Famous Mommy

I will never be famous. I will never be some big time career lady who does power lunches (whatever those are), and I am certainly not one of those women who people look at and think "how does she do it?" In a world where we are all too often defined by what we do for a living, the ego of a stay-at-home mom can take a beating. This is all to apparent at social events where inevitably the question arises, "And what do you do?" My response is most commonly met with a polite dismissal, a few comments about how he or she could never stay at home followed by an exit to refill a drink or greet someone else (as if they could not conceive of having anything in common with someone who does not "work.")

Of course, I am stereotyping. Not all people are like this, although sadly there is still a huge problem with a person's job title being equated with what their somehow worth. And when you are a mom, especially one who stays home, you find yourself still fighting that, even though you know better. I continually feel like I need to justify myself to people, prove to them I am not some sloth-like person who is just too lazy to have a "real job." (Never mind that my real job, which I do not get paid for, could kick most of their asses on any given day). I find myself wanting the validation though, and since I do not get something concrete like a paycheck this can at times be hard to come by. Then I have to remind myself once more it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks or believes... I know the truth.

The truth is:

I wanted to be the one to kiss every injury and wipe every tear. I wanted to make the lunches and give the baths, and read the books, and play dolls, and restaurant, and fix her hair and help her get dressed, and tuck her in at night, and sing her songs, and take her to school. I even wanted to be the one to deal with her tantrums, and discipline her and teach her wrong from right because that is part of being a parent too.

No, I am not famous, but today I took my daughter sledding. Every time she reached the bottom of the hill in a spray of snow with a grin big enough to rival the Joker on Batman and every time she would yell, "Again!" And I could nod agreement and smile right back and say, "Again" too, because being a mom IS my job title and I didn't have to be anywhere else. Later we came in and baked Christmas cookies together in my kitchen, her little body pressed next to mine on her stool, rolling the balls of dough through the granulated sugar. No, I'm not famous, but in the eyes of my daughter, I am a rock star and that is more than enough for me.

Christmas Without Her

It was at about this same time last year when I kept thinking I saw her. Out of the corner of my eye I would get a glimpse but when I would turn ... nothing. Yesterday it happened again while I was perusing the Christmas isles at a local store. Something in the curve of the woman's small-boned shoulder and the tiny, impractical slipper-like ballet shoes she was wearing despite the cool December air, momentarily tricked my brain into believing my Grandmother was a mere few feet from me. But, of course, she wasn't, and when the second passed, along with its little bit of magic, the elderly woman, feeling my eyes on her, glanced over. I offered up a half-smile, hastily returned the forgotten ornament I clutched in my hand to its hook and fled the store, completely shaken.


I suppose it is only natural that my mind would conjure up thoughts of Grandma Elaine so frequently come Christmastime. After all, every Christmas day was spent at her house as a child, and some of my best holiday memories were made there... ALWAYS with Grandma as the central figure. I still remember the family opening presents from each other after dinner (which tended to be a chaotic affair .... picture a huge circle of chairs....aunts, uncles and a gang of my cousins all tearing into gifts and you get the idea) and Grandma and Grandpa sitting, watching it all with huge grins on their faces. Looking back now I am sure I have idealized it some, but truthfully, it was pretty ideal.

Last Christmas I cried when my first holiday card came in the mail and with it the realization that no longer would I receive one from my Grandmother. This week (after sudden inspiration) I dug in my hope chest and pulled out a bag of cherished cards I have saved over the years given to me by loved ones. Sure enough several of the cards were from her. For some reason it was comforting to see her signature there on the paper, still declaring her love.

Grandpa spent this past Christmas without my Grandma. This year they will not be apart. And as I decorate my house, bake my holiday cookies, write out my Christmas cards, wrap my gifts, and read Christmas stories to Isabelle, I know my mind will turn to them both again and again. And that's okay because as I am making my new traditions I want to also remember to embrace the old ones and weave them into this family tapestry for Isabelle. Then, with any luck, maybe someday, she too, will look back on parts of her childhood as "pretty ideal." Merry Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa.

Exhaustion

Here's the thing: I am tired. I think perhaps more tired then I have ever been in my entire life. Even more so then in those first months with Isabelle when she was doing the non-stop crying/screaming bit. More tired then during those two years of graduate school when I had insomnia so bad that I would find myself scrubbing my apartment toilet at three o'clock in the morning to kill time or downing something like nine cans of caffeine-laden soda a day to maintain some level of consciousness through my evening class. Today, I am the kind of tired where I would like to curl up on the couch and cry for no obvious reason.


Why, you ask? I have been asking myself the same question. I guess it would all come down to this year, 2009. This has been a year of work. Not that all years are not in some form, but this year it is a main theme .....working on camp is the big one which overshadows everything, and at this point I can safely say it is catching up. I know Clay would say, if it is catching up with anyone it should be him, as he is the one who is putting in all the hours out there. And he is right.... he puts in long hours at the office and then has been going out to camp in the evenings or on the weekends to work on projects. I help when I can but, naturally, having Isabelle a lot of the wiring, plumbing etc. falls to him. Plus, the days are so short right now that it is practically dark when he gets home from work.


But inevitably if he is at camp then I am here, "holding down the fort," not just sitting around getting a manicure (which I have never had done by the way..... I have had one professional pedicure in my life). This means a lot of evenings flying solo with Isabelle (after some long days with Isabelle! some great and some..... not so much). Suffice it so say this fourth year of her life has been a rather challenging one in the behavior department, definitely putting in my work there. Also, with Clay at camp so much, it has meant me picking up a lot (okay, all) of the yard work this fall. While this might not seem like a huge undertaking to some, let me remind you I have a rather large yard surrounded and filled by massive oak trees which involves enough raking to keep a small prison crew busy for an extended period of time. So the yard, in addition to the regular cleaning of the interior of the house, plus the errands, and, of course, Isabelle and all the other billions of little things one must accomplish everyday, like all the impending Christmas shopping..... you get the idea.


And now my daughter is going through an especially bad phase of behavior at nighttime. It seems she just would rather not sleep, and if she is awake she feels I should be too, so she devises various excuses (also include yelling, tantrums, and faking illness) to get me out of bed, none of which are any good, all of which make me mad, crabby and, in general, not pleasant. This is simply multiplied by the fact that Isabelle is then tired during the day (from not sleeping!!!) and is whining and clingy and I am suddenly finding myself understanding why some species eat their young. Sigh.


SO........ here I am in my seemingly never-ending cycle of exhaustion, clinging to these few thoughts. One, I am fairly certain I am done raking for the year as the oaks have finally dropped their last round of leaves and after more hours of work then I would care to calculate I think all that remains is for me to winterize (protect for you people who do not get buried in snow) several bushes. This means my aching hands can finally put that damn rake down. Two, after last night, Isabelle's game playing is at an end as this Momma Bear has more then reached her limit, and three, 2009 is almost over with and perhaps if I can just get to 2010 maybe I can find some time to get a little rest. Either that or I will just invest in a good pair of ear plugs.

Meant To Be

It occurred to me last night how different our lives might look if some other choices had been made or perhaps if our path had led us somewhere else. I was putting Isabelle's Halloween pictures into an already bulging photo album, surrounded on the couch by three other albums, all full of Isabelle (it took me a bit to find which one I was currently filling. Hey, don't pick on me too bad.... at least I am keeping up with filling albums). There were even more albums of her still put away, and I had to laugh to myself since the kid is not even five, and she has more photo albums at this point then Clay and I do as a couple, and we've been married almost ten years and together for nearly thirteen. If I got into the countless photos of her left unprinted on "Shutterfly" the number would be staggering.

But my thoughts weren't about pictures. They were about how this one little person, who was then currently playing the billionth round of "Pretty, Pretty Princess" with her father, had so thoroughly and completely taken over our lives...and not in a bad way. I watched Clay spin the pink, plastic spinner, move his princess playing piece and dutifully pick up his blue earring and clip it on his lobe to which Isabelle cried, "Mommy, look at Daddy!" Clay didn't even flinch, just gave me a slight lopsided grin. Who else would my tough guy husband do this for? Simply put: No one but his daughter. What did we used to do on Halloween before we had Isabelle? What did we do on an evening like this? It must have seemed empty, and looking back and recalling how badly we wanted a baby, how much it hurt when we lost them, I know it was.

As is typically the case, my child has a way of summing it all up like no one else. I give you the following anecdote:

Last weekend I was driving to my parents. Isabelle was in the back keeping up her running dialogue, telling me about school, her friends, songs, making up stories for me, and asking me how to spell.... well..... everything. But I loved it. So I told her so and that I was so glad she was my daughter because I would be lonely without her. Her vivacious eyes met mine in the rear view mirror and Isabelle stated very matter-of-factly, "Yup, God thought you'd like me." Blinking back the sudden tears that pricked my eyes and smiling a huge grin at her, I could not help but think, Wow, did he ever get that one right.

Pausing

Having finished my errands around town, I had a few extra minutes to kill before picking up Isabelle from preschool today, so I drove down to Ludington park in Escanaba and pulled into one of the parking spots overlooking the bay. Lake Michigan was doing its best impression of one of its sisters, Lake Superior, spitting forth large, angry slate-colored waves that rocked and pitched in no real discernible pattern, tossing white spray into the air. The rain continued to beat down upon my windshield obscuring the view and a low cloud bank and mist made it difficult to even see the smoke stacks of the paper mill across the water, let alone the other side of the bay. The wind tore at the trees and shrubs along the shore, ripping the colored leaves off soaked branches and plastering them to the pavement of the sidewalk.

Inside the cocoon of my car I listened to the wind and the crash of the waves, watching the force of nature around me, feeling the dark sky pressing down above me, as if it did not realize it was the middle of the afternoon. I found myself wondering how many others sat looking out on this lake at this moment scattered around the shoreline. It certainly was not a typical day to admire the scenery, for on days when the sun was shining one could drive down to this spot and be met with a dozen cars. Now, glancing on either side of me I noticed two other drivers parked in my vicinity, keeping watch. Were their others like us in Traverse City perhaps? St. Ignace? Or at countless other roadside turnouts?

A lone seagull stood defiantly on the sidewalk outside my car, facing into the wind towards the lake, head hunched down into his body like a football player in full pads. Like us, he seemed to be watching. Did he find it beautiful, this ever changing lake, as I do, even on a day like today? I don't know, but I think all of us (seagulls or humans) would benefit by just stopping for ten minutes every now and again. To take a pause in our action to watch the action of the lake.

Balancing Act

I have this mental picture of myself sometimes, standing with my feet hip-width apart, wearing some kind of sturdy, comfortable shoe (maybe my Merrells, something I can wear a long time without my feet getting tired), my arms out either side of me, palms raised and holding ..... everything. And by everything I mean all the stuff in life that comes our way as women, that as women, we are expected to juggle, handle, deal with, manage, accomplish, complete, and most importantly of all, BALANCE. And I am not just talking the mundane tasks we are faced with, but the more important balancing act of trying to keep family time, couple time, personal time and even certain social obligations all on a level playing field. (You ladies know what I am talking about).


Above all else, it is the balance part in my life with which I struggle the most, and I am sure I am not alone. I think my foundation is solid; I have good intentions (back to my Merrells, love both pairs) but inevitably I always feel like I am not quite getting it right, my balance is off, one arm, one hand, is always holding more than the other. I think I am always letting someone down whether it is myself, my husband, my extended family, or even worse my daughter. For instance, I know Clay and I do not devote enough time to our relationship as a couple, but then again I would love you to introduce me to any parents of a four year old who does.


And finding some kind of balance with time for myself? As any mother knows you forgo the right to have time for yourself until at least, what? The child's eighteenth birthday? I thought of that last Friday night at about 9:30 in the evening as I found myself crouched behind my downstairs toilet finishing the last bit of painting around the plumbing in the back. Did painting my bathroom by myself qualify as "me" time? Or how about actually getting to use the bathroom by myself without a kid or a cat barging in? Is that finding time for myself? I suppose this time writing is the one thing I can say I do totally for my own sake (never mind the fact that I am also folding a load of laundry in between sentences).


Then there is my time with Isabelle. So much of my day with her is spent cleaning the house or running errands, making dinner, and I catch myself asking am I "balancing" this out with enough so-called quality time reading books or doing an activity which focuses solely on her? Has she watched too much television? Should I have taken her outside more today? Has she seen her grandparents enough? Come to think of it, have we seen enough of our extended families lately or are they feeling neglected because we have been so busy with our camp project? All of these little items course through my brain, me mentally attempting to weight them. I tie myself in knots and my arms in my little mental picture start to feel like they are holding two fifty pound cinderblocks.


Of course, the truly insane part in all of this is to think I can balance it all anyways because ultimately it isn't up to me. As much as I always try and want to make everyone content, I am not personally responsible for each individual family member's happiness... they are. As for the balancing act? All I can do is the best I can do. Today that meant staying home and reading books to Isabelle, doing a load of laundry, carving out thirty minutes of time (for myself) on the treadmill, digging up crock pot meatball recipes on the Internet, and even starting my Christmas shopping. And now I think I might just head downstairs to watch Monday night football with my husband. Maybe we can just find a few minutes of couple time after all.

Sweet Home Alabama

Isabelle and I drove out to camp on Sunday afternoon to bring the guys lunch. Clay and our good friends, Len and Mark were having a "plumbing party" and installing the necessary pipes that will go into camp for the bathroom, kitchen and sewer. Eventually even a stackable washer and dryer for yours truly (yes, this will not be your basic, rustic yooper camp, boys and girls).

It was one of those fall days where the weather could not decide what to do with itself. Giant blue/black clouds stacked on top of one another would occassionally mist down rain, only to allow sunshine to break through mere seconds later, but then a very cold wind would blow red, brown leaves across the hood of the Commander. Only days since the loss of our beloved cat it was no surprise to me when Isabelle told me she could see Nib up in heaven as she gazed up at those same enormous clouds. I once more had to reassure her that God would not let her beloved kitty fall from up above and that if he was busy then I was sure great grandma or great grandpa would be only too happy to look after him for us. It was with some relief that I pulled into sight of the beautiful distraction of our camp.

I was pleased to find the men nearly finished with their project after a steady mornings work and in no time we were grilling hot dogs and brats, munching on chips, and having a few beers to celebrate yet another phase in the Peterson project. It was as the guys were standing on the front porch (doing their male-bonding as men do) while the meat sizzled on the grill and I was sweeping up some of the mess (and happy to do so after their hard work) that I finally started to breathe. I know you are wondering what I mean, but for the last few days it had been a bit of a struggle to just be normal and not let Isabelle see how truly upset I was about Nib and I was just tense and tired and .... sad.

Then a funny thing happened. Life went on. I remember looking out our window at the beautiful expanse of field starting to turn gold, Clay, Len, and Mark leaning against the porch, casually holding their drinks and sharing a laugh and then Isabelle running in the door to me as Lynyrd Skynyrd's 1974 classic, "Sweet Home Alabama" started to play on the radio. As its unmistakable sound filled the cabin, I spontaneously told her to turn it up and I dropped my broom. We danced around the scraps of pipe and in the sawdust on the floor. I told Isabelle to show me her moves, watching my four year old swivel her hips and shake her "booty" and could not help but laugh. I put my arms in the air and spun around, shaking my own hips, grabbing my daughter's hand and twirling her around me, finding the lyrics of the song on my tongue. I felt myself smile, my heart beat, my lungs breathe in air, and it was good to be alive, in this place, in this moment, with these people.

Do I still feel sad? Sure, and I will probably grieve the loss of my cat like some people do the loss of a family member because for me he was. But life goes on and sometimes all you really need to get you moving again, get you out of your funk and remind you that you are okay, is a really good song.

My Lost Boy Goes Home

I said my final good-bye today to my lost boy, my Nib. I named him Nib after one of the lost boys in Peter Pan .... after all, it seemed appropriate, as he came to us all those years ago when I still worked in the vet clinic, and he was found with no mother. A former client had come upon him and his two kitten siblings at the town dump, abandoned, and that was it. I fell in love.

He was dubbed "Twinkie" as a kitten, and considering how incredibly fat he became we probably should have stuck with that name. With his orange tabby coat he was the classic Garfield and as an adult we called him "Fat Boy" as often as Nib. Over his seven all to brief years with us he brought so much joy, love, stupidity, and laughter to this house that I could write twenty pages and not even scratch the surface. As a kitten he had a fondness for sleeping on my head at night (as his weight increased this became an obvious problem), he would greet you at the door like a dog, let you hold him like a baby, lay flat on his back so you could rub his very large belly, tuck his head under your chin in the evening when reclining on the couch, purring his loudest purr just so you could be absolutely sure you knew how content he really was, wrestle with his fellow cat friend, Mindy, attempt to trip Clay when lifting weights, and could always be counted on to keep you company in the bathroom.

Nib was also one of Isabelle's best friends. In the morning when she comes and lays in bed with me while Clay gets ready for work, Nib would join us in bed, but cuddle up and lay on Isabelle, her giggling and pushing her face into his. She would frequently lay with him on the living room floor using him as her pillow or brush him with his cat brush and they had a fondness for sitting together on Clay's chair, Nib in her lap while she watched her Saturday morning cartoons.

With his beautiful, loving heart it was so difficult to say farewell, but even more difficult to watch his steady decline over the last few days. Nib's sad start in life coupled with some poor genetics (he already outlived both his siblings) more then likely contributed to his on-going problems and the only outcome we could ultimately have.

Put simply I could not watch him suffer anymore, not when I could stop it, and not when he had loved me so much and so well. So, I stayed with him at the end and stroked and kissed his head and told him what a great boy he was and how much I loved him. And I said good-bye.

There are people who will not understand this grief, this heart-wrenching, sobbing grief, for what they see as a small, insignificant animal. For them I say, I am sorry. I am sorry, you have never known what it is like to be loved so fully by such an innocent creature or to make that connection, that bond with something not of your ilk. The truth is, you do not have to understand. My darling cat was a loving, beautiful soul and I will miss him terribly. Good-bye, my Nib.

Ding Dong, The Snakes are Gone

Or should I say dead? Yeah. For those of you not up to date on our snaky soap opera at camp feel free to read up on the two older posts on the subject. For everyone else:

Clay and our excavator, Jeff headed out to camp yesterday and proceeded to dig up the existing well and install the new culvert. My father-in-law stood by with camera and (yes) a weapon of his choosing. What followed was scoop upon scoop of dirt, stone, and you guessed it, snakes. Clay said at times the bucket was full of writhing bodies. (Ugh.) There were easily twenty plus snakes inside the well not counting the ones that have already been killed in the weeks leading up to us ultimately destroying their home. The largest were measuring around five feet with the average being about three, and they were literally everywhere, in the dirt, in the stone, falling out of the bucket, and swimming in the water at the bottom where it had not been drained.

When all was said and done a beautiful, clean concrete culvert, complete with a ladder on the inside was buried vertically in the ground, and already filled back up with water and, most importantly no snakes. A sealed cap will rest on top. Sadly, the stones from the old well were too badly damaged in the digging and could not be salvaged amongst all the debris and dirt and snakes. I was hoping to use them for something since they date back to Clay's great-great grandfather (at least). The pictures told the tale, and as I perused them last night on our digital camera, my first thought was that we can never show them to Clay's mom, as she will have nightmares for the rest of her life.

But my second thought is here is yet another story to add to the list of memories we are already accruing for our camp. And believe it or not I will add some of these pictures to the scrap book of building shots because they are part of it too. Besides years from now when we are all sitting around the gas stove in camp after a little too much alcohol, someone will start referencing snakes and no one is going to have to ask why. In fact, if I know this crew there is a long line of rubber snakes, snake stuffed animals, and snake jokes coming our way. Indiana Jones has got nothing on us.

All Things Winged and Red

Yes, the NFL started its season yesterday, but I would rather talk about the Red Wings because they headed off to their training camp in Traverse City this past Friday, and before you know it my boys in red will be back on the ice. Now some fellow fans are all up in arms because of the exits of a few players, namely Hossa, Samuelsson, and Hudler. Yes, they hurt a little. (One could argue Hossa one way or the other in light of his playoff run since he did not score very much, although he certainly was active during the regular season.... we will see how you do with the Blackhawks, my boy). I, however, think we can make up for these few losses fairly well with the younger guys we have coming up, and the early indications from camp are already promising.


Case in point: A third line of Leino, Filpulla, and Williams, who rumor has it beat the Zetterberg line in scrimmage over the weekend. Williams biggest problem was getting the two Finnish guys to speak English a little bit more so he could have a clue as to what they were thinking! Everyone is back to good health including my favorite man, Nick Lidstrom, who the team jokingly has called a cyborg over the years due to his amazing good health. At age 39 he does have a few sore spots now including some tendinitis in his right elbow which he has been rehabbing over the summer. As for how long he will keep playing? He will not commit beyond this year, but plans to see how he feels during the course of this season, while definitely not ruling out a few more additional years with the Wings. Here is praying.


When I say everyone is back to good health, I mean everyone who was playing at the end of last season. Andreas Lilja, who was punched in the head way back on Feb.28th by Weber (loser) in Nashville, is still suffering post concussion-like symptoms and is not allowed any contact practices. He does not skate with the team and, in fact, had not begun skating again until this past spring. Currently, he is on the injured reserve list and at 6'3" and as our best shot blocker he is a defenseman that is sorely missed. However, at this point one wants him to be healthy just for the sake of being healthy. Apparently, there is still some reason for optimism though as it is not unusual for these types of injuries to take six plus months to subside completely. Personally, I would be very "gun-shy" of ever being struck in the head again, but Lilja very much wishes to play hockey once more.


No, the only move during the off-season that I find myself with misgivings about is general manager Ken Holland's acquisition of Todd Bertuzzi. Sure, the guy has a history of being a big time scorer and he is a a large guy who can be physical and perhaps replace some of the fire power we potentially lost with Hossa or Sammy ...... BUT. There is some big time baggage attached to this guy and do we want it even somewhat associated with the Red Wings? He is tainted for better or worse and whatever side you come down on, it is out there. And not to mention with all of his previous injuries can he really still play?? The last team he has been on that has won a playoff series in the last five years was the Wings themselves back in 2007. That's right he was on our roster when we went to the conference finals before losing to Anaheim, although he barely played with us due to injuries.

For those of you non-hockey people who have no clue what I am talking about when I speak of Bertuzzi's past, here is your quick catch up: Back in 2004 Bertuzzi played for Vancouver when he most notoriously sucker-punched Steve Moore of the Colorado Avalanche in the head, effectively ending that man's career as a hockey player. There is currently a law suit (I think in the Ontario court system) for 38 million which Steve Moore is seeking for lost income and damages. Needless to say it was the cheap shot heard around the hockey world and had everyone up in arms screaming about the violence of hockey. Now some say Todd Bertuzzi was merely the brute force, following orders, the so-called "hockey code" and, therefore, his 17 month suspension, community service, probation, while warranted, only punished the hit man and perhaps allowed the other guilty parties (coach? captain?) off with a free pass. Other people believe Bertuzzi is nothing more then a hot head whose temper got the best of him and in a moment of rage just "snapped." Now, I do not know what I believe or if I give credence to this whole "hockey code" idea or not but either way I would say this: I want a guy on my team who has the character and mental fortitude to do the morally "right thing" and win the "right way" despite what anyone may or may not be ordering him to do and someone who is not going to possibly "snap" at any given moment. At age 34 one would hope Mr. Todd Bertuzzi has grown up. I just don't know. I am a big believer in second chances and I am typically a lover of everything Mr. Holland does, but I am somewhat leery of this one, I must admit. I have always admired the Wings for being a classy organization and never having a player that could be labeled as dirty .... it would be a shame for the Winged Wheel to loose its luster on this.

Slight Miscalculation

It would appear our snake problem is bigger than we thought. The nest is, in fact, the well itself. No, a few snakes did not just flee there when we began building ... they all have been living there all along, and apparently they have no plans on leaving any time soon. Despite the many gallons of bleach that have been poured into their environment, despite the cement block that recently went in around the top of the well and a couple feet down (you would have thought that would seal any fissure and ways into the well but, no.... somehow they still have ways in).

We discovered our larger snake issue after I reported to Clay last week that I saw a snake at the top of the well after I spent a day out painting. Naively we both assumed it was the last of two that he had seen prior to the pouring of the cement slab and that most likely it was even dead after the bleach and snake repellent in and around the well. After all, what snake would voluntarily wish to be near such an unpleasant place? Well, Clay took a drive out to camp the next evening with a load of gravel and some friends and when they arrived they lifted the lid of the well to discover a whole, shall we say, "gang" of snakes to greet them, all of whom were quite lively and not in the least sick or dying. They also proceeded to watch them slither up the walls of the well with ease along with somehow finding ways into and out of the well without using the lid through unseen holes. (Is your skin crawling yet? Mine is.)

So, now we have no choice but to rip out the well. Can you say unforeseen expense? We have already called back our excavator and priced sinking a concrete culvert, which you then can put a sealed cap on. It will work and it is about the only way any of us will feel comfortable and know we have eradicated the snake problem. My husband, at this point, I think, is planning to be there with a shot gun when the machinery comes in so he can pick off snakes one by one! Otherwise, we will all be having nightmare visions straight out of a B-movie where there is the shower scene and somehow little baby snakes start coming out of the shower head or something. Ridiculous and completely irrational but such is the human mind. Never a dull moment when building a camp and obviously never a cheap one either ... at this point Isabelle is the only one getting anything for Christmas!

End of Summer Insanity

Where to begin? The end of summer is fast upon us, although if you have been in the upper peninsula this year you could argue that summer never truly arrived as it has been so cool, and of course, with the end of summer comes all different levels of insanity. So, I will just plunge right in.


We have the typical child variety of insanity with preparing for another year of preschool. For instance, Isabelle has apparently grown a ridiculous amount (again). The kid is all legs and it certainly does not come from me, so virtually all of her pants are too short, necessitating "school clothes shopping." When did my little girl need size five pants? And of course, we had all the necessary appointments, including her yearly health exam, and then her dental cleaning and now this week she is having her hearing and vision tested. We will culminate all of this with a haircut from her Grandma Helen and she will officially be "spit and polished" for the classroom. I feel kind of like I am having a car detailed!

Then there is our on-going camp project insanity, which anyone who has built anything knows sort of develops a life of its own. (Or it takes over the one you already have). The camp is really coming into being now and is looking wonderful. The electrical is almost complete and next will come the plumbing. I just finished painting the front door as well as all of the trim on the six exterior windows to match the roof which is a dark evergreen (the windows could only be ordered in white, of course). This little task would seem like no big deal except it involved coordinating with my dear mother-in-law to watch Isabelle whenever I wished to paint, as trying to do rather meticulous and careful work with a brush while simultaneously watching a human tornado is somewhat challenging. I also did all work on a ladder with the exception of the two front windows on the porch and had no access to water for easy brush cleaning since we have no plumbing yet. So, I was filling empty milk jugs and lugging them with me from here, doing a little cleaning on site and then bringing stuff home for the big scrub down. Tedious yes, but yesterday as I observed my completed paint job (hands on my hips, paint-smeared cut-off shorts and all) I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. And more this time then ever because unlike painting a room in my house, this is not a building or property that we will EVER sell. It will be OURS until the day we die and there is something so solid and comforting about that.

Even with the snakes. Yes, I said snakes. And that brings me to the next piece of my insanity. We have snakes in the well. Among our other camp projects is resurrecting the old, original well on the property, which is from the time when Clay's grandfather had a house on the land. It would seem that in all of our building and moving of earth and the old trailer and demolishing of some of the old, original foundation that was Clay's grandfather's house we disturbed a nest of snakes, who for lack of a better place, fled to the well. Apparently, they are Fox snakes, otherwise, known as Pine snakes, and we theorise they actually became trapped in the well when we moved more dirt with the excavator and essentially buried all of their escape routes because when we drained the well ...... lets just say we found quite a "pile" at the bottom. I will also inform you that Clay has lifted the lid on the well on a couple of occasions to find one or two curled up in the lip at the top. The best one though was when he and one of our good friends were digging around the well last week as they decided they were going to lay a cement pad all around it and going a few feet down into the ground. In the course of digging they unearthed a huge snake who had been trapped. It measured five feet. Add four inches and the snake is as tall as me. (Ewww.)

This might be the time to mention that my husband has a rather strong phobia towards snakes. He comes by it honestly. His mother is over the moon afraid. Clay is capable of being around them and can kill them when necessary, but is in no way, shape, or form, comfortable. Since encountering our "problem" at camp he has been dreaming about snakes at night, talking about it non-stop to anyone and everyone, and I swear he periodically gives full-body shudders. Suffice it to say I have found his hell and it is straight out of an Indiana Jones movie..... him in a well full of snakes. (My hell, you ask? Lets just say it would probably involve something like a very small crowded elevator, piping in Rod Stewart music or even worse Rod Stewart himself, singing, but I digress)

Despite the snake issue, the well is still sound and we are confident after a very thorough cleaning it will serve our needs just beautifully. We had never planned on using it for drinking water regardless, and in light of what has recently been taking up residence within I think it will be a very long time before we could think of it.

In the middle of all of this my computer crashed on me this past weekend, and I had a momentary freak out (yes, more insanity). After all, this computer is not very old. And how does a computer go from working perfectly one day to just totally NOT the next? I mean, shouldn't it give you at least some hints that it isn't feeling well.... a few glitches as a head's up? Instead it was like a drive-by-shooting, completely random and out of no where. I had visions of a major problem, being without a computer or e-mail for an extended period of time (Gasp! You might laugh, but for someone who at times has limited adult contact this is huge) Thankfully, my local computer guy is wonderful and had it up and running quickly and for not a ton of money, which was also huge.

Anyway, the end of summer is drawing to a close and I suppose this current level of insanity will pass .... most likely to make way for another level. But then again its kind of fun. There is a new country song out by Darryl Worley, I believe, called, "Sounds Like Life to Me." In the song his friend is complaining about all this "stuff" going on in his life, bills due, car breaking down, baby whining, wife pregnant again, like it is all some tragedy. Worley sings the chorus and reminds his friend life is about enjoying the ride and the unpredictability, not to get bogged down in the details. I like the song.

A Bike Ride

We took a walk this morning, Isabelle and I. We take a walk virtually everyday, she on her bike, me on foot. We have done it so much that Isabelle has worn out one set of tires on her little bike and they actually had to have tubes put in them. Today we broke our usual routine and went in the a.m. instead of the evening.

The air feels slightly heavy and the sun's rays carry the promise of a very hot afternoon, but at the moment it is pleasant on bare shoulders, as I watch Isabelle's sandaled feet pumping ahead of me. Her training wheels barely skim the rode, as she increasingly rides on two wheels going faster everyday, gaining confidence and skill. Her stuffed "Fat Cat" rides in her basket in front of her, as her faithful companion. We turn down a side road on our well-worn route, and I watch her green and white gingham summer dress billow out around her, as she pedals faster, gaining more speed, taking her feet off the pedals and sticking them out straight either side of her, almost flying. Then I hear Isabelle singing, "Oh, I am a princess, and it's a beautiful da--aaayyy! And I am ri--idd-ing my bi--ike! A-and I l-ive in a to-ower! And it's grea-aa-t to be a princess!" The sun is gleaming off her bike helmet, her blonde pony-tail streaming out behind her like a flag, bike tires humming on the pavement, and Isabelle is flesh and blood happiness.

I walked behind my magic child, for in that moment she was pure magic to me, with a mixture of utter bliss and a sense of fleetingness filling up my chest. The enormous grin on my face came from just feeling so LUCKY to be in that moment, to see such joyful, gorgeous innocence, and reminding myself that this was one of the many reasons why I chose to stay home with Isabelle in the first place. So, she and I would have these kinds of memories. Time passes so quickly, and I know that slight tightness in my heart comes partly from thinking I should take a mental snapshot of her right now because my little girl won't need those training wheels next summer and perhaps next year in won't be "cool" to ride with "Fat Cat" in her basket anymore or to sing at the top of her lungs as she rides her bike down the street.

But today Isabelle is still four, loves princesses, bike rides, her "Fat Cat," and can even remind her mother why we should never grow up completely.

Painful Reminder

I had been lulled into a false sense of security and why wouldn't I be? I mean seriously, it had been what? Six, seven months? Maybe even more. But when I woke up in the absolute still of the night last week, I had one split second of peace before the beast wrapped himself around my skull and reminded me of the pain of a truly severe migraine. Of course, the bodily functions that awoke me in the first place would not be denied, so I still had to move, regardless, and eventually I just "commando belly-crawled" to the bathroom and back. Oddly, despite feeling nauseous I rarely vomit during my migraines. For me I just wish for complete blackness, as little movement as possible, and for the love of all that is good and holy.... silence. Thus, nighttime is a pretty good time to have a migraine, if you are forced to have one. I eventually fell asleep, after crying for a while and praying it would be gone by morning.

It wasn't. Damn. I told Clay to go to work anyways (Yeah, I know, but what was he really going to do) and I figured I could just collapse on the couch for a few hours and get through the worst of it while Isabelle watched some cartoons, and she is a pretty good kid when it comes to people not feeling well. She is very solicitous and wants to help and is mostly offended if you turn down her aid. Being quiet is more of a challenge for her, but after getting her settled with some breakfast she did fairly well. By lunch I had my head to a manageable level... what I would call a severe headache. In other words it hurt a lot but I could walk around and keep my eyes open without feeling like my skull would split in half, so I could function. After a shower and a little food, Isabelle and I managed to piece together a decent afternoon, although I am sure I resembled something more along the lines of road kill (or maybe that is just how I felt).

All in all the next day was better with the typical after effects of my head feeling like scrambled eggs but not hurting and me once again remembering why, in fact, I take that little pill everyday that costs so much out of our insurance. The truth is that the last several months have been so blissfully pain free I sometimes have found myself wondering if I should talk to my doctor and try to wean myself off the Topomax. I am not one to just stay on a drug and you cannot help but find yourself thinking (Do I need it? I am not getting any headaches. Well, let me rephrase that, not any BAD headaches) but then again the drug is doing precisely what it is supposed to ... help prevent them. And in my case, almost completely.

So, I guess last week showed me that the beast is still lurking within the confines of my head after all and that even with my magic pill, he occasionally is going to make an appearance. But one migraine every six-eight months compared to what I was dealing with before? THAT I can live with!

Am I Mental?

So, this past month I have been trying to figure out if I am having a nervous breakdown, just incredibly busy, a little depressed, perhaps over-tired, or maybe just the stay at home mom of a rather challenging four year old. Does everyone feel like this sometimes? Because lately I think I may be verging on psychotic (ask my family, if you think I exaggerate!)


In all seriousness, it has been rather nuts these last few weeks. We are in the throws of building our cabin. Not just a hunting cabin, although Clay will certainly use it as such come hunting season, and it is on the hunting property. No, we are planning it more for a fall/winter weekend retreat .... a place we can go to and have a bonfire in the evening, go snowshoeing during the day, sit around the gas stove at night and watch the deer in the field in the fall. It is coming along nicely, but as with all projects it involves a lot of time and effort and planning. Clay is understandably, shall we say, "focused" on this and only this, which at times has me feeling like a matador trying to wave a red cape in front of a bull to get his attention. However, since he has been dreaming of building this cabin since .... well .... birth, I keep trying to remind myself to be patient. And, in truth, I, too, am very excited about it and look forward to creating many wonderful memories there.


No, I think my crazy up and down moods mostly hinge on Miss Isabelle's own crazy up and down moods, but what do you expect from a four year old, right? She just happens to be going through an especially difficult phase right now with a lot (and I mean a lot .... did I mention A LOT) of defiant behavior (insert backtalk, slamming doors, stomping feet, yelling, screaming and more whining then I would ever care to admit) here. Before you start picturing my daughter as the horrible neighborhood child next door, let me be sure to tell you she still has her wonderful moments too, where she gives me a million kisses on my cheeks, flashes me that adorable grin and says something hysterical. Isabelle's cutest thing at the moment is her love affair with "Fat Cat" her prized stuffed animal, which as you probably surmised by now is a fat orange cat she takes everywhere with her, whether it is bike riding, a t-ball game, the grocery store, or to Wisconsin for our recent visit with her cousins, Anya and Gideon.

But while trying to recognize the normalcy of her not-so-nice behavior, my frustrations lie more in the increase in Isabelle's acting out and the fact that she is not afraid to engage in it non-private settings (Not so fun for yours truly.) This combined with Clay's one track mind and our busy schedule, I think has pushed me to my patience quota for the day more frequently then usual and has left me rather rough around the edges. For example, this past weekend. It occurred to me as I drove back home following my previously mentioned visit to my brother's house, that Kurt might be pondering his sister's mental health, considering that I turned into a puddle of tears Sunday evening following about the billionth meltdown of Isabelle's that day (okay, I exaggerate; it was about the 10th, but you get my point). Hopefully, I did not scare Kurt and Chrissy too badly as I adore them more then they will ever know.


Nonetheless, as I watch Princess Isabelle splash contentedly (for the moment!) in her bathtub, I feel a familiar lump in my throat as I think of how beautiful she is and how lucky I am to have her. It is what is so remarkable and amazing about children ... they make you crazy.... nuts... insane ... but you love them so fiercely, with such a rabid devotion, and there is absolutely nothing you would not do to keep them safe, make them happy, and help them grow into the best people they can be. Which is perhaps precisely why I sometimes find myself questioning my own mental health! But I'm guessing I am as mentally stable as the next mom, and like that next mom, we have our "made for television" moments straight out of a Hallmark movie and those that, well, let's just say might make it onto one of those "Nanny 911" shows. It doesn't mean we are crazy, mental, depressed, or anything else. It just means we are human.

So, tomorrow I will awaken Princess Isabelle and we will either "go to the ball" or "wage war" as needed. Bring it on. This mom is ready. (straight-jacket and all).

Experiencing Technical Difficulties, The Beautiful Place I Live, and Ruining my Daughter's Life

Forgive my long absence, but as is so often the case in life, well ..... life gets in the way. Summer mode has officially hit and suddenly I find myself bombarded with hot weather, t-ball, playdates, a child that wants to be outside at all hours of the day whether or not it is 85 degrees and scorching and of course, all the typical mundane, everyday "stuff" that somehow still must get done even if all one really wants to do is hang at the beach.

My technical difficulties began last Saturday after my nephew, Matt, came and babysat for us. While here he perused the Internet (with permission after Miss Isabelle was in bed) and it would appear inadvertently picked up an unwanted guest/virus which took up residence on my computer masquerading itself as some kind of spyware. My current Norton did not detect it, and I have spent the last week logging many hours attempting to dislodge this ugly monster (first to determine if it is, in fact, legit and not just some scam to get me to buy something I do not need and second if legit, how to get rid of it.) Well, wonder of wonders, just when I was about to call it quits and call in the experts after failing miserably and also not being able to log into anything including my own blog thanks to this nasty bug, I figured it out. Yeah, me who literally fumbles my way through computers clicking on things. Turns out one of my own security measures on my computer was turned OFF (why?!) which is how this truly legitimate virus snuck into my computer, so I turned it back on and, when I did so, it promptly detected said bug and eradicated it. Knocking out the bug made the invasive spyware icon disappear as well. Poof! All gone. Hallelujah! And, now here I am once more with free access to my blog. (Well, at least after I figured out how to put "blogspot" onto a list of secure websites that I trust). Looks like I actually learned something new today.

On a totally unrelated note I spent all of last week being reminded of the incredibly gorgeous place I am blessed to live in. Last Wednesday I came up stairs to make Isabelle lunch and glanced out my kitchen window to see a doe and a fawn, who could not be more then two days old, standing in my back yard. I watched transfixed as the spotted little one on all four spindly-legs wobbled around my hanging basket on the edge of the woods and then slowly wandered off after her mother. Postcard perfect. This was followed later in the week by a peaceful evening spent with dear friends around a bonfire on Lake Michigan's shoreline, staring up at a star-filled sky and capped off with a brilliant blue sky Sunday, watching Isabelle and her cousin, Matt, splash in Ostrander lake while I sat on a deck chatting with Helen and my sister-in-law. Even this Wednesday as my friend, Kerri, and I sat on Gladstone beach looking at the sailboats on the bay while our kids played in the sand I could not help but feel so fortunate to live where we live. Yes, the winters are stark (although there is much beauty in the starkness too) but no where does any environment speak to me the way this place does. It is home.

Finally as my last piece of random information I will offer this: my daughter informed me today in total dramatic four year old fashion that I am "ruining her life." (Yeah, would love to know where she picked up that phrase.) I was loading the dryer with clothes and when I would not cease immediately to read her a book of her choice she threw it on the laundry room floor, stamped her foot, and as she was pounding up the stairs let loose with the above statement. Frankly, I found it hard not to laugh, but I think I responded with "I'm sorry to hear that." If this is what her fourth year holds in store for me ..... well, lets just say I think I better stock up on some more alcohol!

Game 7: Red Wings 1, Penguins 2

The good guys do not always win. Isn't that the lesson you learn as you grow up? Well, that is how I feel tonight, and yeah, I am sad. And no, I did not watch them skate around our ice with the cup. I do not believe in torturing myself unnecessarily, and watching Bettman fawn over his prized Penguins is something I could do without.

Here's the thing though. I still adore and love my team. And I am so proud of them. The Wings played a hell of a season, and I had a blast watching them. The playoffs were phenomenal and that series with Anaheim, in my opinion, was the true Stanley Cup round, no matter what the NHL or the Penguins might think (that series was something else). I have no doubt when the injury reports come out in the next few days we will have quite the list; this was a major year of overcoming obstacles for us, and we almost overcame them all.

There is always next season and it just means the octopus will be all the more hungry, right?! Now, I just have to figure out what the heck I am going to watch now that hockey is over with.

5-0

Game Five: Absolute dream game if you are a Red Wings Fan! One more win to Lord Stanley. Bring it home on Tuesday night, Wings!

Sigh

I am too emotionally involved. Anyone who knows I am a Red Wings fan knows this. Now with the Stanley Cup series tied at 2-2, I find myself at a new level of stress for my team. It has been a brutal, hard-fought challenge to get to this point, and no, I am not talking about this series. I am talking about this season, and this entire playoff road for the Wings. From the second they won the Cup last year it has been one steady up hill climb to try and get back to the same moment again. There is a reason why so few repeat to win the Cup. It is nearly impossible.

Last night we did not do ourselves any favors, as I watched an abysmal penalty kill and as Henrik Zetterburg bluntly said we put on a "turnover clinic" to give the Penguins all they needed to take a couple goal lead. While the Wings went on to put in a solid third period and log more shots on goal then the Pens, they were not the quality shots we needed. The Wings have no one to blame but themselves for the loss they suffered in Game Four, and they know it.

And, of course, everyone is saying we are tired. Duh. Of course, we are tired. We played a bone-crushing series with Anaheim (one I would challenge the Penguins to have survived, I might add), went on to Chicago, which beat us up a bit more and then with no more then two days between started this series with back-to-back games. We are missing a key player in Pavel Datsuk and many other key players are injured and are essentially pretending not to be. Meanwhile, the Penguin's swept a tanked Carolina team (who spent themselves in a seven game series on the Bruins) and enjoyed multiple days rest between games during it, plus received three additional days off before starting the Stanley Cup finals. Gee, ya think the Wings might be more tired? (Yes, the Wings are a bit older in years, but in this case we have just played more hockey and more hard hockey so don't kid yourself.)

And like it or not call it a conspiracy, call it "tilting the ice," call it whatever, but there has been a huge amount of, shall we say "hiccups" in the Red Wings path this playoff road. Let's face it: It is not in Bettman's interest to have the Red Wing's win the Cup. He has made the Penguins the face of the NHL with Sydney Crosby as his poster boy. Anyone who has watched the NHL promos for this past season would think the Penguins had won the Stanley Cup last year!

Through it all the Wings continue to battle through questionable calls or non-calls..... Game Three in the Anaheim series when a tying goal was disallowed, which would have sent the game into overtime, instead the Ducks win. Game Three in the Chicago series when Kronwall gets a game misconduct and a major penalty on a hit on Havlat that every expert/talking head I could find and read called a clean hit. It changed the whole dynamic of the game, forcing the Wings to play without a key defenseman for more then half the game. Consequently, in this series if Kronwall so much as taps someone he gets a penalty (i.e. the weak "tripping" called at the start of Game four last night. The CBC announcer's remark said it all when watching the replay, "Well, I guess that was tripping.") Game Two of this series Malkin's automatic suspension reversed because he "was not sending a message," and has no history of fighting. (Check last years series in the Stanley Cup finals .... he actually did the same thing in Game Two with a few seconds left, just not to the same degree.) Game Three of this series when the Penguins play for 21 Seconds with a sixth man on the ice until he skates off (in front of the ref!) and yet no ref calls a penalty for too many men. Or last night when Matt Cooke literally boarded Nick Lidstrom (who was not playing the puck, can you say interference!) during a power play, and it was just ignored. Both the CBC and Versus announcers were calling for a penalty on it.

Yes, in Bettman and the NHL's need to pander to the masses and try to create more interest in the sport of hockey I would caution them to be somewhat careful that in so doing they do not alienate the fans who were here all along. I would ask them to not be so quick to "kick to the curb" a team that has 11 Stanley Cups in its history, is an Original Six team, and carries itself always with class and dignity and does not make excuses (even when their fans, myself included, cry foul for them) Because here is the deal. I think this is a good series without the referees or the league interfering. I don't think the Wings are necessarily done just yet because they tend to find the will and determination when no one else can. No, do not jump on the media bandwagon and count the Wings done now that the series is tied for you would be wrong to do so. BUT, if they should ultimately come out on the downside of this I would like to know that it was because they just got beat (and I am okay with that, they are still my team) not because they were "not allowed" to win.

The Mom Gig

It was as I was carrying my tantrum-throwing, screaming, hysterical, red-faced, possessed daughter to my car (in the rain, mind you, because, of course, at that moment it would also have to be pouring) that it occurred to me I really would not mind having a cry myself. I am sure a few moms out there (and, I don't know, perhaps a few dads) know what I am talking about. You know, those times when you have absolutely used up the last tiny particle of whatever it is that holds you upright and makes you a parent. Those times when you want to throw your hands up in the air and say "uncle" or "am I on camera?" because this cannot possibly really be happening just like this, can it? Those times when you are pretty sure you might actually be capable of ripping your own hair out of your head in frustration. Yup, I wanted a good cry. You see, we were leaving a play date and what should have been a fun time for Isabelle, only she was having one of her, shall we say, "moments," and basically lost it when I suggested she needed to start sharing or we would have to leave.


In truth, I should have saw it coming. It started with her reluctance to eat the macaroni and cheese offered for lunch. The whiny voice was a hint, and I should have probably made our exit sooner, but I foolishly thought once she was playing again she would be fine, as she had never had one of her meltdowns when her friends were around for distraction. No such luck. When it became clear to her that I would not take the toy she wanted away from her friend, Sean, she started to lose it, and in the few moments it took to put shoes and jacket on, my friends got to witness Isabelle in all her dramatic, over-the-top glory. Embarrassing to say the least, although driving home, watching Isabelle flail around in her car seat like a wild animal, still screaming at the loudest possible volume, it was the least of my concerns.


The tantrums/meltdowns are not new. It was referred to as colic when she was an infant, although Clay and I dubbed the non-stop crying infant version of Isabelle as her "Evil Twin." As she has gotten older she has improved and the "episodes" are much less frequent, but it is a continual challenge for me in teaching Isabelle how to handle and express her strongly felt emotions. Especially in light of the fact that she is not quite four and put simply is not truly capable of being totally reasoned with nor can she necessarily understand or even fully articulate how she feels. I am doing my best to help her find ways to self-soothe and calm herself when she becomes agitated and to teach her better methods to handle situations but obviously it is a process and not one that is fixed over night.

I pulled into the garage with her still yelling full force and shut off the car, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath as I did so. Yeah, I wanted to cry, but not because my kid acted like a psychopath in front of my friends (whoopee, all kids do sooner or later, and every parent knows it is true) and not because I think Isabelle is some damaged child who is somehow mentally defective because she throws fits that could probably register on the Richter scale. I just wanted to cry because sometimes this Mom gig is so damn HARD. And sometimes I just do not feel big enough for it or strong enough for it or GOOD enough for it. Sometimes I just want to curl up and have someone hug ME and say, "Yes, this is hard." (then the other part of me screams "no pity parties" and get over yourself!).

In the end I didn't cry, which is kind of amazing considering how often I am known to shed tears because I guess I have managed to figure one thing out in the time I have been Isabelle's Mom. Sometimes all you can do is just keep trying. Which is why we moms will continue to tell our kids no when they throw the same toy across the room for the millionth time, why we will keep putting that broccoli on their dinner plates, why we will keep reminding them to put on their bike helmets, buckle-up, look both ways, use their manners, and brush their teeth. And why I will talk with Isabelle when she is calmer about sharing toys and using her manners (and not acting like a maniac) when we are at our friend's house. Being a mom is hard, but I try to remind myself that anything worth doing usually is.

Hockey Joy

Can I just say I am so proud of my Red Wings! What a game yesterday! Despite being without their captain Lidstrom and key players Datsuk and Draper they rallied and stepped up and played a fantastic game, making Chicago look like the inexperienced and undisciplined team they are. While the Hawks were busy skating around trying to exact "revenge" for Kronwall's supposed bad hit on Havlat from Game Three we went on to win a hockey game. And I was so happy to See Marion Hossa play such a wonderful game and get some pucks in the net. He has been working so hard, and it is about time he gets some pay off for it.

Overall, the Red Wings demonstrated why they are so amazingly good... the depth on the team is simply unmatched. There is not one or two star players... it is a team of all truly skilled hockey players that all have the capability of being the star on any given night which maybe is not as exciting for the media people because they cannot fixate on just one person (like a Sidney Crosby), but it sure works for this fan.

Now we are one game away from returning to the Stanley cup finals for the second year in a row. If Pittsburgh follows and returns as well it will be the first time since 1983 that the same two teams have consecutively played one another for Lord Stanley. Whew.

Let's finish out Chicago in Game Five. GO WINGS!

Nine Years

Yes, it is hard to believe, but Clay and I swapped " I do's" nine years ago, today. After so long we are not exactly bright, shiny newlyweds anymore, but at the end of the day I like to think we are both pretty content with where we find ourselves. After all, we have much to be thankful for.

A favorite quote comes to mind on this day:

"A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person."
-Mignon McLaughlin, Atlantic (July 1965).

Fortunately for me, falling in love with my husband continues to be the easiest thing in the world to do. Happy Anniversary, Clay.

Happy Wing Girl

Yes, yes, it is a Red Wing post, so if you don't like it then just skip this entry because unless you are clueless the Wings played a great game yesterday, and I just have to say YAY! They are now officially one game away from sending the Ducks back where they belong ... to their little pond in Anaheim.

It has been an ugly, physical series, with the Ducks doing their best to try and win on nothing but the back of their goalie and mostly cheap shots with a healthy dose of whining on their part. With the exception of one solid line they can not match the Red Wings in talent and have been out shot every single game. Yesterday was no exception with the Wings out-shooting the Ducks 38-17, but all of us fans were feeling old ghosts creeping in as the they continued to dominate play and pucks bounced off of goal posts . Until three minutes into the 2nd period when the Mule (Johan Franzen, for those of you not up on nicknames) banged one in to give us a one goal lead and Hudler (a.k.a Happy Hudler) knocked another one in out of mid-air (yes, mid-air) 39 seconds later.

What does the Anaheim coach, Randy Carlyle have to say about Franzen and his numerous goals this series? "Pretty good shots." YA THINK! Lets review, Randy: The Mule has scored twenty times in twenty-five playoff games. Still think that is just pretty good?!

Regardless, this Wing girl is one happy woman today and will be sporting her Lidstrom jersey tomorrow in the hopes the Red Wings will finish out this series once and for all in Anaheim. Go Wings!

Faith

Faith - Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.

It is raining today. Big, fat slow drops that trail down the windows, causing my fat cat, Nib to bat at them with his paws as he sits on the windowsill. It has been a cool spring for us, and I am anxious for the warmer days, to put on my sandals, open my car window and feel the breeze blow my hair. Yesterday, leaving the playground early due to the chilly south wind off of lake Michigan, Isabelle looked into the cloud-filled sky and proclaimed, "Now the sun will never come out!" I replied that sooner or later it would come out and sooner or later it would warm up, even in the U.P. I have faith. (But today I am still in my sweatshirt and sipping hot chocolate).

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I stayed up last night watching the Red Wings lose 2-1 in Game Three in Round 2 of the NHL playoffs against the Anaheim Ducks. With about 1:04 left in the game Marion Hossa tapped in the tying goal making it 2-2, only to have the referee, Brad Watson wave it off and call no goal. Why? Well, to put it simply, Mr. Watson was out of position and lost sight of the puck so he whistled the play dead, guessing the puck was under Jonas Hiller, the Duck goalie. Never mind, the fact, that more then half the arena plus the replay easily showed the puck in plain view the entire time. According to the rules it is a non-reviewable play, so the tying goal was waved off, overtime never happened, and the Ducks won to go up 2-1 in the series, throwing thousands of fans, Wings and Ducks alike, into a frenzy. I was disappointed to say the least. Railing at the hockey Gods? You bet. But I have faith. Faith that in the end my Red Wings will ultimately prevail. (It might help though if the league and Bettman and the refs could call a consistent game and have some rules that made sense, like any play involving a goal be reviewable on replay!).

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Then there are the world events these days. So much in the news is negative and difficult to absorb. I feel bombarded with tales of the slumping economy, lost jobs, skyrocketing health care, global warming, the sad state of the housing market and the auto industry. It is as if the news media is doing its best to try and put us all on medication for depression with such a steady diet of only bad news. And, of course, there is now the dreaded H1N1 virus or swine flu to talk about as well. Here is the amazing thing though: Despite all the talking heads on television telling me how bad the state of the world is right now, in my heart of hearts I know we will be okay. Some might call me foolish or naive and these days it seems almost unpopular to be patriotic, but I still honestly believe this is a great country and that at the end of the day we will see ourselves through this mess. I have faith. (Again, it might help if the masses could use a little common sense and quite frankly get out of their own way).

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And there is my family, my marriage. As evidenced by this blog, it doesn't run like clockwork and it is not perfect. In fact, the two people that live under this roof with me have the ability to make me more frustrated then any other two people on the entire planet. I fantasize about maxing out a credit card and buying a one way ticket to Hawaii and parking myself on Waimea beach on the North Shore of Oahu (or perhaps a more secluded beach on Maui, yeah), selling homemade jewelry (not that I have a clue how to make any) and eating Opa (best fish ever) until I am stuffed. Being single, alone, with no responsibilities to anyone, but myself. Those fantasies arise inevitably after a day of Isabelle whining non-stop and Clay coming home from a long day of work, which culminates in us both snapping at each other, essentially competing to see who had the harder day. Dumb. But I always have faith. Faith that even when he and I are truly angry at one another, that our marriage is not going to fall apart, for it is made of stronger stuff. Faith that our love will bring it right back around... and it always does.

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Some of you might ask where is God for me in all of this faith, and I would say that by now that should be fairly obvious. He is at the center of it, from the simple and mundane, to the weighty and important. Perhaps that is why I do not necessarily feel the need to be sitting in a church pew every Sunday. My belief, my faith doesn't come from an organized religion. It simply comes from within.

Medagoopus

I first heard it maybe two months ago, whispered so quietly it was gone before I even could ponder what I had heard. And it continued like that for the next couple of weeks; Isabelle and I would be doing our thing .... running errands, playing, going for a walk, and it would happen. I would think I had heard it, but then it would be gone, and she would be looking at me all clear and bright, as if to say, "What, Mom? What's your deal?" Then one day, as she pointed out a "jet trail" left by a plane in the sky, I was sure. I had to ask.

"What is 'Medagoopus?'"

Of course, Isabelle could not really give me a straight answer, but by then I had mostly figured it out for myself. As near as I can deduce it has several meanings for Isabelle, but in general it is a term used to express happiness, surprise and joy. In the jet trail example, for instance, she pointed into the sky and exclaimed, "Oh, medagoopus," as if to say "Look, Mom, how cool!" (why she couldn't just say that, I am not sure, but that just would not be Isabelle, now would it?). As a former English major, I confess I find it rather amusing to see my child experiment with the English language to the point of creating her own fun words and even more entertaining to watch her put it into use. Such as:


"Ooooo Medagoopus!" (pointing out the train chugging down the tracks on the way to preschool one Wednesday morning.)

"medagoopus, medagoopus, medagoopus,medagooopus, medagoopus, medagoopus, medagoopus, medagoopus, medagoopus, etc." (chanted mantra-like under her breath as she plays with her new princess castle from Easter, smiling happily.)

"MEDAGOOOOOOOPUS!!!" (yelled like a Scotsman out of "Braveheart" as she tears across the living room in a run, just to see how fast she can go.)


I seem to recall her having her own unique happy sound when she was younger as well, although sadly what it was is escaping me at the moment (which is exactly why I should write everything down!) but, regardless, I can say for certain my daughter is her own unique being! With all seriousness though I adore Isabelle's childish exuberance and zest and the fact that she is so happy sometimes she actually makes up a word to try and express it.

And she might be on to something. Standing outside my house this past Saturday, filling my lungs with clean spring air and raising my face to the warm sun the word, "Medagoopus" flitted across my brain. Suddenly, I was grinning.

Two and Counting

Well, I for one am happy to eat a little humble pie. Mr. Osgood is looking like his old self in the first two games of the playoffs, displaying none of the wishy-washy goal-tending that was all too often present during the regular season. He was especially wonderful in the game last night where he posted a beautiful shutout against the Columbus Blue Jackets giving the Wings a comfortable two game lead going into their third game on Tuesday night. Yes, this Red Wings fan is very happy, indeed. (Although, it does beg the question of if Chris Osgood can be this fantastic come playoffs then why wasn't he playing better the rest of the season? Does he just need the excitement of the playoffs?)

Nonetheless, I am heartily content with the effort the defense has put forth thus far as well, especially in regards to cutting down on turnovers. And was anyone watching Datsuk and all of the hits he was delivering? Not too bad for a forward, huh? And they say European players won't fight? Now, we just have to stay focused and keep coming at them hard as I do not expect Columbus to just roll over. On to Game Three. Go Wings!

Quest for the Cup

So, it is upon us once more: another glorious Stanley Cup playoff series in which the Red Wings will begin their quest for another title. Watching "Pardon the Interruption" on ESPN the other day, I was somewhat surprised to hear Barry Melrose pick the Wings to repeat and win the Cup (surprised in that Melrose is not typically a huge fan of my beloved team) and because if I am being truthful, my boys have looked like I have felt of late .... slightly off their game. They have lost their last three games, the normally strong defense has been coughing up turnovers, and the goalies? Well, not overly strong either.

Should we be worried?

I think a true Red Wings fan (or any fan for that matter) should always be more supportive then negative, but perhaps a few key points to back up my optimism might help as well:

- Please remember the Red Wings always have a tendency to drop off towards the end of the regular season before picking it up in the playoffs, and a number of them admitted this year they were suffering from a bit of a "Stanley hangover" and found it hard to get going at the beginning of the season as well. (Hossa was a huge lift in that regard).

- In the 2002 season the Wings lost 8 of their last 10 games plus the first 2 in the first round against Vancouver before going on to win the Cup.

- A number of key players were not in the line up and Babcock was even mixing up lines during the last few games, things we will not necessarily see during the playoffs.

- This is the 1st playoff appearance for the Columbus Blue Jackets as a team and their two top players, Rick Nash and goalie, Steve Mason are, likewise, making their Stanley Cup playoff debuts. Can you say nerves, anyone?

- The Wings players combine for 1, 793 playoff games experience to Columbus players 401.

Now, of course, they still have to play the games, and we all know anything can happen in a seven game series. And I do have my points of worry. I would be lying if I did not admit I wasn't somewhat nervous about the goalie situation. Osgood seems to be suffering some crisis of confidence and Conklin is largely untested in the playoffs, so like I said.... I am a little nervous. I also firmly believe that something is going on with my favorite captain Nick Lidstrom. While everything is kept "close to the vest" it was mentioned a few weeks ago very quietly that he had some "minor" injury but no one would get specific and then he was "rested" during the last game of the season. Now anyone who has followed Lidstrom's career at all knows he logs something like a billion minutes of ice time a year (the man never rests .... the guys in the locker room have dubbed him the Super Swede) so I do not think he needs to rest unless something is wrong. I also worry since he has looked slightly less then his normal self on defense and has even lost the puck a few times.

Regardless, I know where I will be tonight. Firmly planted in my chair (just like Holmstrom parking himself in front of Steve Mason ha, ha!) ready to yell at the refs, scream in victory or swear in frustration. How anyone could not adore hockey is beyond my imagination. And for those of you who do not follow the NHL I will try to not turn this into a hockey blog for the duration of the playoffs, but I make no promises! Go Wings!

Keeping the Vomit Vigil

Sooner or later every parent faces it. Powerless, you stand by and watch helplessly as your child embraces the "porcelain god." And, no, I am not talking about the drunken hug you give a toilet after a night of over indulgence on alcohol ( I suppose that might come later, although I hope not. Gulp!) I speak of the younger variety, when your precious tot succumbs to some dread sickness and turns into something that at times reminds you of scenes from "The Exorcist." You know, those times when you put on the hats of both a nurse and a janitor.

Now, Miss Isabelle has, for lack of a better term, "up-chucked" before, but until the other night we have never had multiple sessions. Well, this past Monday I quit counting after about the eighth time. I awoke to a "Mommy" that sounded more like a sob and found my daughter, trembling in her bed, covered in what was left of her dinner and chocolate pudding dessert (How appetizing). Taking her to the bathroom I began the process of decontamination and calming, and then I helped her back to her bedroom, where I took apart the fouled bedding and remade everything. By this time Clay awoke and stumbled across the hall to see what the fuss was about and tucked Isabelle into her rocker with a clean blanket, while I made a quick trip to the laundry room. Ten minutes later and armed with air freshener I had Isabelle, safely tucked back into bed with new pillows, new pajamas, new blankets, and stinky hair pulled back in a ponytail away from her newly washed face. Kissing her goodnight and telling her to try and get some rest, I stumbled back across the hall and fell into bed next to an already snoring Clay. I glanced at the clock to see 1:30 dimly glowing green, and hoped that would be the end of it.

Ten minutes later it happened again.

What followed was a night of Isabelle vomiting roughly every thirty or forty-five minutes with the occasional "other action" thrown in. (Yes, along with bedding and pajamas I also washed some underwear too, poor kid. Ugh.) Being a very neat and clean child she quickly learned to tell when she was going to be sick and would bolt out of her bed and run to the potty in order to, as she would say, "not make a mess."

For a while the simple fear of getting sick had her jumping out of bed every five minutes and getting her to rest was impossible. I finally grabbed a blanket and camped out in the glider rocker in her bedroom, which calmed her down considerably. And when it became clear that sleeping was not going to happen for me I snuck down to the laundry room and threw in the load of soiled bedding at about 3:oo.

By about 3:30 or so Isabelle had it down to a routine as sad as that sounds. It would go something like this: She would be lying in bed semi-sleeping and I would be in the rocker dozing. Suddenly, she would sit up and say, "I'm going to get sick, Mommy," and crawl out of bed and hurry out of the room with me on her heels. In the bathroom she would get sick, me holding her hair (the whole time with me thinking how tiny her little back was as I rub it and how I would love to have a magic wand to make it all go away for her). Afterwards like robots, she would flush the potty, I would hand her a rag to wipe her mouth and a cup for a small sip of water and Isabelle would say "whew, that was a close one, Mommy," and I would ask, "Are you okay, honey?" Then it was back to "our posts." We must have repeated the same scene a dozen times, over and over, each time her collapsing into her bed a little more and falling into a deeper sleep.

Eventually, I moved to the guest room bed, so as not to disturb Clay (who I was attempting to let sleep so he could actually go to work the next day) in a vain attempt to get maybe an hour of solid sleep. At one point I awoke to my fat cat, Nib, curled around my head, purring, Isabelle faintly calling from her bedroom. I felt like I was clawing my way out of a long dark tunnel and glanced at the clock certain I had been sleeping at least a couple of hours. It had been 15 minutes.

In the end, we of course, made it through what seemed like the longest night on record, and Isabelle eventually stopped getting sick, although we spent the whole following day recovering. (me from exhaustion ... her from illness!) Like all kids she bounced back amazingly quick. For our family, it was the sickest Isabelle has ever been (knocking on wood as I write). I thank God daily for how healthy she is because it is so hard to watch your child be in even the smallest bit of discomfort, and not be able to make it better.

At the same time somehow it is also a bonding experience, and will become yet one more of the many memories I store up of when Isabelle was a little girl. As I tucked her into bed one of the numerous times I did that long night she clutched my hand and solemnly said, "Thanks for taking care of me, Mommy." With tears in my eyes, I replied, "I'm your Mom, kiddo. That's my job."

No Words

Sometimes there just are not any words to encompass every emotion running through my body at any given moment. Or perhaps, maybe the problem is there are simply too many. Either way I find myself at a loss ... unable to articulate how I feel.

A wonderful man, who I was lucky enough to be able to call my grandfather, passed away on Saturday. He was jovial. He was full of life. He had a great big smile and an even bigger heart. And he loved my grandmother and brought her so much happiness.

And there are no words to express my love and my gratitude to this man or how much I will miss him. Good-bye Grandpa, I love you.

The Same Tree

I was leaving Isabelle's room the other night, and as I turned to close the door I had to laugh as I watched her perform a little maneuver. First of all, she sleeps with two pillows: one full size and one small, toddler size (what we call her baby pillow). Anyways, she grabs the aforementioned baby pillow and wraps it around her head like a hot dog bun and then turning, collapses down belly first onto her bed and mashes her face into the larger pillow. Basically, all you see is a mound of blankets and pillows and nothing else.

Now this is funny enough by itself, but you need the back story, for this is a long-held Peterson trait and apparently Isabelle is already following it. You see, her father sleeps the same way as does her Uncle Todd. I have long struggled to understand how they manage to breathe, but Clay assures me they put their mouths at the edge of the pillow and do turn their heads to the side as to receive air flow. Having slept next to him for a number of years now, I have grown accustomed to the wall of pillow and blanket that represents the person next to me and based upon the occasional snore rest assured that he is, in fact in there. It is an untaught behavior and one that I thought was unique to the male species of the the Peterson clan as Clay's sister does not engage in "sandwiching her head " while sleeping. (I shall have to investigate further and learn about my nieces and nephews).

Yet, now it appears Miss Isabelle has begun unconsciously adopting the sleeping habit of her Daddy. Clearly, it is only in the beginning stages, as she only does it for a few moments, and I will find her sleeping the rest of the night in many other ways. It is not the only position she falls asleep in, where as for Clay it is the "go to" position for nighttime. (Don't laugh, we all have one.) Oddly enough, way before I was ever pregnant, and I was just dreaming of having a child I pictured one sleeping in a little bed and falling asleep the same way Clay did. I liked the idea of it because I love those amazing little quirks and habits and mannerisms that all unconsciously occur and link families together. They are like invisible vines that twine through all our arms and advertise "See! We are from the same tree!" Now, I am just left to wonder what other quirks she might pick up from Clay.

Chuck that Whine in the Garage

We are into those months here in the U.P. when the winter days start to drag on a bit, the cabin fever sets in some, and every one's patience is wearing a little thin. You would think after coming back from our trip south that I would be rejuvenated, but anyone who has taken a week long "vacation" with a three year old (one that involved three connecting flights. Can you say chaotic?) knows it was not necessarily restful. Fun, yes, but relaxing? Not so much.

Yup, somewhere last Tuesday evening in Detroit Metro Airport when I was chasing after my husband and daughter, who were leaping up an escalator like two gazelles (me trailing behind, lugging our 25lb. carry-on bag, plus Isabelle's lavender child-size backpack) in a desperate attempt to make our last flight for home (we did with about 3 minutes to spare) I lost what was left of .... shall we say, my "chipper attitude." I just got tired. The truth was, my back was killing me, and my feet hurt because I had made the poor choice to wear my favorite pair of boots from Younkers, which while fashionable and easy to put on (a bonus for going through airport security) were not so great when having to sprint like a track star the length of an airport. This combined with undertaking the tender negotiations it took all day to travel with an understandably tired child was taking its toll on my psyche. Like Isabelle, all I really wanted was to be home and in my bed. Thankfully, we did finally get there.

Of course, now a week later we are here, but I am still struggling to regain the aforementioned "chipper attitude." I ran around last week getting everything back in order, doing laundry, putting luggage away, running errands, getting Isabelle back into her schedule, but I just feel..... off. Isabelle is whiny, the weather outside is blah, you turn on the news and well, that isn't exactly bright and cheerful these days, I've got this rash on my skin (yeah, whole separate issue) and I guess it has left me feeling for lack of a better word, cranky. I think, perhaps, I should try an exercise that I have adopted with Isabelle when she gets especially touchy.

Over the weekend Isabelle was doing the whine game. This happens when she basically is somewhat bored and feels Clay and I are not paying enough attention to her. I was fixing my hair in my bathroom after taking my shower and Isabelle was loitering nearby, essentially complaining, frustrated with me for not solely focusing on her at that moment. The whine was escalating to the point where she was going to reach a full on tantrum and in my exasperation I said to her, "Isabelle, why don't you go chuck that whine out in the garage because I do not like it when it comes into your voice. Can you just go get rid of it, please?!"

Well, the kid froze, and I swear you could physically see wheels turning within her head and then all of a sudden she was jogging down the stairs and I heard her cross the kitchen floor, open the door and make a little grunting noise ( I pictured her flinging her little arm into the void of the garage). I heard the door close and her steps coming back toward me up the carpeted stairs.

I met her eyes in the mirror. "Well, did you chuck that whine out?"

"I did, Mommy. I chucked it out," she replied, her voice miraculously devoid of all whine and sounding gloriously cheerful once more. Even more amazing she was now smiling and happy where two seconds ago she was moments away from meltdown status.

"Good. Thank you." I say, calmly smoothing my hair, while inside I am screaming, DAMN! I cannot believe that worked! And why did I not think of that sooner? Afterwards, we went on to find an activity to do together, crisis and meltdown averted.

So, anyway, my point is, maybe I need to take a page out of my own lesson plan and go chuck my crankiness out in the garage. Get over it already. (Course, it might also help if this darn rash would go away.)

This is So Cool!

"Hello, I'm going flying today."
"Look at the airplane!"
"This is so cool!"
"Is it big?"
"Are we gonna get on it?"
"Is it gonna go fast?"
"Is this the runway?"
"Wheeeeee!"
"Mom! Look! Do you see the clouds? Mom! Look! Do you see the lake? Do you see the ice?!"

And, so went the first flight Isabelle took from Escanaba to Detroit. To say she liked it would be an understatement. Upon landing she declared to me that she now knew as much about planes as Papa Bob and and that they were "way cool." I was glad considering we dragged her onto two more connecting flights that day to end up in Gulf Shores, Alabama.

She was a rock star for both flights, buckling her belt, vying for the window seat, grinning like a madwoman when the plane would accelerate down the runway, and waiting for the drink cart to come by so she could snag some juice to drink. I told her it was just like Rocket on the "Little Einsteins" and she loved that idea and said we were blasting off. Not once was she fearful. In fact, I had to laugh at her for when we hit a little turbulence on our way to Atlanta, she was annoyed that her portable DVD player was sliding a little bit on the tray table and wouldn't stay still. Kids twice her age were eyeing their parents when the plane would bump and she was mad cause her movie was bouncing! I taught her to plug her nose and swallow to make her ears pop or to chew some gum when we landed and took off, but by our last flight of the day she was a veteran.

Isabelle also had the third plane in hysterics. Clay was separated from us by several seats and as everyone was getting settled it was all quiet on the plane and Isabelle called out, "How ya doing up there, Daddy?" (Half the plane erupted in laughter. I said to her, I am sure he is fine Isabelle, please use your inside voice as the whole plane heard you) "I was just talking to my fadder, Mom" (more laughter from everyone around us). The whole flight went this way with Isabelle occasionally calling "messages" up to Clay like "I love you" and "we'll come get you when the plane lands." When we were disembarking I heard a lady remark that Isabelle had "made" her flight for her and it went so fast. My three year old, the stand up comedian.

All in all, I am glad it was a good experience for her and a fun one. I can only hope our return flight will go as smoothly!

Out of the Mouths of Babes

We are in the car on Monday morning driving to preschool, and Isabelle, gazing out the window at the sun rising over the frozen expanse of Lake Michigan informs me that the sun is shaped like a circle. When she asks why (a question that is raised .... oh, several thousand times a day), I reply with something along the lines of, "Well, that is the shape suns come in," all the while thinking my brother could probably give her the scientific reason as to why suns and planets and moons, for that matter, are all shaped like orbs.

I am still pondering this and half listening to the radio and juggling several other nonsensical thoughts in my head, while semi-listening to Isabelle in the back seat when she hits me with, "Can planes fly to heaven?"

"No, baby, heaven is way up in the sky and planes cannot fly that high." (Me thinking where is this coming from?)

"How about a spaceship?"

"Nope, not even a spaceship can reach heaven."

"But I miss Great Grandma, and I want to see her, and how do we visit her in heaven?"

Picture me in the driver's seat, giant lump having instantly formed in my throat, still trying to drive the car. Did she really just say that?! "I know, sweetie, I miss her too (my voice breaking as the tears come), but we cannot visit heaven until its our time and God invites us. She knows you love her and miss her and God is taking good care of her."

"Yeah, she got old."

"That's right."

"But I miss her."

"I know. I do too."

"But Great Grandma is with God, and Joseph and Mary and Baby Jesus and she is taking care of them."

"Well, Isabelle, I like to think everyone in heaven takes care of each other, so, yeah."

"Momma, the spaceship car will be landing at preschool shortly, okay?"

"Okay, Isabelle." I wipe the tears off my cheeks with a shaky hand and am shocked to discover I am still driving and more then halfway to my destination. Kids never cease to amaze me with what their minds process and what they say. She, of course, had no idea the power or the effect her little inquiry had over me, but I like to think that if my Grandmother was listening in from up in heaven she had to have been smiling. And I could not help but smile too as I watched Isabelle run into her classroom minutes later, clutching (you guessed it) her new toy airplane for show-and-tell, wondering whether or not she would inform her classmates that planes could not fly to heaven.

Isabelle's First Hunt

We gained a new addition to our household with the start of the New Year. No, I did not fail to mention the arrival of a pregnancy and baby (and do not hold your breath on that one people) .... I am talking Samson. Who is Samson? Well, he would be the latest in the fine dead animals I have gracing my walls. Yes, when you live in the Upper Peninsula and are married to a hunter you learn to accept a few things into your life. One: Rifles will be stockpiled in your house and you will come to view them as no more then exactly what they are, guns to shoot deer with. Two: Bullets and shot gun shells will end up in your washer because they were left in jean pockets, and Three: Dead animals or perhaps, more kindly, mounts will be hanging on the walls of your home. I admit, for a downstate girl this took a little adjustment, but I love Clay, and he loves hunting, and its a package deal.


And, in truth, it has been okay. The mounts are actually beautiful, and despite a few minor protests from Clay, they were given names. (I gotta have some fun, right?) It started with his bear mount, which is a three quarter mount (picture the bear coming out of the wall from about it's midsection, paws slightly raised, head-turned, mouth closed). Anything that huge in your house is quite the presence and sort of demands acknowledgment and a name, so he was dubbed Brutus. Then the first deer Clay had mounted was christened Bucky, obvious and cliche, but there ya have it. Now we have Samson, a very impressive 10 pointer my husband took with his bow this fall. Like his name implies he resonates strength with his well-muscled neck and a few battle scars. The really good part of the story though is from the night Clay shot this particular buck that now resides on my living room wall.


You see, Clay wasn't hunting alone. He was hunting with Isabelle, who let me remind you is three. It was nearing the end of the hunt, so her portable DVD player had used up the last of its batteries and she had finished off the last of her snacks and drink, and the light was starting to fade along with the last of her attention span. Clay informs me that she will sit on the floor of his blind with her head phones on and quietly watch her videos, periodically looking at the does in his bait pile, and for the most part just do her thing, but at that moment in the hunt he had taken her onto his lap and they were watching one or two deer munch in the bait pile when Samson came strolling in from behind his blind. Now I cannot begin to imagine the adrenaline rush Clay must have had or the thoughts coursing through his head during the next several moments, but he told me that he set Isabelle on the floor on her butt, whispered to her to not make a sound (remember she is three!) and got his bow and prepared to aim while this buck came into view. I asked Clay how long he figured it took him to shoot from the time he set Isabelle down, and he estimates less than a minute. I do not doubt he was trying to hurry in order not to risk Isabelle giving them away! I have to believe God was actually watching over Isabelle because if she would have made a sound there is no telling what her Daddy would have done to her!


After Clay shot, it is not clear what the next several minutes were like other than a lot of maneuvering, in order to get both of them out of the blind and onto the ground. Clay said he brought Isabelle down the stairs of his blind first and left her tottering around its base with a flashlight while he went back up to retrieve his bow and some equipment. Afterwards they found the arrow he had shot the deer with and that is when Clay got really excited, for it was well-covered with blood, which while sounding gruesome for you squeamish types is a good thing as it means a good shot and a clean kill. Deciding he did not wish to track the deer through the darkening woods with a three year old, Clay planned to tromp back through the field and call me on his cell phone to come and get Isabelle.


Now picture my dear husband, if you will, who has just shot the largest buck of his hunting career, so needless to say he is a wee bit pumped up. He has his bow and a back-pack and is jabbering away on his cell phone to me, striding down one rut of the two-track road that leads from his blind, barely even conscious of his daughter, who when he does look, is happy as can be, two hands grasped around his large hunting flashlight, hat crammed down over her head and trucking for all she is worth in the other two track trying to keep up with Daddy, but not a whine or complaint coming from her mouth. After Clay got off the phone with me, they reached the Jeep and just had to wait for me to drive out. That is when Isabelle informed Clay that she had to go potty.


Oh, boy. The only problem, of course, was that her little potty was in his deer blind..... way too far away. And now they were in the middle of a hayfield. So, Clay did the only thing he could do. He had her drop her drawers and forming a little "seat" with his arms held her up while she did her stuff. Isabelle handled it all like a great adventure, and Clay thinking that wasn't so bad asked her if she was done to which she replied, "Yes, but now, I have to go poop." Of course. Later, when Clay told me of their "bathroom break" in the field all I could think to say was, "Aren't ya glad I packed wipes in your bag of goodies for her?" Ah, life with a child is never dull, is it? But, then again if she is going to be a hunter and live in the U.P. she needs to now how to pee in the woods, right?

So, that is the tale of the very first time Isabelle went hunting with Clay. He now believes she is sort of a good luck charm and one can kind of understand why. She refers to Sampson as both her and Daddy's buck and did go back out in the blind with Clay several more times during the course of both bow and rifle season. Although it did take us a while to make her understand that you do not shoot a big buck EVERY time you go hunting!