, but my fascination with them started long before when I was just a girl. I cannot pin point when it began or even a particular globe. They were always just mesmerizing to me. I could sit and gaze into them, watching the snow fall silently down and imagine an entire little world encompassed inside, perhaps with its own set of little people. I would create entire stories in my head of what happened inside the snow globe.

Now as an adult I still find the same magic, carefully removing each from their box and examining them anew. Each is like a cherished friend to me and, indeed, many are from friends and family. One of my favorites, a huge silver-based one, holds three beautiful Christmas trees, unadorned except for white snow on their branches and the sparkling snow that falls in the globe. It plays "Oh Christmas Tree" as all three trees silently rotate inside the globe and was given to me by my dear friend, Mel. The first one Clay gave me is another cherished favorite and one that inspires many childhood fantasies within my head, for it holds a small cottage inside, complete with frosted windows that actually light up from a switch on the bottom. It also has a rock strewn stream, deer, and pine trees and plays "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." And, of course, I have the whimsical ones, with Rudolph or a bear snowman or little ones, with a Christmas Mickey Mouse, and even an older one that had been in my Grandma B's possession. The water is murky, but the Santa and sleigh full of toys is no less dear. My brother and Chrissy even managed one year to find a Breyer horse Christmas snow globe, combining one love with another since when I was younger I collected Breyers (I still have all of them packed away and let me tell you that is a LARGE collection).

I have three or four from Eddie Bauer which makes lovely wood-based globes with cute log cabins inside. Last winter we woke in the dead of night to a crash in the kitchen to discover that a shelf had come loose from the wall .... on it had been my favorite Eddie Bauer snow globe, a simple log cabin which I had left out long after Christmas as it was truly more of a winter scene as opposed to a Christmas one. I recall picking up the tiny shards of glass and placing them in the trash with tears streaming down my face. I felt ridiculous for crying over a snow globe but somehow I just could not stop. I was sad because Clay had given it to me, but it was more than that. For me when that snow globe broke it was like losing a tiny piece of that Christmas magic or that childhood wonder, so I guess it hurt just that little bit more.

Of course, every year brings new snow globes to the collection and I eagerly await to see what "Santa" will bring me this year. I also am training a new recruit in the art of loving snow globes and Isabelle is an avid disciple. She begs me to play their music and all must be kept well out of reach of her three year old hands as they are just way too tempting. Of course, I completely understand. After all, I think they are magic too!

Spouting Off

Excuse me while I vent:


I came across a rather annoying piece on-line the other day. On Tuesday November 11th to be precise by one Jay Busbee who I guess is some self-proclaimed sports guy who thinks he knows a few things. (Don't we all!) Anyways, this little article was titled, "The Most Boring Champions Club Welcomes Jimmie Johnson," who frankly I could care less about as I do not follow Jimmie Johnson or Nascar, but I found some of the other members of his club interesting, including such people as Tiger Woods and recent amazing Olympian Michael Phelps. Also included in his list of so-called "boring champions" was my dear Red Wings captain, Nick Lidstrom.


Here's Busbee's take on Lidstrom: "The Detroit Red Wings' captain is a pleasant, exceedingly competent, soft-spoken gentleman -- which is exactly what you don't want in a freakin' hockey player! The defenseman is the symbol of the Wings' numbingly boring style of hockey, and making hockey boring is quite a feat in itself."


Excuse me!?! First of all, complimenting hockey while trashing the Wings at the same time does not make you okay in my book. Second of all, anyone who thinks the Red Wings style of hockey is boring is clearly not watching the same game I am. They are without a doubt one of the most highly skilled NHL teams out there with Datsuk skating circles around most other players so much so that the commentators have now come up with the phrase "Datsukian Deeks" to describe his moves! Hossa brings tears to your eyes with goals that make the highlight reels every night on ESPN for his artistry, and Zetterburg isn't exactly a slouch. And, while they are not exactly known for fighting, you all should have seen McCarty mix it up the other night in a very old school hockey brawl. No, they are not a bunch of "thugs on ice" so if Mr. Busbee is into that brand of hockey then perhaps they are a bit bland and he might look into a sport like .... say, roller derby.


As for Nick Lidstrom, yes he is a "soft-spoken gentleman" and isn't that refreshing in this day and age of me-me-me egocentric athletes who continually whine and play the diva. It seems a player like Terrell Owens cannot go a day without complaining to the media about not getting the ball thrown to him enough. We all know he has gone through a couple of teams and quarterbacks with his "it is all about me" antics. But, no, he isn't "boring." Or you could look at the many examples of criminal behavior among sports stars. Pacman Jones ring a bell? Or how about steroid abuse in baseball? But hey, the athletes aren't boring are they Mr. Busbee? Never mind that none of them have an ounce of class or honesty!


Give me the Nick Lidstrom athletes of the world twenty times over the show-boaters, Mr. Busbee. They are the ones who I can admire, the ones I can point out to my daughter as playing their sports in the manner in which they ought to be played.... not only with skill and talent and amazing athleticism but also with sportsmanship, class, integrity, and a love of the game, which is sadly missing in all too many of our professional sports athletes today. Bring on the "boring."

Does this Make Any Sense?

There are some days when I am certain I am doing it all wrong. The damage has been done ... I have wrought irrecoverable harm upon my child through my poor parenting skills and lack of patience. A better Mom would know how to handle the continual back talk and sassy behavior. A better Mom would not get frustrated with her child when said child yelled at her for the thirtieth time during a twenty-four hour period. A better Mom would remind herself that the child is just three years old and that all children must go through such phases. Apparently I am not a better Mom. Today and over the last few days I feel like a terrible Mom.


This happens periodically, at least it does with me, and it follows a pattern, as I have at times in my life also felt like a terrible wife, daughter, sister, friend, and about any other role I have played at one time or another. I assume most people feel this way, but then again maybe they don't. Maybe it is just for chronic freaks like myself or people who feel the need to try and be perfect as if that is somehow attainable. The truth is none of it is about other people, really, and it is all about me and my own pathetic feeling of inadequacy and self-doubt. And I hate how that sounds even to myself. I need to stop whining. I need to "cowboy up." I need to "put on my big girl panties and deal with it," as they say.


Now is about the time when I go and apologize to my three year old for being so crabby, tell her that I have never done this Mommy gig before just like she has never done this kid thing before so we are entitled to a few (trillion) screw ups and we will just have to try harder to communicate. Now is the time when I remind myself that I am the grown up and she is the child and maybe I should act like it. Now is the time when I choose to stay "in the game" not just when she is cute and fun for Halloween, but when she is making me want to yank my hair out and run in the other direction. Now is the time when I remember how much I adore her. And that is never hard to do. The truth is I will probably always struggle with my own personal feelings of self-worth and self-doubt, and I will probably always worry about messing things up as a parent. But I will never doubt my love for her, and in the end perhaps that is all that truly matters.

Redistribution of Wealth

I am truly sick of all the election "hoopla" but I still believe the "old guys" know what they are talking about. (I suppose my conservative colors are showing.)

From Abraham Lincoln…
"Property is the fruit of labor...property is desirable... a positive good in the world. That some should be rich shows that others may become rich, and hence is just encouragement to industry and enterprise. Let not him who is houseless pull down the house of another; but let him labor diligently and build one for himself, thus by example assuring that his own shall be safe from violence when built."

From Thomas Jefferson…
"To take from one because it is thought that his own industry and that of his father's has acquired too much, in order to spare to others, who, or whose fathers have not exercised equal industry and skill, is to violate arbitrarily the first principle of association - the guarantee to every one of a free exercise of his industry and the fruits acquired by it."

Not Really Gone

I am rushing Isabelle out the door on a typical Monday morning trying to remember all of the things I want to do in the two hours while she is at preschool. I juggle my purse, car keys, the all important plastic bottle of diet Lipton raspberry white tea that I am currently addicted to, and Isabelle's back pack, while I help her get her other arm into her coat sleeve and lift her into the back seat of the Jeep. We go through this routine like a well-oiled machine, our bodies mindlessly performing the tasks we ask of them while all the while she and I keep up a running dialogue of what she might do in school today. I close her door, walk around to mine, get in, start the car, buckle up, back out of the garage, press the garage door button to close it, and quickly take a gloved hand to brush a stray curl out of my face and tuck it behind an ear...............

All at once I am slammed full force back into my grandmother's kitchen, feeling the heat coming off of her stove, radiating warm against my thigh as something bakes within. I am embraced by two arms, enveloping me like fragile butterfly wings, yet at the same time providing a tremendous sense of security and safety. I feel her baby soft cheek against mine as I stoop to hug her, her slightly scratchy grey hair tickling my nose, and deeply breathe in that smell, that grandma smell, something I cannot describe, but something intrinsically linked with her in my mind. And now here I am in October and she passed away in July and I am sobbing like a baby in my car because I am wearing a pair of her gloves for the first time and I just pushed a piece of hair out of my face and suddenly it was like she never died. Yes, I cried, but really it was such a gift to have such a vivid memory brought forth. God, the mind is powerful.

Part of me doesn't want to wear the gloves because the more I do the less they will bear her scent and the more they will gain mine. Of course, the other part of me does. The part of me that took them in the first place.... the part of me that thought it would be nice to put my hand inside something that once had her hand in it. As if in some way it could link us up once more and in a way we could still hold each other's hand. I know it is silly, but then again, perhaps not. Later that evening I told Clay about it when we went out for our after dinner walk with Isabelle. I told him it was like my grandmother was right here with me, and he stopped me and looked me right in the eye and said, "She is still with you."

I married a really smart man, but that is a blog for another day. (And we don't want him getting a big head).

My Not So Glamorous Life

"Mommy, I'm AWAKE!"

(slight pause).

"Mommy, I'm AWAKE!!!"

(slight pause, with an audible "huff" attached to the end of it.)

"MOOOOOMMY! I'M AAAAAAAAWAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And so my day began this morning, no alarm needed. Clay was out of town on business and Isabelle was obviously ready to get up. I was completely and utterly out of it, but somehow staggered across the hall and opened my daughter's bedroom door, mostly just to get her to (for the love of God) stop yelling because the assault on my ears was just too much when still attempting to gain full consciousness. Our morning routine upstairs got interrupted by the sounds of my fat cat, Nib puking up his breakfast downstairs, so I found myself scrubbing my grey carpet (Why do cats always vomit on the carpet and never on the tile? And who in the hell decided to put grey carpet in this damn house anyways? Curse the people we bought it from and their bad/impractical taste!) with Resolve yet again. When I put the Resolve back in the cupboard I figure I might as well clean up the litter boxes since I am already in the laundry room, and, after all, what is a little excrement after vomit?

I manage to get through my routine on the treadmill only having to stop twice to help my daughter in the bathroom as she has not yet mastered the fine art of "wiping her bum" adequately and I feel like my morning has been taken up with nothing except bodily excretions in various forms. Needless to say I skip breakfast and figure I might as well go with the theme. I scrub toilets. Joy. Isabelle plays and eats her breakfast while I clean both bathrooms, still in my sweaty workout clothes and now also sporting a pair of yellow rubber gloves, with my bed head, workout hair, knotted into a greasy blob on top of my skull.

About this time Fed Ex decides to ring the door bell and deliver a package. More joy. Looking like the number one reason why my husband would decide to have an affair with some hot office floozy, I answer the door and watch the Fed Ex guy do his best to smother his look of alarm as I sheepishly thank him and open the door just wide enough to nab the box and close it again, all the while with Isabelle jabbering away asking "Who is it, Mommy?"

I get through some more cleaning, manage to shower, where I nick myself twice while shaving, discover three zits popping out on my face despite the fact that I am now also getting wrinkles (Sigh) and collapse in a heap on the couch to discover it is now only lunch time. Ugh.

"I love you, Mommy."

"I love you too, baby."

"No, I wiwwy love you very much, Mommy."

As usual, my daughter can make my not so glamorous life seem pretty spectacular with just a few simple words. I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and blink the tears from my eyes.

"I really love you very much too, Isabelle."

We curl up and read some books together, and suddenly I remember why I decided to stay home with her in the first place. No, it isn't glamorous, but it is important. Even if on some days no one except Isabelle and the Fed Ex guy sees me. And I bet I wish he hadn't!

Another Hockey Season, Hallelujah!

The Red Wings officially started another hockey season last night and they did so with a loss. It is hardly surprising as it is hard to begin one season while still saying good-bye to the last. Looking shiny and bruise-free (with the exception of Lidstrom who is already sporting a broken nose and numerous stitches from an injury in the preseason) they watched yet another banner be hoisted into the rafters of the Joe, proclaiming them the Stanley Cup Champions. All of their numerous trophies were on display on the ice along with Lord Stanley for the audience to view. Meanwhile Toronto watched and coveted.

Then, of course, the ice was wiped clean, the puck was dropped, and the Wings are asked to do it all over again. And the so-called experts on television start right back up where they left off last year saying the Wings are too old, and it is impossible to repeat. And I watch the Leafs gun for them through this first game like rabid pit bulls scenting wounded prey, and I know teams will do this all season because they are the champions and this is hockey and, after all, this is how the game is played.

So, I will say this: Yeah, they were a little flat last night. Whoopee. Do you think that will effect a team with this kind of experience? So, you all still think they are old? Do you think they care at this point after proving you wrong repeatedly so many times? So, it is hard to repeat? Damn straight it is, but if any team in hockey can do it, I would put my money on this one..... it will all come down to injuries and, lets face it, the all important hockey gods. Bring on the doubters, bring on the Red Wing haters..... we have proven you wrong so many times before.... we do not mind doing it yet again. Oh, and thank you God for another hockey season! GO WINGS!

Compromising the Crown

The second the blood ballooned from my daughter's nose I realized we had a problem. She, of course, did not, which was a good thing. The adults in the room flew into activity, me cupping my hands around her nose, others running for Kleenex, paper towels, etc. to mop up the sudden flow. My brother's face, was guilt ridden, and I think he was mumbling something about "breaking his niece" but in moments the blood was stopped, and Isabelle was more mad at being forced to sit still than upset at any injury.

It was the kind of strange, odd and peculiar "thing" that is becoming rather characteristic of my family. We were just arrived at the cabin we rented for our yearly family weekend, and all the kids had their new fishing poles from Grandma in the living room and were practice casting with the rubber/plastic "fish" on the ends of their lines. (Well, except the girls' poles which had pink crowns instead of fish because they were princess fishing poles. Of course.) My brother was helping his daughter and lobbed a cast across the room and somehow managed to plunk it perfectly off the end of Isabelle's nose, and while it left no mark on the outside whatsoever it somehow hit perfectly and caused it to bleed. Strange! Shortly afterward, we realized the crown on Isabelle's line had cracked slightly, or as my brother, Kurt said, "the crown has been compromised." However, after tying the line a little differently she was back to casting with it in no time, and it worked just as well.

The weekend followed with a continuation of a sort of comedy of errors including my sister-in- law, Chrissy, somehow locking herself in our bedroom (Let me be clear. No one else was in it at the time.), which quickly dissolved into three kids repeatedly calling through the door to her asking her if she was alright while my father and brother tried various implements on the lock to free her. Ultimately my brother went around and crawled through the window (Tiny window, tall man ... should have gotten a picture) and they started taking hinges off the door, but I believe it was my father with the butter knife that saved the day. (That sentence sounded like the game "Clue." It was Professor Plum with the candlestick. Sorry. I digress.) Then there was the incident later in the day when Clay and my brother went fishing out in the boat, and we all went off to the craft show in town only to get a phone call informing us that the pontoon boat had died and they were stuck at the opposite end of one very large lake and could we come back and rescue them? Some good Samaritans in a neighboring boat ended up towing them back to the cabin where it was later determined a bad battery was the culprit. Finally, there was the mystery of the oven which seemed to bake the ham rather quickly the first evening we arrived, but failed to roast the potatoes, or bake the squash after more than ample time had passed for Sunday evening's meal. And yes, some of us were a little sick and yes, the kids all had their moments when they whined or cried or fussed.

Yes, the weekend was not perfect, but then again I think it was. I have all these little snapshots of memories stored away already...... Isabelle and Anya huddled on a chair together with their princess fishing poles, Kurt standing on the end of the dock, fishing pole in hand (which, by the way, is the most natural pose in the world for him), Mom and Dad paddling the canoe together, Clay walking to his bow target with Isabelle and Anya dancing ahead of him, Mom getting tipsy off Clay's Bocce iced teas, Chrissy and Gideon exchanging kisses on the pontoon boat, sitting around the campfire, laughing hysterically over the game "Apples to Apples" (which you have never played until you have played with my family, TRUST me), Chrissy and I putting our children to bed at night in the cabin, all of the kids pretending to be pirates around the dinner table, Papa making a huge fort out of the kitchen table for them, the girls pushing their baby dolls in the swing, Isabelle looking at her cousin and saying "I wuv you, Anya," and Anya, replying, "I love you Isabelle." and me thinking I could die right then and be happy, watching Gideon eat four pancakes and two sausages and three hours later a full lunch, reading books to all three kids for bedtime, and just the luxury of having all of us sit around a table together which only happens maybe once or twice a year if we are lucky.

Anyways, I guess my point is the weekend wasn't perfect, but neither is my family and wouldn't that be so damn boring if we were? Give me the compromised crown any day! It is all the quirks and eccentricities and yes, even flaws that we all have that makes us who we are and guess what? Our families love us anyway. At least mine does, and I always walk away from our weekends feeling like I am really blessed. We are a crazy, kind of weird crew, but it is one I am proud to call my own.

Run Away, Run Away!

It is evenings like this when I would just about kill for a book, any book. The television is driving me insane with its endless coverage of hurricane Gustaf, which while I have been interested in keeping apprised of, I do not feel the need to be continually inundated with non-stop information over and over and over. Information, which I might add is the same information just being repeated. The weather is only interrupted with the liberal media going practically orgasmic over the fact that Republican vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin's 17 year old daughter is pregnant while at the same time repeatedly saying it should not be something that is brought into the political debate (yet simultaneously interjecting comments about Palin's leanings toward an abstinence-only policy in schools...... but lets not bring candidates' children into the political arenas.) One Far left blog was even trying to pass off the idea today that Palin's youngest son, born just six months ago with Downs Syndrome, is actually her 17 year old's as well! Does it never end!?! Essentially it is enough to make me want to blow up the television, and the thought that potentially more hurricanes are on the way and I have months more of political shenanigans to watch is depressing to say the least. I have already completed my crossword, doodled and doodled and doodled, downed an entire bowl of popcorn (sigh, guilt, more bad body image issues, gulp), read an article on-line from one so-called expert about how he thinks Farve will really do as a Jet (and do not even get me going on that subject, that could be a blog by itself!), and all I want is a book!

Combine that with Clay's less than stellar mood today, and I am contemplating running away and joining a convent or something. I want a quiet place in the north woods obviously with many, many books (preferably a place where amazon can still deliver, although quicker delivery would be nice since I am currently waiting for three different books hence my lack of reading material tonight) perhaps a cozy fireplace, some throw blankets, a hefty supply of hot cocoa and my cats, of course, to occupy my lap. Okay, maybe I would need a computer or some paper and pencil so I could write too. Alas, it appears running away is not a true option so I will sign off for tonight and go to sleep instead, hoping my books will come in the mail tomorrow and that the media might get a clue. At least the books might come.

A Sensitive Soul

I should not have been surprised, and yet somehow I was. It seems that most of Isabelle's absolutely abysmal behavior (and yes, it can only be described as abysmal) was in large part due to Clay's absence from the home. I mean I knew she missed him. I knew it played a part. But clearly I had no idea how big a part.

Score one for the Daddy's of the world, right? I did not really need proof that fathers played a significant role in their children's lives, but this little experiment did, nonetheless, serve to add weight to their importance. While Clay would be the first to tell you that he is no Mr. Mom, he is a present figure in his daughter's life, home for daily dinners, and around in the evening for some one-on-one time, whether it is a family walk in the neighborhood, some time at the park, or just hanging out in the living room. He does his time reading books, playing trains (or yes, tea party.... a real man can fold himself into those tiny chairs) and come the weekends he always carves out some time with Isabelle. The thing is she doesn't care what they do.... it doesn't matter if they are golfing, washing the car, mowing the lawn, or "monkeying" with something in the garage so long as she is with Daddy. Clay lets her tag along and help, making her feel special and important, a true Daddy's little girl.

So, I guess you could say when Daddy went away the last two weeks Miss Isabelle decided to punish everyone involved. She punished Clay by refusing to talk to him on the phone for probably the first week he was gone, and obviously I turned into her designated punching bag of abuse, the one to take all her frustrations and sadness out on. When I think about it she started acting up as soon as we mentioned Clay was going to be taking a trip, and she knew her precious routine would be shook up.

The contrast this week in her behavior is nothing short of astonishing... a shrink would probably have a field day with it. The tantrums just vanished as well as the yelling and talking back, and the one time when I did put her in time out this week, she calmed down within five minutes, apologized for her behavior, and we went on with our day. Juxtapose that with a week ago when she screamed and kicked for over an hour in time out, resulting in her ultimately making herself vomit and then still refusing to say sorry for her transgression. The last two weeks she has gone around mumbling that she is sad and tired all of the time, and this week she is back to her bouncy self and is once more proclaiming to the general public that she is "so happy." This schizophrenic behavior is a little too much too take and reminds me once more of her back when she was an infant and Clay and I had dubbed her as Good Isabelle and Evil Isabelle, depending on which mood/face she was presenting to us at the time. Is it possible for a three year old to have multiple personalities? Ha, ha!

All joking aside I think it is more indicative of a very sensitive soul, and Isabelle comes by that honestly. I have often been accused of too easily "taking things to heart." Naturally, I would argue that being more sensitive to our surroundings and other people is not necessarily a bad quality or a shortcoming. Some people have always felt the need to tell me to "buck up" and not understand why I react to things so strongly. I happen to think it fantastic that a dog food commercial can bring me to tears, a sunny, windswept day can cause me to laugh out loud, a U.S. Olympian can make me burst with patriotic pride, and one grin from my daughter can make my heart fit to burst. Shouldn't everyone feel so strongly? Doesn't everyone? And if you don't then, I can only say I am sorry. When I was young and in school it was hard to be "overly-sensitive," as I was so often described, because being quick to tear-up was embarrassing at that age. Of course, I will hope to teach Isabelle how to better manage and understand her strong emotions but not to suppress or quell them because they are what gives us our zest for life. They are what makes us human and her sensitivity helps define who she is as a person. She will come to learn that her tears do not compromise her strength, and that having a sensitive soul only opens her heart to even more love. And who wouldn't want that?

Too Many Thoughts, Not Enough Time

Somehow time has flown away from me once more, and I open my blog up and discover too much time has gone past, and I have not written, and now there are so many items I would like to write and how to choose?????? I suppose it is a common problem among people who constantly have their minds full of words; everything I witness, experience and think of is routinely being turned into a mini story in my head. So, in keeping with the fact that I have a bazillion little anecdotes/ideas/newsie thingies in my noggin (How is that for some good English? My former professors are all cringing and wringing their hands in shame.) I am just going to lay it all out for you guys.

Clay has been away for the last two weeks on a very long trip for work. This has meant that yours truly is at home alone with Miss Isabelle 24/7 who at present has decided to revisit a time of truly evil behavior. I refer to a period of time when she was under six months old and basically screamed all day. Lately she has been throwing tantrums to the same effect except now she is not 3 months she is 3 years old, so you get the idea. UGH! It has been a very large exercise in patience, and one I am sorry to say I do not always excel at. It all boils down to the simple fact that she is a very strong-willed child who is trying very hard to establish her boundaries and feels the need to frequently and repeatedly test said boundaries. Suffice it to say it has made for some very long days compounded by the fact that she truly misses her Daddy. We are OH SO HAPPY he is coming home tonight.

We have managed to have some laughs while Daddy has been away one of which included me mowing the lawn for the first time in my life. Yes, I am thirty-two and had never mowed a lawn before. I know kind of pathetic, but please understand I grew up with a father who felt daughters just did not mow lawns, plus I had an older brother who did. Anyways, Clay gave me a tiny crash course on the finer points of running his self-propelled walk behind mower, and a week after he was gone Isabelle and I broke the bad boy out for my virgin mow. Now Clay and I were both a little concerned on whether or not I would be strong enough to be able to start it as it had a pull start. When I had started it before it was after it had been running a while, but we both figured if I had to I could run next door to the neighbors and have Mike help me start it and then I could be on my way. After reassuring Isabelle repeatedly that yes, Daddy had told me I could use his lawn mower and her reminding me to make sure there was enough gas I tried to start it. Repeatedly. No luck. Despite all best efforts and tugging with all my might, I just could not get it to go. I was just about to call it quits and swallow my pride and go knock on my neighbor's door to prevail upon the "stronger sex" (gag me) when my 3 year old comes up and says "No, Mommy, you have to hold this bar and then pull the cord." DUH! Turns out I was so focused on trying to start it with enough strength that I completely forgot to pull back the bar to the handle and then yank the damn cord! Can you all say dumb blond moment!! So, I kindly thanked my brilliant daughter for reminding me of the obvious, started the mower and off I went. She proceeded to be wonderful that day, telling me how well I was doing, later showing me how to remove the bag for the grass clippings, and informing me that while my cutting job was "not as good as Daddy's" it "looked fine." What an experience.

I am also gearing up to send my daughter off to preschool for the first time in just a couple short weeks. I am excited and nervous and, of course new to this whole scene. I ordered her a back pack of her very own, and I think I might get her some slippers to just keep at preschool, so she can wear her boots there during the bad weather and then have her slippers to run around in there rather then having to mess around with different shoes everyday. I still need to come up with a good way of labeling her things. Dear sister-in-law of mine what do you do with my lovely niece and nephew's things? I have seen one clothes' labeler out there but I read mixed reviews on it and wondered how well it worked. Yes, a new chapter for us, although it is just some baby steps as it is a class that meets two days a week for two hours at a time in the morning. I am planning to do my errands and shopping while she is in school, which will be SO NICE, and I am hoping some new activities and challenges might help improve some of our current behaviour issues as well.

On a personal note the headache monster has largely been slumbering this month, and I feel great. With the exception of one fairly yuck headache at my brother's earlier in the month I have been pain free. Plus, upon examining that headache further I realize I brought that one on myself through my activities and food intake (or lack thereof). There has been a bit of a learning curve with this medication and discovering what my body can and cannot do while I am on it, especially in regards to exercise. In general it just seems to make me weaker and while I am frustrated by that it seems a small price to pay to not be in constant pain.

There are so many other topics I would like to touch on, but I find I need to do a few productive things with my day (while I find this productive for my mind it does not keep my house clean or pay the bills.... oh, I wish!) so, off I go for now as Miss Isabelle will be up from her nap shortly. The other stories floating around my brain matter will have to wait!

Migraines, Milligrams, and Monsters, Oh My!

I suppose it would have been way too simple for my headaches to have proven to be so weak as to "give up the ghost" as easily as it appeared they did when I first began taking Topomax, right? I mean, it would hardly of made them worthy of their Jaws-like status in the headache world. So true to form they made a solid reemergence last week around the dreaded menstrual cycle (any of you squeamish men out there who can't handle talk of a woman's period just go away). And while some people say taking an over the counter medication on top of the Topomax can sufficiently quell their pain, no such luck was found for me. After being blessed with a beautiful (fantastic, wonderful, gorgeous, great, blissful, near idyllic) brain time this past month, I confess I was rather disheartened to find myself this past Thursday clutching my head in the kitchen while tears streamed down my face, trying to hold it together yet again. Damn.

However, we are making progress, I remind myself. After putting in a call to my doctor we have decided to up the milligrams of the Topomax and see if a higher dose can better attack the significantly more evil and diabolical headaches that like to plague me around that time of the month. And, of course now that I am beyond my monthly cycle I find I am once again pain free and feeling grand so all in all it is good. I mean, even if I have to suck it up and have some bad head pain every week and a half to two weeks out of a month it is way better then having it virtually every day like I was before. Of course, upping the milligrams means I am feeling all the side effects again and more strongly, some of which can be annoying, the tiredness, the tingling and numbness in the extremities, the way you can over heat more easily, but frankly all of it is nothing if it means my head does not hurt.

No, mostly, last week as I was dealing with my monster headaches again after having a blessed hiatus from them, I was thinking how awful it was that anyone has to ever suffer from chronic pain. That and of the stupid commercials for Imitrex they had out on television maybe two years ago which featured some little cartoon monster which was supposed to be your migraine, cavorting around the screen with a little devilish grin on his face and jumping on the "migraine sufferer's" head, while she grimaced and held her hand to her temple. I remember thinking then that the person who made that commercial had never personally had a migraine because I got news for ya....... my headaches are not some cutesy, cartooney character that could double as an illustration in a Mercer Mayer kids book like "There's a Nightmare in my Closet." No, mine are more like something out of the mind of Stephen King like the slouchy, creepy thing in "Lisey's Story" perhaps. Something that most likely would have an NC 17 rating attached to it and would not be allowed into a commercial. Anyways...... I suppose it helps me to occupy my mind with useless thoughts such as this to help keep the pain at bay. Laughter is the best medicine, right? Well, that and Topomax, just in more milligrams!

Ironing Woes

I do not know whose brilliant idea it was, but some yahoo in motel world decided it was a good idea to bungee cord the iron to the ironing board at the hotel we stayed at last weekend. (Apparently, there must be a high propensity for people absconding with cheap irons from hotel rooms or something). So, there I was doing my best to iron my daughter's little dress on this board with an incredibly slippery silver ironing pad , which the dress kept slipping off of, stretching this too short plastic cord that closely resembled the old twisty phone cords we all once had back when we were tied to walls when talking on the phone. The board was also rather flimsy and poorly balanced causing it to have a tendency to tip, usually when Isabelle decided to streak by every two milliseconds or so to go use the potty with the "loud flush." The iron also was a sad model with a narrow base which also liked to fall over. Somehow I managed to get Isabelle's dress and one blouse of mine ironed, walking away with minimal swearing and one rather bad looking burn on my right forearm. Naively, I thought that would be the end of it. (One would think I would know better after the Christmas tree episode, but read on).

In an attempt to ward off any potential flare ups I did warn Clay of the rather inept design of the ironing situation, but in the span of five minutes it became clear I was to be powerless to control the moment. Because Clay does prefer steam when ironing he took a cup from the bathroom and filled the iron with water and plugged it in. All was peaceful while the iron heated up, but it was not too last. He placed his white dress shirt on the board and, of course, it immediately slipped off, and no matter how he positioned it he quickly discovered that it would not remain in place without keeping one hand on it at all times. Then when trying to maneuver the iron down towards the end of the board, Clay likewise, discovered how short the bungee cord was that was attached to the iron. After attempting to "make it work" for a (I will be generous and say a few minutes) he then moved on to trying to remove the iron from the cord. This mostly involved a lot of brute strength, swearing and bashing of any and all persons involved in the design of the tethered iron. Of course, that did not work. When that failed Clay moved on to stretching out the bungee cord by trying to pull on it and straighten the spirals out of it and hence give him more length to work with. There I was watching my college educated husband hang a heated iron, dangling down between his feet, pulling on the cord with his hands straightening the bungee. I kept envisioning severe burns on feet and runs to emergency rooms. (In case you are wondering, at this time my dear parents had taken my daughter down for the continental breakfast in the hotel lobby. Bless them!) When the swearing began in earnest and the metal base that sat on the ironing board which held the iron when not in use began to get bent from Clay pulling so hard, I decided I would retreat to the bathroom and dry and style my hair. Keep in mind by this time the water Clay had put in the iron was mostly spilled out now in various places all over the hotel room from him flinging the thing about in various ways trying to straighten the cord, and please continue to envision the whole time that this cord is, in fact, attached at the other end to the damn ironing board and you begin to get the picture.

When I finally came out of the bathroom it was with a fair amount of trepidation, so I was somewhat surprised to find the iron still intact and not in little pieces and to hear Clay quite civilly request an iron from the front desk over the phone. He then sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. You can imagine how my dear husband's mood "improved" when more and more time passed and the new iron (which hopefully would be delivered minus the tether) was not delivered. All too soon I ran out of things to do in the bathroom, so I finally suggested that he perhaps should take a shower (tentatively and carefully, like a police officer talking to a person threatening to jump off a roof top) and I would go down to the front desk and ask. I did so and, soon returned with an untethered (hallelujah) iron and a much nicer model, I might add. Leaving Clay with the new iron I went down to breakfast sure now that all would be well.

It was only later that I was informed that even that iron suffered some indignities also. Although the new iron was not tethered to the board, Clay was still not happy with the choices of where we had to plug it in within the hotel room, so he decided to find a new outlet that better suited his needs for, shall we say, greater maneuverability while ironing. He found one, plugged it in and ................... the iron would not heat up. After struggling with the evil tethered iron for the better part of an hour this was, I guess, the proverbial "last straw" and Clay launched the untethered iron across the hotel room, where it landed rather roughly in the general vicinity of the air conditioning unit. However, as I said I only learned of the iron's unauthorized "flight" later on, for when I returned from breakfast Clay was sedately finishing up his suit pants with the untethered iron. (Yes, it seems the iron worked fine, and, in fact, the outlet, Clay had plugged it into just happened to not be working). More impressive is, perhaps, the fact that the iron still worked after being so abused my husband.

It seems we were not the only ones with ironing woes, however, as my mother reports a tale of my parents' iron spewing water out at them when it was plugged in. It seems the last guest of the room had left water in the iron and poor unsuspecting Mom and Dad plugged it in only to start getting spat at. This would not be so bad except, once again, for the DAMN tether, for in order to pour the water out my father ended up dragging the iron and the board into the bathroom to dump the excess water down the drain. (Had to be quite the sight.)

Regardless, the running joke the rest of the weekend revolved around the tethered irons, and we all rotated the untethered iron Clay and I had gotten from the front desk between our room, my parents, and my brother and his wife's. Never did so tedious a chore garner so much attention. And although frustrating for poor Clay and perhaps scarring for my right arm, it provided some laughter during what was mostly a hard, and over wrought weekend, proving that laughter can always be found, and there are always moments to be enjoyed. (Although Clay might not think so!)

Take Good Care of Her God

Somewhere along the way hugging her began to feel like embracing a piece of origami in your palm.... wrap your fingers too tightly around it and all the delicate parts that create the whole will crumble into nothing. I remember holding her hand this past Easter, tracing my fingers back and forth over the satin-like skin stretched over the bones and trying not to admit to myself that time was short. I look at my hands now typing on the keyboard. They are my Grandmother's hands, only the younger version with the same long-tapered fingers and nail beds. I think Isabelle has them too, although at only three years old I suppose it may be wishful thinking.


Now I mourn the loss of the only person who called me "darling." I know that sounds silly, but in a way she was the final symbol of my childhood, as if the last remnant of that era of my life has left with her. I have vivid memories of her basement at Christmas with long tables lined with chairs, trying to cram all the family in. Her little house would be ninety degrees because of all the cousins and aunts and uncles and family smashed together within, all of us dressed up in our holiday finery because Grandma loved that. And of course, there are all of the countless things I associate with her..... the chip dip recipe, perfect African violets on a kitchen windowsill, tiny shoes, parakeets, the diamond -shaped clock in her living room, the old fridge in the basement, her willingness to laugh at herself, Saunders hot fudge, the Christmas village set up on her window seat, the famous candy jar, Hallmark cards, her frustrating stubbornness, immaculately kept houses, her unique way with words, and anything and everything involving family. For me she seemed the quintessential grandmother with more grandchildren, step-grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and step great-grandchildren then you could begin to comprehend. Yet, despite the huge numbers if she had her favorites I will be damned if I had any idea who they were; she made us all feel like her "darlings."


She wasn't perfect. In fact, she could be so down right bull-headed it could make you crazy, and I certainly did not agree with her views on everything. No, her passing has not made me see her with rose-colored glasses. But, God I loved her, and her funeral this past weekend was heart-wrenching. I am trying hard to grasp onto the positive aspects (and there are so many). I am so thankful for being her granddaughter, for getting to have thirty-two years with her, for having all of those amazing memories of perfect holidays at her house on Sunnybrook, for all of those dinners at our house in Oxford, for all of those card games of Skipbo and shared bowls of chip dip, for the endless hugs, kisses, and glowing praise that only grandmothers bestow. I am so thankful that she was blessed with such a long, beautiful, full, loving, and rich life and one in which she could leave with both peace and dignity. Mostly I cherish the memories of watching her gaze at her great granddaughter, Isabelle Elaine (her namesake) and with tears in her eyes utter "bless her heart."


The day of my grandmother's funeral I went to her grave site, and I placed a pink rose on her casket as it was lowered into the ground. At that moment the pain of her loss felt very great, almost overwhelming. Then I looked at the marker next to hers. It was her first Love's. My grandfather, a man I never was lucky enough to know. It occurred to me then that there are many kinds of loss, and who is to say which is the greater? Is it more painful to have known and loved my grandma so well and then lose her or to never of had the chance or opportunity to know my grandfather at all? I know what I believe. Yes, there will be many more tears, but I will do so mostly while smiling at the same time. I look forward to the day when I will see her again for it will be a joyful reunion, and perhaps my grandmother will introduce me to the man at her side for that is a meeting that is long overdue.

This is My Brain. This is My Brain on Drugs.

It is an amazing thing to have your life back when you did not even completely realize you had been missing it. Yet, here I am this week thinking just that. It is all because of a little pill called Topomax. This unimpressive, tiny white pill that looks about the size of a baby aspirin is seemingly (at least thus far) capable of doing what nothing has been capable of doing. It makes my head NOT hurt. YES. Can you believe it? Well, two tiny white pills, that is, but ya get my point.

My doctor and I just recently weaned me off of a drug that I pretty much hated for a variety of reasons, namely that it did absolutely zilch to quell the pounding in my skull, and I started the Topomax only about two weeks ago, so I know it is early to be "singing its praises" but when you have not had six consecutive days ( hell, who am I kidding? two consecutive days) without a headache in over four months, then you can begin to understand why I am just a little bit excited. Of course, it is too early to know if this will be the miracle drug that will handle the especially bad migraines that tend to surface around my menstrual cycle, but I am on a relatively low dose right now so I do have some wiggle room too.

And while I know it sounds overly dramatic to say I have my life back that is truly how it feels. I am filled with so much happiness this week that I am practically giddy. I find myself glancing at the clock in the afternoon with something akin to shock, realizing that I am not crippled on the couch cradling my head, but in fact, reading a book, doing laundry, or weeding a flower bed while Isabelle catches her nap. I am not mentally pushing myself through preparing dinner because my head is throbbing, or subconsciously planning my day in order to have all errands and appointments done in the morning since I know more than likely I won't be able to by the afternoon. Most importantly though, I am mentally present for my daughter, happy and able to play and read and do whatever we want to do together.

The funny thing is though was that I knew my headaches were bad. I mean I went to the doctor because it was so bad, and yet, now that I am actually experiencing a few days of, I guess, normalcy I am suddenly realizing how BAD it has been. I guess it goes to show what a person just adjusts to and learns to live/cope with. Now, of course, I am slightly terrified that this is just some weird hiccup and I will suddenly say awaken from my blissful, pain-free dream and find myself back in the vice-like grip that has been my head, but it is a good start. There are side effects as always (some big ones... while the pills look like nothing they are powerful little buggers) but I am willing to take on some fairly large trade offs if it means my head is no longer the tiny stress ball in some giant's hand. As with most things in life, time will tell if this is the answer I seek, but for now I plan to enjoy my "new head" to the utmost.

Praying

"What's wrong, Mommy?"

"Oh, nothing honey. Mommy is just a jumble of emotions right now."

"But I can make you feel better."

"Oh, yeah? How?"

"I give you a hug and you put up your eyebrows and then you will feel better!"


Yeah, life is a jumble of emotions right now, and these days my heart doesn't know if it should beat right out of my chest, jump in my throat, or swell to gigantic proportions. Case in point: I sat on the shores of Lake Superior this past week with the sun blazing down, the wind whipping my hair, watching my daughter and my brother's two children play in the shallows of that chilly lake's waters. My niece, Anya, is the picture of wild purity, a child who experiences everything to the utmost and lives her life with a zest that will make people flock to her as she matures because she radiates such a beauty of spirit. My nephew, Gideon, is the happy, easy-going one, always ready to bring a laugh or a smile to your face and so darn adorable I swear he could be the poster child for any kid product ever made. And then there is my Isabelle, splashing in the water, still trying to decide if she really is okay with being that sandy and disheveled but industriously filling her bucket with sand and compacting it with water anyway. All of them are the picture of innocence and of what is beautiful and right and wonderful in this world and in that moment sitting in my chair with my mother and my brother and sister-in-law, my heart could not possibly get any bigger with love.

Yet, in that same moment at the opposite end of the spectrum my grandmother lay ill in a hospital and we were waiting for word. Days later there have been a lot of words, little improvement and more questions. I am told to pray, but my heart asks what should I pray for? Ultimately, I pray for God to help my grandmother ...... in whatever form that takes so long as it removes any fear, suffering or pain from the equation. Selfishly, I would keep her with me always, but I don't "man the controls" on this ride, so it is not for me to decide and perhaps that is as it should be. For me, sometimes life feels to big to handle. Like I have more emotion then I know what to do with and this week has been like that. Everything is such a muddled mess within my head that it is hard to form an articulate thought. It is at times like this when I like to believe there is a "greater power" at work, somehow guiding me through. Call it naive, if you will, I don't mind.

But through my jumble of emotions I still see how life comes full circle (as well as throwing you a couple of curve balls) so I will choose to think about my grandmother's great grandchildren (her legacy) frolicking on the shores of Lake Superior, and I will swallow the lump that continues to climb into my throat, and I will listen to my heart thump away in my chest, and I will hope for a better tomorrow.

All things Isabelle

Last Friday Clay and I took our daughter to Green Bay for a surprise. She has been obsessed with Thomas the Train for the past two years, so when the "Day out with Thomas" program came to the National Railroad Museum, I knew we had to take her. It was toddler insanity! Picture about a gazillion 2-5 year olds trailing around with their parents, strollers, cameras, and Thomas t-shirts, waiting for their chance to meet Thomas. Isabelle got to go on a twenty-five minute train ride with Thomas at the head of the train. We paused for photo ops with a giant Lego Thomas, jumped inside a castle trampoline for an eternity, saw Sir Topham Hatt himself (you would have to know the Thomas the Train books to have any clue who he is) and toured the railroad museum, climbing in and out of a number of engines, passenger cars and the largest train I have ever seen, named "Big Boy." Isabelle also entertained a roomful of people with an impromptu dance on a stage to music piped through the speakers in between the children's band that was actually performing. In the days since our trip she has talked continually about her ride on Thomas, and wants to wear her new "I spent the day with Thomas t-shirt" everyday. Overall, I think it is safe to say she loved her surprise, and it was a great way to finish up celebrating her birthday.

Her birthday party the Sunday before our trip to see Thomas was also very much enjoyed. She loved her presents (I have been chasing her on her new bike everyday) but mostly she loved playing with her cousins. It is hard to believe she is now three years old and truly no longer a baby, but instead a little girl. The time has flown, but I find this age a lot of fun, although exhausting! It is an amazing experience to watch the tiny being you created develop into a little soul with her own personality, sense of humor, and crazy quirks. I see glimpses now of the woman she will one day become, and I mentally tell myself to log these moments away in a safe place as they are going to be the memories I cherish most. I am so thankful for the time I have with Isabelle. Yes, it is hard sometimes (to the point where I swear I am going to need a padded cell, or at the very least several stiff drinks), but she fills my heart in a way that nothing else in this world ever has. So, looking back on the last week, I am just feeling fortunate .... fortunate for the time I can spend, the family I have, and the fact that we can give Isabelle the kind of safe and happy childhood that every child should be blessed with.

Lord Stanley, at Last!

It seemed somewhat anti-climactic after the insanity that was the fifth game, but the Red Wings are bringing home the cup once more, and I, for one, could not be happier. Playing in their 104th game of the season they clinched their 11th NHL championship and 4th in the last 11 seasons. They did it this year by closing out every playoff series on the road, by battling through doubt, questionable calls, trash-talking coaches, and always believing in one another. It is the epitome of why I love team sports, and especially hockey.

How beautiful to see such a deserving guy like Nick Lidstrom, hoist the cup as team captain, and it was fantastic to witness Dallas Drake, NMU alum, after 16 seasons and at age 39 win his first NHL championship with the same team he began his career with. By far though my favorite moment of the night was watching Dan Cleary, cool and collected, be interviewed by the Canadian announcer. Moments later he located his wife and baby daughter in the crowd and dissolved into a puddle of tears and emotion. After fighting back from a horrifically broken jaw, Cleary will now bring the Stanley Cup home to Newfoundland for the first time ever.

So, now I can breathe once again and my continual talk of playoffs, and Cups and Red Wings will perhaps not be so prevalent on my blog (well, once the victory parade is over on Friday, and of course, there is always next season!) For now, I will sit quietly and smile, perusing all of the interviews, articles, videos, and photos I can find on the Internet, secure in the knowledge that the best team won. Go Red Wings!

Why God, Why?

I should have known it was not going to be our night. The second Kronwall accidentally cleared the puck into our own net, I should have known that our hockey luck was absent yesterday. It was apparent that Fleury was standing on his head and stopping everything, but when we battled back and tied it and then took the lead, I thought surely the hockey gods would favor us now. I felt like someone had just told me my dog died when the Penguins somehow scored with 30-some seconds left in regulation. How could this be? Yet, I still held out hope, watching the Wings out skate, out shoot, out play the Penguins through two and a half overtimes, despite two very questionable interference calls, and even when the death knell was delivered by awarding a four minute penalty to an accidental high stick that yes, drew blood, but only because the player already had a previous cut in the same place. It was like a perfect storm created for the sole purpose of denying the Red Wings what should be rightfully theirs.

We deserve this Cup. We are the superior team in every sense of the word. We have behaved the right way, worked hard, continued to be a classy hockey team regardless of the fact that the Penguins have whined, complained, and delivered cheap shots to get where they are. We are a true team, with everyone contributing and not just one or two players carrying the load. I will tip my hat to Fleury who single-handedly kept his team in the playoffs last night, but frankly I find it hard to give credit to the rest of their team as it is more a matter of us beating ourselves then the Penguins actually beating us. I would challenge anyone to watch Game 3 and and Game 5 over and tell me otherwise.

Now, I am left feeling somewhat heart sick. I still firmly believe that if we play how we are capable we will prevail, but I have seen the better team not win the Cup before, and it feels as if the fates are conspiring against us. On to Game Six.

My Boys, My Daughter's Bum, and My Brain

I am a pretty happy girl today for a variety of reasons. My Red Wings are doing fabulous, my daughter decided to up and potty train out of the blue, and my MRI came back informing me that I have no brain tumor, nasty growth, or any other offensive object somehow contributing to my headaches (no surprise there though).

So, to elaborate:

***The Red Wings have thus far made the Penguins look like the inexperienced, over-rated team I have believed them to be. Now do not misunderstand me. I think they are a very good team with some absolutely talented players, who still could easily make a series of this Stanley Cup final. However, it does show that my assessment was correct. The Penguins have not faced a team like the Red Wings thus far in their playoffs, and now find themselves facing a rude awakening. Perhaps they were believing too much of their own press? How quickly the media backtracks now and jumps on the Red Wings band wagon. Once more I say to hold on. Yes, we have won two games. In fact, we have two shut outs. Right now it looks like nothing short of a freight train could slow the Wings down, but this is hockey, and I for one will not be counting my chickens before they have hatched and Lord Stanley is being hoisted above Nick Lidstrom's head. I have seen crazy things happen too many times, and we will be going to their arena for the next two games. At the same time the Wings are the better team, and barring any more ridiculous calls (Holmstrom's supposed interference negating Lidstrom's goal in Game 1) I believe we will prevail.

And what was up with Roberts, flat out punching Franzen in the head during the third period?! For those of you paying attention Whitney went on to also knock Franzen in the skull just a few minutes later. When the one player who is coming back from concussion like symptoms is nailed twice within the span of eight minutes, I find it hard to believe he wasn't being targeted. Franzen, for his part is more forgiving than I, saying they were just trying to get their team fired up and when questioned about being hit in the head only replied that well, he does have a big one, implying it is an easy target. I am not so sure.

And, of course, now the whining begins that the Detroit defense is obstructing and Osgood embellished his fall into the net. Funny, how no Penguin was complaining when Holmstrom's love tap on Fleury's pads negated a Red Wing's goal, but now when it is on them it is suddenly not fair. Can we say sour grapes?

On to Game Three!


*** Isabelle woke up last Tuesday and decided from that moment on that she was going to use the potty, and has been accident free ever since. It is simply amazing how she just suddenly began doing what I have been wanting her to do for months. I am so glad, I listened to all those wise mothers out there who told me to just wait and she would decide to on her own with no endless fighting on my side. YES!! My little baby is quickly joining the world of ladies wearing "big girl panties" and I am thrilled and proud. Who knew that pooping and peeing in a potty could leave one so fulfilled?


*** Yes, the MRI did nothing more then confirm what we already knew. I get a lot of headaches. Bad ones. So, bad, in fact, that one can see the evidence of them scarred on my brain. Or as my doctor put it "a small defect in the white brain matter, which is seen in people with untreated high blood pressure, diabetes, or chronic severe headaches." Using the word "defect" in conjunction with describing my brain is not something I enjoy, although I am sure my brother will get a good laugh out of that one. Regardless, I am back to playing the waiting game to see if my current meds have the desired effect, but I must give them ample time to build up in my system before deciding if they do or do not help manage my headaches. I can say today they are not working as my head is feeling more like something that was mixed in a blender. On that note, I will sign off and ease the pain in my head with thoughts of my Red Wings and my potty-trained daughter.

The Holy Grail

Yes, the Red Wings are in, but they still get no respect. I just finished reading an article on ESPN. com that picks the Penguins to win in the seven game series. On and on about how glorious the Pittsburgh forwards are and how great Fleury has been between the pipes. And while they were at it why not just anoint Crosby as the second coming? Ugh, I so hate all the so-called experts.

So, let me just throw in a little food for thought. I have no doubt that this will be a tough series between two highly skilled hockey teams, arguably the most skilled teams in the NHL. I have no doubt that the Penguins are, indeed, worthy of the praise they have received having essentially coasted through the previous rounds of the playoffs. However, anyone who follows hockey a little bit would tell you the Western conference is much tougher to play in. And while Fleury may be a great goalie, Osgood has proven he can hold his own, plus he has Stanley cup finals experience under his belt. Not to mention I do not believe Fleury has been tested with the likes of Datsuk and Zetterberg thus far in the teams he has encountered, nor had someone get under his skin like Holmstrom. Malkin and Crosby will certainly be a tough duo, but I truly believe our defense with Lidstrom, Rafalski, and Kronwall have the capability of doing the job.

At the very least the Red Wings deserve praise and respect for the fact that year after year they put together a great team and are always contenders. The organization has been to the Stanley Cup finals 23 times, which is the second most in the NHL, behind Montreal. Furthermore, they carry the burden of being "the team to beat" into every series they go into, (with class and dignity, I might add) and if they so much as hiccup and lose a game everyone starts screaming about how they are choking and are not a great team after all. Now all the chatter will be about the youth of the Penguins and the experience of the Wings. Well, fine. Our road to the cup this year has shown us to be a team that when we stumble, can come back even harder, even when our number one scoring man, Franzen, is not playing. So, enough with all the predictions; drop the damn puck and then we will see.

MRI Insanity

So, I had my very first MRI yesterday. Quite the experience. Being a person who likes to be informed I had popped myself on-line and read about MRI's and of course, queried everyone I knew who had gone through one. Everyone said the same thing: loud and small. (They were not kidding.)


First of all, I had to do the complete strip and throw on a hospital gown (two actually, I wore one as a robe for warmth and some added coverage in the posterior) because any kind of metal is BAD in an MRI for obvious reasons. Anyway, there I was swimming in two gowns (both like triple x-large and capable of covering a small humpback whale) sitting on this narrow "bed" and getting ready to slide into what looked to me to be a very tiny tunnel. First, the ear plugs wouldn't fit. Turns out I have tiny ear canals and most ear plugs just pop right back out when you try and stuff them in my ears. So, the nurse and I crammed them in the best we could and then she had me lay down in order to put this "helmet" on my head. I had a brief flash to Hannibal Lector in "Silence of the Lambs" when he is strapped to that board wearing what looked like an old style goalie mask. It wasn't that bad, really, as it only covered the top half of my head and there were large eye holes, but I was quickly feeling, shall we say .... contained. The nurse then wedged in a whole bunch of padding between my head and the helmet in order to muffle the sound and keep my head still. At that point I could not have moved my head if I wanted to. Handing me a squeeze ball with a cord attached she instructed me to press it if I needed to stop the test and told me to relax.


Now I should mention I am a little bit leery of tight spaces. I am not a huge fan of elevators (although I think that might have more to do with the movement and less the small space) nor do I like to be in a crowd. I would not have described myself as bad as claustrophobic because it isn't like I panic (Well, except that time at Shamrock bar in college when there were so many people it was like we were a herd of cattle in a corral and I felt my heart start racing and it was as if I was going to scream, cry, or freak out, if I did not get out of there immediately. Yeah, it was a panic attack but that's another story). So, hell, maybe I am claustrophobic, but as I did not wish to be sedated I figured I would just suck it up and handle it. Yikes. Turns out the tube was even smaller on the inside than it looked on the outside. I closed my eyes before I even felt the bed move into the tunnel, but all the same I could sense the closeness of it, the walls pressing down around me, and I felt my heart rate jump up and my hands start to shake.


Then the sound began, and I can only describe it as laying inside a metal drum while someone runs a jackhammer against it on the outside. Yes, it was that loud, and even knowing it was going to be loud I was still startled. The panic was crawling up my throat, and for a moment I thought there was no way I could do this test. Somehow, I managed to get a grip on myself and concentrated on taking some slow breaths. The sounds continued and changed varying like something in a kid's cartoon with strange twangs, beeps, pulses, thumps, and whistles, and soon I found myself trying to anticipate what I might hear next. It was a continual effort to keep a handle on my emotions and not let my fear creep in, and it dawned on me that an MRI might not be a bad torture device for any terrorists we capture. I mean lets review: not allowed to move, crammed in a tiny claustrophobic space, incredible noise..... for me, if you just piped in Rod Stewart singing "If You think I'm Sexy," I would be in the seventh circle of Hell.

Twenty minutes through the nurse pulled me out, and I had a few minutes to open my eyes while she gave me an injection of contrast dye, which was no big deal other then that it was cold and I could actually sense it in my vein moving up my arm. Later, I swear, I could feel it in my brain, like cool fingers. It sounds like something out of a horror flick, but truly, while weird it was not an unpleasant sensation. Six more minutes in the tube, and I was done, feeling like a dog let off it's leash for the first time.

Now I have only to await the results, although I doubt anything of significance will be found. I have joked with my mother for years that I know my headaches are not caused by something scary like a brain tumor because I would have been dead ages and ages ago. (Is that my Monty Python "Tis merely a flesh wound" mentality coming through again, Chrissy?)


Red Wings update: Do not get me started on the disgusting job of officiating during game 4 or the almost blatant appearance of slanting a game enormously in one team's favor in order to force a game five. Yes, the Wings did not play perfectly, but then again typically a team only has ONE opponent in a hockey game, not two. Actually, though it will work out fine as it is hard to play with a continual level of intensity when you are always kicking the other team's A**, and it will serve to help the Wings refocus their energies. Plus, we will not have the pressure of carrying on a long winning streak going into the final series. Besides, I see Pittsburgh was not any better at finishing off their round against Philly and they did not have to play against the refs too.

Head Games

I have not written in a while and it is basically for one reason. My head hurts. Now I should mention my head has a long history of hurting, dating back to elementary school when I told my mother I had a headache to which she replied that kids as young as I was did not get headaches. (She has since decided that she was probably wrong in that instance). Normal for me is 3-5 headaches a week, mostly of the nagging but not debilitating variety that can be brought to a dull ache with over the counter medication. At times I have suffered from migraines, which first reared their enormously ugly head in graduate school, but promptly left when I finished my degree. Can you say stress-related? I proceeded to go through a few years relatively migraine free until I went into labor with my daughter, upon which I had the worst migraine of my life.

Since that time I have had menstrual migraines (which are what they sound like; lots of fairly severe headaches around a particular time of month) along with my run of the mill ones 3-5 times a week. Now though it appears that the evil headache gods have decided to throw yet another curve ball my way. Looking back I now realize I have had a headache everyday for going on a month. I start out relatively good in the morning but by the afternoon I am typically fading fast, and while the pain will ebb and flow it will not completely leave until I finally go to bed. Over the counter meds are powerless against them. These headaches are different in that I now have neck pain (I picture a giant squeezing a stress ball with my head being the stress ball, his hand at the base of my skull where it meets the neck) as well as the standard ache in the forehead region. They do not rank as severe as migraines (at least not most of the time) but it is the chronic never-ending factor which is really starting to take its toll.

Now I am not a hypochondriac nor do I believe I am a wimp, but this is starting to get ridiculous even for headache-prone me, and last week when I found myself crying because ..... yet again .... me head was throbbing and poor Isabelle wanted to play (and all I wanted to do was curl into the fetal position in a dark room) I decided I really did have to see a doctor.

I know, you are thinking why in the He** did she not do that way before? Well, I have for the migraines over the years, but as far as the numerous other headaches I have mostly managed them with non-prescription stuff, and while nagging I did not feel they were affecting my quality of life. Besides it has always been my norm, so frankly I do not know any different. I am very good at powering through most headaches and have become skilled at even masking the fact that I have one most of the time. For instance, the fact that Clay gets maybe three headaches a year is just amazing to me. What must that be like?

Now that I have sufficiently whined I will tell you without getting into minute detail that yes, I am seeing a doctor and yes, we have started a plan of action involving medication and a few tests, but the simple truth of the matter is there are no easy answers. Most of the time there is no underlying cause for chronic headaches, and the "lucky" people who get them have to simply learn to manage them the best they can with medication and lifestyle. I could be trying various medications for quite some time before I manage to find one that works well for me, and then of course, there is the trade off of side effects as these are not exactly baby-aspirin we're popping.

But it is not just about me anymore, and it is not fair to my almost three year old to have a Mom who is not fully present at any given moment due to chronic pain. She already knows too much, and asks me almost everyday if my head hurts .... something I would like her not to have to concern herself with at such a young age. So, I am officially getting on the medical roller coaster to see if we can find a solution, and in the mean time, I am going to do my best to laugh through the pain. After all, so many people out there have it worse.

Update: The Red Wings are helping to lift my spirits considerably with their fabulous play, as they hope to finish off Dallas tonight in Game 4, which would be their second consecutive sweep in the playoffs. Franzen and I have something in common as he continues to be out with "concussion-like symptoms," but Datsuk and Zetterberg are picking up the slack. I am guessing we will be facing Pittsburgh in the Stanley Cup final unless Philly can make an amazing comeback (just like Dallas hopes to do). So, go red Wings!

Feeling Frazzled

Some days I feel like the proverbial chicken running around with its head cut off. Lately, I cannot seem to keep everything straight. This morning I just realized Mother's Day is next weekend. Normally I am completely prepared with cards and gifts by now, and instead I find myself going "Sh**! because it totally slipped my mind.

In case, you didn't know I like to be ahead of the game. I like to think of myself as responsible, but I am sure it comes across more like anal and over-structured. Oh well, at thirty-two years of age I do not think we are changing me at this point, so everyone will just have to deal with it!

I think I am forgetful at the moment because we are in the process of trying to sell our house and look for a new one. The whole saga of even thinking about moving everything we have accumulated in the last five to six years is intimidating. Not to mention I am nervous about how successful we will be in selling given the state of the housing market lately. Suddenly all the flaws in my house seem glaring and harsh. Clay and I have been busting our butts for the last couple of weeks trying to fix some of the little chores we have ignored. (He just finally finished the trim work around the crawl space door. The job took him a total of 30 minutes never mind that I have been asking him to do that for going on six years!!)

I also have been trying to make the house not look quite as full of our stuff as it is. That involves more purging of items (which I am good at) and trying to make closets appear spacious and neat (this is a bit harder). Plus, that whole anal thing comes into play as I found myself two days ago systematically going through my closet and hanging everything in it with white hangers because, gee, that looks nicer. (I know. FREAK) Now I will admit that it got worse, as I proceeded to put all the black hangers in the guest room closet for all of Clay's suits and Polo's, and burgundy hangers in Isabelle's closet, and all the blue shades in the front closet. It isn't like I have too much time on my hands either, but all the same I got bogged down in making it perfect (at least in my mind). I am sure a shrink could have a field day with me. I comfort myself with the thought that we all have our little idiosyncrasies, and in the scheme of things mine are not too terrible. Although at the rate I am going I might be scrubbing my floor with an old toothbrush by the time I am sixty. (Maybe I was a maid in a past life.)

Anyway, all of the house nerves combined with Isabelle's ever increasing level of energy (which will explode into tantrums, whining and all out disobedience if not given ample exercise) has me feeling more scattered than normal. But, then again, if this is the worst I have to complain about then I ought to just be quiet, right?


P.S. For those of you not keeping track: My glorious team, the Red Wings, trounced Colorado in a lovely four game sweep and are awaiting the next round against either Dallas or San Jose, both of which will be formidable teams. Closer to Lord Stanley we go!

Hat Tricks

Oh, how I love hat tricks! There is something especially beautiful about it when it is done in the playoffs, and today Johan Franzen went and scored a hat trick on the way to the 2nd Red Wings victory over Colorado. Final score 5-1. Ha, Ha! Currently the Avalanche are mostly looking like a team that thinks they need to get to the golf course soon, and if they keep up their current level of play that wish will soon be granted. However, anyone who watches hockey knows how quickly the tide can turn, so I for one will not get too cocky. After all, playing in Colorado is always tough, and I am guessing Mr. Forsberg will be back for game three after two more days rest, and he might give their team a boost just by being on the ice. I am also guessing they may not start Theodore the next game after two abysmal games on his part. But in the mean time I am going to sit here happily with my Red Wings another victory closer to the Cup and marveling at Franzen who has now scored an amazing 22 goals in his last 25 games. Yay!!!!!!!

Insomnia

So, here it is almost 12:30 at night, and I am in the middle of one of my little no sleep trips. I got sick of laying in bed for over the last hour and thought I might as well get up and do ..... something. The rain is falling on the roof, and we are currently blanketed in a fog so thick that combined with the dark it feels like our house is the only one in the world.

At the same time I take comfort in the fact that I am certainly not the only one who is suffering from a bout of insomnia and perhaps also typing away on their computer or surfing the Internet in a vain attempt to bring their mind into a more restful mode. I remember thinking something similar when I was nursing Isabelle as a baby. Sitting in her room, rocking her against me with the night light giving off its soft glow, I would imagine other mothers, rocking in a chair, bleary-eyed, stroking their babies' heads as they nursed. It is a nice thought, don't you think?

I have never slept well. Even when I was young. My mother never realized that I got up and used the bathroom at least once every night until she went camping with me for Girl Scouts. There we were, tromping out of the platform tent to take a walk in the dark down to the outhouse, flashlights bobbing on the trail. Of course, my small bladder is only a part of the problem. I hear everything it seems and as previously mentioned I frequently cannot shut off my mind. I am sure I could be a candidate for a sleep clinic, but of course, I think those are strange. I mean, don't they hook you up to a bunch of electrodes, lay you flat on your back and watch you rest in a bed you have never slept in before? Given the environment what are the odds of you sleeping well?!

YAWN. I suppose I should go and try again. I am tired, and I do want to sleep. (of course, I was chronically tired for two years during my Masters' program, and I still did not sleep, so I guess it doesn't matter). I am sure I will look at this post tomorrow and determine it makes no sense and possesses nothing of quality (as opposed to my other posts. Ha, ha) but I can at least offer up the excuse that I am sleep deprived.

Besides I am not so tired that I cannot write GO RED WINGS!

What Else? Red Wings

Sorry, this is all about Red Wings and sports and hockey, so if you were looking for anything else, just skip this entry and, in fact, you might just want to skip visiting my blog until the playoffs are over because the Red Wings most likely will be a frequent topic for me!

Okay, I admit it. After those damn Nashville Predators went and scored with like 47 seconds left in the third period of Game five to tie the game, I was a little freaked. I truly believed that the hockey Gods were against us. I mean, there the Wings were having played a very solid game and having something like fifty-two shots on goal and yet..... tie game. I was already dreading going back to Nashville down a game and having to win there and then come home and finish it off in game seven. (Notice I did not say they were done..... true fans always hope, pray, believe, beg, that by some miracle their team will prevail. Besides how can any hockey God choose Nashville over the Red Wings, one of the original six? Duh!)

Then Franzen went and did a little magic (with some help from Filppula) 1:48 seconds into overtime and just like that I feel so much better. So, maybe the hockey Gods are not against us, but then why the torture? I mean anyone with half a brain can see the Red Wings are clearly the superior team, but here they are in a very close series. Just like the rest of the Western conference, I might add. I guess it all comes down to the idea (like in football) that on any given day each team has a chance to do something amazing. I mean, did anyone other then maybe the Giants, really expect them to win the Superbowl over the Patriots? I know, I am mixing my sports but it does prove my point. For me, though I like to think a team is also WORTHY of winning the whole enchilada, and frankly, the Patriots weren't. The Red Wings, however? Oh yeah, they are WORTHY.

In fact, the NHL in general has very little of the "hoopla" that the NFL and NBA have, and I for one, prefer it. You rarely here about any professional hockey player, in a brawl at some night club or arrested for some type of spousal abuse, where as, it is (sad to say) almost commonplace in other professional sports. For the most part hockey players are just regular guys skating in the most grueling playoff schedule in the history of sports, busting their butts for a chance to win Lord Stanley. I watch because it is a true team sport and while you have your individual stars, none of them can do it by themselves. I watch for the amazing break aways and short-handed goals. I watch for a goalie who stops a puck that was certain to go in the net. I watch for a tough check or a good fight and for the fact, that at the end of the series regardless of who was pummeled, fouled or beat up, all players shake hands and say "good game." Ya gotta love it; I do not know how you can't. So, ya all know where I will be on Sunday at 3:00. Watching the Red Wings finish off the series in Nashville.

This and That

Ugh, some days I just do not know what to write. I typically write whatever happens to be occupying my brain matter at the time, but the truth is I am all over the board this week, so I think I will just list (in no particular order) all the various themes currently taking up space:

* What is it with road rage? Actually, not even road rage. Clay got incredibly (shall we say "annoyed") this weekend when he was unable to locate a store that carried the golf putter he is thinking of buying. All of us have had times when we could not find what we are looking for. I am still searching for a pair of jeans that truly fits correctly.... and it has been thirty-two years! But I have never gone postal when, after trying on thirty thousand pairs of jeans, I still have yet to find the right one. Clay, well, I knew we were in trouble when the address for the first golf store resulted in nothing more than a residential neighborhood. This was followed by rather jerky driving and higher rates of speed to the second location, which was closed. This was followed by nearly being run off the road when he pulled out into traffic with very little time to spare, which resulted in a lot of horn-honking on Clay's part and me wishing I could disappear into the leather passenger seat. Now, I should back track and say Clay has looked at other golf stores in lower Michigan and has not found the putter in any of these locations either. However, it is a rather high end putter, plus very new, so frankly, I am not surprised. My husband, on the other hand, takes it as the golf gods being personally out to get him and trying to thwart his chances of acquiring the latest and the greatest. While I understand the frustration, I just do not get the extreme reaction. Must be the testosterone.

* I cannot get this book "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" by Jonathan Safran Foer out of my head. I read it about a week ago in less than two days, and while I have since read another book and, in fact started a third, I am still mentally chewing on it. Mom recommended it to me (mostly because she wanted to discuss it) and it is powerful. I keep finding more themes to it..... loss, and love, and communication. The communication of a grandfather, who doesn't speak except by writing or with his two hands, one tattooed with the word "yes" the other with the word "no" and to write letters he never sends to a son he never meets, a grandmother who types for hours and hours but produces only blank pages, a neighbor who lives as a recluse in his apartment and talks to no one and yet labels everyone he has ever met with a single word, which he then files in a card catalog, and a little boy genius wise beyond his years, who has the ability to communicate with everyone, but does not pick up the phone when the man he most wants to talk to (his Dad) comes over the answering machine, calling from the Twin Towers on September 11th. And that doesn't even get into the structure of the book and how the author uses the text to help convey the story in a way that reminded me of "The Death of Artemio Cruz" by Carlos Fuentes. I almost wish to be back in a college course just so I could talk about it in a classroom setting. Almost.

* A list in the form of projects/repairs on the house, which need to be done if we are, in fact, serious about trying to sell it. We have cleaned the garage and I have repainted a couple of walls, and the pantry, and the kitchen door, but we still need to power wash the exterior, do some caulking, finish some trim and clean, clean, clean.....

* My very nice weekend away for my birthday, which involved a lovely hotel, leisurely meals with no toddler to entertain (no offense, Isabelle), sleeping late, and a gorgeous pair of diamond earrings. Did I mention I love my husband? (road rage and all)

* The Red Wings, blowing game three last night against Nashville. After playing the better game and being the better team, they sat back and played "not to lose" rather then "to win" for the last 15 minutes of the third period. Basically they handed the Predators a chance to get back in the game and then seemed somewhat surprised when they did. I love the Wings, LOVE them, and was so thoroughly disgusted after this loss which puts the series at 2-1 instead of 3-0 (which is a HUGE difference when playing a best of 7 series in the first round of the playoffs) I just could not even look at the television. I must stop as I can feel the blood pressure rising.

* Laughing silently to myself as Clinton and Obama continue to pummel each other into oblivion, hoping to secure the Democratic nomination. "Clinging to guns and religion?" Could we be any more condescending? The man better not come to the U.P with those beliefs! Ah well, maybe it will help McCain.

* Will my daughter ever potty train?

* What should I make for dinner?

* Is it actually possible for me to lose the last few pounds (the ones I have been trying to erase for quite some time now) without resorting to anorexia, bulimia, plastic surgery, or hiring a personal trainer?

* Could our friend Toad (Todd, actually but he goes by Toad) be any nicer? I asked him to check the cats once this weekend while we were gone and he proceeded to check on them both days, bring in the mail and snow blow the driveway when we got six inches of snow. (yes, in April; it is the U.P. some places got over a foot so I consider us lucky.)

And, I guess, that is about it. Until next time.

To the Two I Lost

I am not one to hang on to the past, and for the most part I think it does not help us to do so. However, some experiences (good or bad) have a way of sticking with you. This month has a tendency to bring a difficult time in my life back to mind, and I have learned it is easier to acknowledge it and move on rather then pretend I don't remember. The truth is I still do even after four years. In this case, though I believe it is good for me to recall how sad I was then because it only serves to remind me how incredibly blessed and happy I am now with my beautiful daughter and family. What follows is a poem I wrote after suffering my second miscarriage in April of 2004.

I never got to know you, I never knew your name.

In fact, you were more of a dream, one whose truth never came.

I will think of you forever, for reminders never cease.

You were one possible future from which I did not want release.

But some choices are not our own, nor for us to understand.

So, I will continue to trust in God, and strive to touch his hand.

A part of me will always miss you, as something I cannot erase,

Because I will always see the possibility of your smile in every child's face.

Washing My Mouth out with Soap

I have no one to blame but myself. It is amazing to me how our children can so easily latch onto the least favorable qualities within ourselves and adopt them as their own. Some of these "qualities" must be ingrained in their DNA. For example, I think Isabelle must have come out of the womb possessing no patience. (Of course, after going through a forty-plus hour labor, one can hardly blame her for being tired of waiting!) She gets this impatient streak from her father who has been known to quickly lose it when things do not go perfect the first time.

However, the latest not-so-lovely "habit" is most definitely my fault. You see, despite my efforts in the last several years to, shall we say "tame my tongue" I, nonetheless, still maintain a tendency to swear. Especially when watching sports, specifically hockey. Watching a ref make a bad call against the Red Wings, can launch me into a tirade of language that could most likely make a sailor blush. I am also known to get a little irritated at what passes for journalism these days when I watch almost any evening news program. Unbiased? Please! My colorful vocabulary stems largely from a beloved friend of mine who in high school dropped f-bombs like a thunderstorm drops rain. She was as unconscious of it as one is of breathing, and I soon became the same way. In college, the swearing diminished considerably, but I confess I did not work very hard to eradicate it completely. Now, as a mother, I am once more painfully aware of what words I say, and I try very hard to clamp down on the trailer trash side of my vocabulary.

Although, it would seem not completely. Last week, Clay and I set up an Easter egg hunt in our house for Isabelle. The eggs were scattered in our downstairs family room, and Isabelle quickly got into it, racing around with her basket and piling the colored eggs inside. At one point she momentarily stopped and surveying the room stated excitedly, "They are "friggin' everywhere!" Clay and I, sitting on the couch observing, turned simultaneously to one another and he mouthed, "friggin?!?" I shook it off, determined to believe we had misheard until a few minutes later she said the offending word once more. Despite being rather alarmed by my beautiful daughter's utterance, I found myself not quite capable of keeping a straight face. There was something completely hysterical about watching this small, angelic picture of innocence say something that should be coming out of the mouth of a character like Rizzo in "Grease." Now, though I am rather chagrined and determined to do better in curbing my wayward tongue. In my defense, "friggin" is a much better substitute then the other "f-word!"