The Writing Mamas Salon - Austin

What's the Deal with the Drains?

2012-01-05T07:15:00.000-08:00

How bad can they be really?

At risk of alienating myself from patients and care-givers looking to carefully plan post-surgery recuperative care, I must say that the following illustrates how I felt when I got home from the hospital after my bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction for Stage 2 invasive breastcancer in January 2009. I was only 39 and my four children were ages 10, 7, 3 and 2.

Obviously, this is a metaphor since I’ve never had such perfectly coiffed hair or pouty bee-stung lips. I also never gave birth to eight babies. What four I did birth was done in the most inefficient manner: one at a time. However, when I got home from the hospital with four Jackson-Pratt drains hanging off me with four children waiting to hang on me some more, I could certainly empathize with *Octomom* Nadya Suleman in some minute way. Of course, my four drains came out after two weeks leaving me with just four hangers-on and she has to keep her octuplets for eighteen years so I certainly think I came out ahead even if I lost the title and she got an acreage of donated diapers.

Perhaps I am being just a bit overdramatic with this comparison. I have been known to use a little hyperbole and exaggeration to make a point in some of the writing I have done over the years to describe my exploits at parenting four high-spirited children. "Surely, the drains cannot be as bad as all that" you may be thinking. I know that I felt similarly when I was forewarned about hot flashes.

I was in my care-free days as an early thirty-something, when two children seemed like a handful and cancer was not yet in my worst nightmares, my mother-in-law would complain profusely about those damned hot-flashes brought forth by the dreaded menopause. She would then in excruciating detail, define the numerous ways she was counteracting them. I tried to be sympathetic with a nod and exclamation “Oh how terrible” and would then subtly roll my eyes thinking, “Oh right! How bad can they be?” You know what? She’s ABSOLUTELY right! Hot flashes are the devil’s curse from Eve’s wiles for which all women now all pay. I know this to be true because I continue to have them day in and day out as a side effect of my anti-estrogen post-cancer pharmacological therapy and they just plain stink. It just goes to show you to not blow off everything your wise mother-in-law tells you.

So while my interpretation here about how it feels to have four clunky tubes and drains protruding from under one's armpits may seem a little over the top, it is true. I also know that most patients don’t have a real sense of how uncomfortable and cumbersome to manage the drains can be when they are first warned about the possibility that they will have them after surgery (if they are told at all.) It’s not that plastic and breast surgeons don’t care about patients after they leave the OR, I think that it because very few of them have personally experienced what it is like to have them. That old saying about walking a mile in another’s shoes is an old saying because of the truth it beholds. I know that my doctors, who I considered the best of the best, were focused first on the matter at hand; removing the cancer and rebuilding a new and improved me. They do care about comfort in recovery but until now, the defacto solution to secure the tubing and drains for most has been the ol' safety pin.

As I prepared for my big day under the knife, my plastic surgeon told me about the commercial availability of post-surgery garments. I was handed a brochure for some I might order but I balked; they were expensive and I just couldn’t bring myself to shell out more than $50 for what seemed to be an extravagant, one-time purchase when I was already buying several button-down shirts, post-surgery bras, and pajamas on top of what promised to be crushing medical expenses for some time to come.

As fortune would have it, right before my surgery, I was blessed to receive a hand-me-down camisole that secured in the front with velcro from an angel with the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls (www.bcrc.org), a support group for young women diagnosed with breast cancer. A volunteer had made it and donated it and this woman wore it after her mastectomy that she had just a few months earlier. I had no idea what was in store for me but she said “Trust me. You will want to have this. Bring it to the hospital so you can put your drains in the pocket. The hospital won’t have anything with pockets for your drains. They will have to use (groan) safety pins.” We were in a restaurant parking lot in NW Austin and I felt as if we were conducting some covert op. She was a complete stranger but our diagnosis in common brought me this life-altering garment that I now refer to as ‘the prototype’. It served as my inspiration for an affordable and easy-to- use pocket for patients to easily and instantly stick on the garments that they either already owned or had purchased for the days following a mastectomy or breast surgery. I know that the big comfort these small pockets provided saved my sanity in a world punctured by pain pills, wound dressings, useless limbs, and the prospect of chemo and imminent hair loss. I want everyone facing such an uphill climb to have an easy and affordable way to recover to face the next summit.

It’s no small thing to start a business after recovering from a cancer diagnosis and certainly not when you have a household of four busy children to manage and a husband who travels for work. I’m the chauffeur, cook, laundry slave, dog walker, cat-box-changer, and all-around-logistics guru despite having much of my brain cells compromised by chemo and early-onset menopause. What keeps me going on this entrepreneurial adventure most days is the common refrain from breast cancer survivors who, upon learning about Pink Pockets, exclaim “Wow! What a great idea! I wish I had them when I had my surgery. The drains are the worst!” I am also especially encouraged when a past customer purchases them for another loved-one facing the same diagnosis because they know that Pink Pockets will help in their recovery. That, to me, is the ultimate testimonial.

A cancer diagnosis can spin the trajectory of one’s life in a completely different direction and I have met an amazing number of women and men like me who have been motivated to serve in this ‘space’ in either a non-profit endeavor or various others-centered projects. It is really amazing the number of ways that one can find to give back or pay-it-forward and that has been one of the best parts of my life after cancer: seeing the ingenuity and selfless efforts put forth in the hope for a cure and better treatments. One wise woman I met who started an incredible non-profit remarked that Pink Pockets are a great invention. “You will never get rich with them” she predicted and she may be right but that isn’t thepoint. While I am humbled every day about what I don’t know about starting and running a business, what I do know is this: Pink Pockets have been shipped all across the US, Canada, UK, Australia, and Trinidad and have served in a teeny, tiny way to help someone at what might likely be the worst time of their life. Perspective is everything after a cancer diagnosis. It’s not a cure. It’s not a treatment. It’s just a pocket but sometimes it is the small comforts that can make the greatest difference.

Diane, Creator of Pink Pockets

"It isn't what you have in your pocket that matters but what you have in your heart." Author Unknown

Dog Days of Summer

2011-08-02T17:41:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a good idea at the time:

1. Getting a dog

2. Having shaving cream ‘summer fun daze’ on the trampoline

3. Allowing a raccoon carcass to bake in the back yard’s 100+ degree Texas heat as buzzard bait in a failed ‘Witness the Magnificent Food Chain!’ biology lesson for the kids

4. Leaving the dog in the back yard (see #3)

5. Starting a business

The dog thing, I can (kind of) explain.

We’ve always been cat people but Travis has been hounding me since he first saw the picture that ‘came with the frame’ of a little blonde boy and a giant golden lab smiling cheerfully in a Father’s Knows Best mirage of family bliss. He had been fantasizing about a Lassie relationship since he could walk and well, a breast cancer diagnosis can cause the ‘life is short’ mantra to be misapplied sometimes. Woefully so, I’m finding. Forget that now – when told on punishment of death or no screens for a week that he MUST walk the dog, we are met with the hostility and cold stare only a 10-year-old can muster.

Starting a business, on the other hand, with no time, no money, and absolutely no experience should have been the siren cry for my friends and family to wave the checkered flag saying “Whoa, lady, you have enough on your plate! Might want to rethink this!” Starting a business in this day and age is no small thing, whether it is an internet e-commerce startup or a mortar-and-bricks manufacturing enterprise or even a kiosk at the local mall, it really can only compare to raising a child. Thankless, back breaking work (especially in the early years of childhood) and endless worries in good health and poor. Why would anyone ever procreate or start a business, I now ask? My office and house is a disaster. As a mother of four and a new business owner, I am a walking cautionary tale.

“Gee, you really know how to make things hard on yourself.” These were the encouraging words of my twin sister, Denise, upon hearing the news that I was pregnant with my third child. Travis (#2) had gotten out of diapers only six months earlier. You should have heard what Denise said when I told her I was pregnant with Caroline (#4) when Sabrina (#3) was only 5 months old.
There’s something about the truth though, that gets under your skin. She’s right. I do this to myself over and over again. I must have been out of my freaking mind to think I could start and grow a business in the summer months when all four of my children were underfoot, bickering, and asking hounding me about their next meal (ramen noodles and bananas).

It seemed like a good idea at the time to capitalize on a breast cancer diagnosis with a new, innovative creation that would solve a problem that has been vexing mastectomy patients for years. Make lemonade out of lemons. I love every time I get a new order for my ‘Pink Pockets’ patient pockets to hold drains and the testimonials from my customers warm my heart. And it’s not just because I am making money because I am not. I am awash in an industry of competing non-profits who pay themselves first – donation money, whatever there is, goes to the ‘administration of the nonprofit first’ and what is left over, goes to beneficiaries of the charity. I actually recently had a person accuse me of 'profiteering on the misery of others' because I'm selling my invention rather than giving it away.

When you are a for-profit endeavor – you pay yourself LAST – until you can generate a profit or go out of business. Or lose your sanity, whichever comes first. I’m sorry to say that there are a few (not all) non-profits in this space that give tireless effort to cure breast cancer or other diseases a bad name. Beware the cancer carpetbaggers preying on the great generosity of the US citizen. They are the exception to the rule to be sure but they are still among us nonetheless.

I drive my 13-year-old daughter to and from swim team every day and I’m always encouraged as I make this hour round trip at all the small businesses I pass along the way. Storefronts and vehicles with small company names painted on the side. I point them out and am encouraged by the fortitude and hard work I know now has gone into the life’s blood of the people I don’t know that have scrimped and saved or loaned and risked to make and grow a business. It’s a really humbling experience to dive into the unknown and most days, what I am learning about sales tax remittance and SEO and product packaging makes me feel dumber rather than smarter, which is not a great confidence builder at my age.

When I’m feeling my lowest, though, I just recall a conversation I had with my husband a few years back. We were talking about me taking a new job and what resume-speak phrases I ought to avoid and what experiences to highlight when our daughter Sabrina, then 4, asked what we were discussing. I told her that I was thinking about taking a new job and she said to me “But Mom, you already have a job. You take care of us.” I just need to remember that whatever happens, being a mom really is my most important job and I’ll have it the rest of my life. Who knows where and how long my job as President and Founder of Surgical Drain Solutions, LLC will last but I’ll always be Mom-In-Chief (to quote First Lady Michelle) to Danielle, Travis, Sabrina, and Caroline. While I’ll never get paid for this work, the return on investment is too great to measure. And the dog? Well, I guess she can stay as long as she continues to earn her keep scaring away solicitors and ding-dong-ditchers. Her bark, like mine, is definitely worse than her bite.

Pink Pockets are THE Hands-free solution for mastectomy patients! Pink Pockets are mastectomy drain holders proven to help patients recover in comfort after surgery.

www.pink-pockets.com to order and for more information!

Holiday in Spider Country

2010-07-02T10:28:00.000-07:00

I had a visitor in my shower this morning. I don’t have as much hair as I once did so my morning routine is much abbreviated and this morning I made the record for shampooing and rinsing. I didn’t even repeat. The Green Police would have awarded me a golden hemp star. I spy with my little eye a spider flying high.

We’re up here in Spider Country for our summer respite visiting the grand rents and cousins. Growing up, we not-so-affectionately dubbed this town ‘Coma and things have not changed much in the 20+ years since I’ve been gone. I’m ok with that now though because any time I get away from the laundry and chores of home rates high on my vacation reviews. Plus, the temperatures are 40 degrees cooler here. I actually get to wear jeans and a sweatshirt for a week in June, something we don’t usually get to experience until late October in Austin.

Texas is hands down the winner of ‘Places with the Nastiest Critters’. From scorpions to tarantulas to snakes, cicadas, centipedes and man-size cockroaches, I have encountered all of them at some point. I have learned to adapt to my environment – keep a big shoe handy and call your husband for the especially nasty chores like removing the dead rat from under the kitchen table at 2AM. Even Tom admitted “It was a big one.”

I still get a little squirmy though when it comes to the common brown house spider. We don’t have these down south, so when I visit Washington, I have to ready myself for the unexpected. Our family downstairs den has been christened ‘The Spider Room’ for all the arachnids that met their maker over the years at the hands of my courageous mother. Even my kids refer to it in this way although the furnishings and piles of crap under which you could find so many of these eight-legged horrors are long gone.

I have only in the wisdom of adulthood come to appreciate that these creatures are actually our friend. They keep the house clean of other smaller pests and they will keep their distance if I keep mine. They still creep me out. They hide in folds of draperies, small cracks in the baseboards, even in bedding. They do not bite but if you wake to find one staring down at you from the ceiling, you will lose ten years of your life guaranteed. They are thirsty creatures and come to places with water. I vividly recall making a late night trip to the bathroom to fill a drinking glass of water. A big fat one was crouched in the sink rousing me and the entire household with my screams of bloody murder. I even developed hives from this encounter.

“Big Baby!” I believe is the name I have earned for my reactions. My sister is even worse than me though. Even in our 40’s, we will still call our mother to come “Kill the Spider!” I am now the defender of the family against such harm – the problem is – the kids never find the nasties first. I do. It was me who discovered the six foot snake in the garage, the pervasive possum, the rats, and, of course, the numerous lizards – live and decapitated – over the years. Thank heavens my children are not the least bit uncomfortable handling these freeloader and giving them the broom – or the boot – out the door.

We’re headed to the Washington beaches for the remainder of our vacation and Fourth of July holiday (and Danielle’s 12th birthday) away from Spider Country. I hope I will sleep a bit better and deeper. I always keep a glass of water by my bed as I get very thirsty during the night. In the house I grew up in, you always had to put your fingers down into the glass before drinking because the spiders tend to crawl down inside looking for a free drink. This I learned the hard way.

May you and your family have a wonderful 4th of July celebration in the best country on this planet – even with our friend, the spider.

The Marine Massacre - Part Deux.

2010-06-23T06:13:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I killed the fish. Again. Ladies (and men - be forewarned), this is what happens when menopause hits.

Texas Rain

2010-06-05T14:07:00.001-07:00

“School’s out for summer….” I didn’t realize this was an Alice Cooper song as I tool around my house humming it under my breath in great anticipation for what is in store for us these next several months. I’m banging my head a bit as I try to clear the decks in anticipation for having two more bodies along with their clutter underfoot. With four kids in the house, there is always evidence of chaos in every room. Try as I might to be a clean-as-you-go person, I get overwhelmed as soon as I put the last load of laundry away. Then it’s on to my office, a bona fide disaster area. Now I know where Danielle get’s her piggy tendencies. I tried to blame it on her father, but looking around at the piles of admin, I must confess it is from me.

Like January 1st and a fresh set of New Year’s Resolutions, I meet the first day of summer with a load of things for the kids to do which will both benefit them and reflect keenly on me as an organized and dutiful mother. Chore charts, activity lists, maximum hours per day of screen time, organized camps and family vacation time round out the calendar. Trips to the library to get the classics and special science and geography lessons will slow the softening of the brain. I believe I have crafted a balanced web between being overscheduled and underutilized time for we all know what that leads to. It begins with the “Mom, I’m bored!” chorus which leads to sibling bickering which leads to blows which leads to mother roaring at the kids and sentencing them to solitary confinement as I make my own retreat to the liquor cabinet.

I hope I last longer than the kids in the adherence to the strictly laid rules and standards. The drive for allowance money for more treasures usually starts to wane after two weeks, which is generous. It’s actually more like one week when the tedium of manual labor sets in. Of course, a good fever virus or case of head lice can completely upend our routine. We had both today, for example, as Sabrina snoozed on the couch in a Benydryl and Motrin coma, I spied a vermin sneaking through Caroline’s hair. BUGGER! I don’t have the time or the will to comb through Kiki’s hair nor the staying power to get her to sit for duration of a painstaking nit bomb. Danielle had a case of nits a few weeks ago and I thought we had been thorough in the eradication of this pest. I was wrong.

I ran to the store cursing the cursed and wondering why this was happening to me again. We have not had a case of head lice since Danielle was in kindergarten more than 6 years ago. Then her case erupted the day before I was having surgery to reconstruct my reconstruction. Tonight, Tom and I are headed to what promises to be a very fun grown-up party right in the hood. Of course , one never plans to have this kind of thing happen but what stinky timing. Am I being punished for neglecting my children while blogging or trying to figure out what is the allure of Twitter really? Is this a wake-up call to renew my laser like focus on kids kids kids?Perhaps.

I’m enjoying a little me time blogging therapy as I recharge and get ready for round two – dinner, a vigorous comb-out, and an attempt to work a little magic on my own hair. Caroline says ‘I like your clown hair, Mommy.” Last year at this time, I had no hair, so I’m trying to keep perspective on this latest curve ball over my home plate. We all get them, in different shapes and sizes, but it’s better to strike out swinging than watching the ball go by. Even in Texas, it rains a little.

Enjoy your summer – I know we will.

Why I don't Home School My Children

2010-05-26T07:17:00.000-07:00

This was last week's biology lesson ....

My Favorite Movie Quotes

2010-04-26T08:09:00.000-07:00

You know, a girl with a hat is just so ... Whew. So Vogue.

Farmer Ted, Sixteen Candles (1984)

My native Texans by Diane LeBleu

2010-04-15T09:23:00.001-07:00

I must say as to what I have seen of Texas, it is the garden spot of the world,
the best land and the best prospects for health I ever saw, and I do believe it is
a fortune to any man to come here - Alamo hero Davey Crockett

Message to our Congress:

2010-03-19T06:39:00.000-07:00

Let's work together to improve our health care system.

Yes, Travis, you may have a dog.

2010-01-10T19:41:00.000-08:00

Travis and Lily, January 10, 2010

Original post, April 2008

"Do you know how many ways there are to say no without saying no? I do." This is one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books, “I Don’t Know How She Does It’ by Allison Pearson. I love fictional Kate Reddy’s struggles with career and family in some very familiar real life scenarios. In this case, Kate is describing her experience of dealing with the fact that she will not be putting her five-year-old daughter Emily to bed (again) that evening and trying not to disappoint her (again) for the absences Kate’s demanding career were having on the family. In my case, my desire to say no but also to not disappoint is related to the decision of taking a family pet. You see, my son wants a dog.

There are so many reasons to say no to this request. First, we are a family of two adults and four children and a cat. We have enough mouths to feed as it is and with our astronomical grocery bill being what it is today, we may all soon be eating dog food. Second, there is not enough time in the day already to tend to the needs of the human inhabitants of our home much less the furry four-legged critters. Our cat, Maggie, is the sweetest, most tolerant cat on the planet. Frankly, I do not know why she sticks around. She is mauled by my toddler and is only fed when my three year old remembers to dump out her food that I have to hide in the laundry room behind the door (so she can eat a meal in peace away from my none-too-gentle toddler). Most days, she subscribes to the fend-for-yourself meal ideology we have at our house – she brings in lizards (dead and alive), birds (dead and alive), mice, butterflies, cicadas, and who knows what else. Her favorite place to play and eat is under our dining room table. We have a dark carpet there that allows her to hide her recent kill without too much notice. Before every major holiday, we have to do a carcass sweep so as not to offend visiting guests. Which brings me to my third point, I’m not much of a housekeeper, obviously, and having dog hair, dog smell, dog footprints on my white tile floor would most certainly put me over the edge of this fine balance I am trying to maintain as a modicum of clean in my home.

There is part of me that wants to say yes to my son’s desire for a dog. He is the sweetest, most sensitive little boy I know and I know he would take good care of a dog and play with it (when he is not at school or at friends homes, or at baseball, football, swim practice). He is also the only boy in the middle of three sisters and is completely out numbered – a dog for Travis might make up for some of the estrogen that threatens to overwhelm our house some days. Travis brings home his journal from school weekly for me to add a response to his entries. So far, he has asked for a dog, a hamster, a fish, and a ferret. I have to keep saying no and I fear one of these days I will cave and we may end up with ….. a parrot?

Whenever I have a moment of weakness, however, all I have to do is stick my head out my door to see the dog walkers out at 5am with a leash and a poop bag and then I have my resolve back. I am just a few months away from getting my last baby out of diapers and the last thing I want to do is to start scooping poop off the sidewalk at all hours of the morning or night. My son insists that this would be his job but I am an old, wise woman of 38 and I know how the world works when it comes to kids and pets. Moms gets a majority of the tasks related to pet maintenance
and right now my ‘to do’ list is full.

My son came into my bedroom, which doubles as a home office for me and my husband. When we first moved into our five bedroom house, we had one child with another on the way. We wondered how we would fill the space of our house. Like too much closet space attracting clutter, we were able to fill all the bedrooms of our home with children and now have to make use of our master suite to house two desks, computers and printers, and files cabinets. I had a photo frame sitting on the floor (an incomplete dusting project) and Travis picked it up. There is a little blonde boy with blue eyes and a cowboy hat holding a golden retriever puppy. Travis was pestering me – who is this boy? Who is this dog – they are so cute! I told him laughingly, ‘It came with the frame’. He keeps this empty photo frame by his bed so every night he can see the happy boy with his pet dog – an unfulfilled dream for now.

When Travis asks about a dog, my current response is “Let’s talk about it tomorrow” and that usually does the trick. Travis is starting to learn about follow-up, though, so I will soon need to change my tactic and say no without saying no. We are not a dog family – never had one, never wanted one, but who knows, that may some day change. When we adopted our cats from a local PetCo several years ago, I recall calling my husband as I was looking at this darling duo of brother and sister kittens. I told my husband then “Talk me out of taking these kitties home.” Tom was unsuccessful at saying no to me then – perhaps Travis is taking his request to the wrong parent!

Peace of the Season to You! by Diane LeBleu

2009-12-13T07:26:00.000-08:00

Aren’t they sweet? Hard to believe that only moments before the agonizing annual event that we know in our home to be ‘sit for the Christmas pic’ there was bickering, shouting, missing shoes, muddy shoes on the clean floor, discarded bows from perfectly coiffed hair, tears (Sabrina’s) and chest pains (mine). Why why why do I do this to myself every year? And the photo always looks the same – us smiling in front of the same Christmas tree, decorated with the same ornaments, since we bought it eleven years ago. We should just Photoshop a new head on the same body template and call it a day. It would save everyone an afternoon of absolute misery.

I recall my sister telling me upon my announcement of my pregnancy with our third child ‘Wow! You really know how to make things hard for yourself’ or something along those lines. Travis was three at the time, out of diapers, and things were starting to get a little easier on the child front. And we were going to be starting over again in the spring. Diapers, bottles, sleepless nights. You can’t imagine how she reacted to the news about our fourth child.

Perhaps she was on to something. Perhaps I need to more often seek the path of least resistance. I just started back to work pursing a career as an insurance and financial professional. I cannot use the term ‘Financial Advisor’ until I am properly licensed having passed the Series 7 securities exam. Until then, I am to use the vague term ‘Insurance and Financial Professional’ which really means I assist individuals and business owners in meeting their financial goals through risk management (using insurance products) and planning strategies for events like college or retirement. As I said, I am just getting started in a business that is entirely commission-based. Which means, I am working hard, hemorrhaging money (for child care, business start up expenses, additional valium) and getting no pay. I know that this type of work is extremely difficult in the early years and that I am paying my dues. That if I continue with this, making a name for my services and slowly building a sound client base, this will be a good career. I know this academically, but it is hard on the wallet and the family, as I am the household manager in addition to my numerous other roles. I don’t want to fail with a casual ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time’ but I also don’t want to kill myself over a job. I already had something trying to do just that this year.

I am working on my marketing plan, my tag line, my ‘ideal referral’ as I boldly go forward in this new enterprise. I have the complete backing of my husband who is growing weary of my daily doubts. My own Yoda tells me ‘Do or Do Not! There is no try!” And he’s right, or course. Anything worth doing is worth doing well. And if this profession were easy, everyone would do it. The bottom line is, as I have come to realize over the course of my many years of professional dabbling (Bus/IT consulting, bookkeeper, lawyer’s assistant, spouse of business owner, marketing and practice support for high-net worth financial advisors, and of course, SAHM), I have found these truths about myself. I love helping others achieve their objectives with my knowledge and experience in all capacities. I’m a planner, bringing multi-tasking and work effectiveness to a new level. I love order – wanting everything in it’s place – so one doesn’t have to worry about so many things so one can enjoy the real joys of life – family and friends. I appreciate the value of a plan – things just don’t happen without one. I recognize the value of insuring your family against the worst. It will not prevent bad things from happening, but it will cushion the blow. Tom’s mother lost her husband, Tom’s father in a tragic accident that claimed his life when Tom was only five. Because he had put his family first, had enough life insurance to take care of his family so that they could continue to live as they were accustomed, they were able to go on. I know personally that cancer happens – even in people in their 30’s. Maybe my tag line will be something along these lines ‘Putting families first. Don’t be paranoid. Instead, be prepared.’ I also love to write and marketing my skills and services through a variety of channels will challenge me in new ways to creatively craft compelling thoughts and messages.

We are planning to enjoy a quiet holiday this year. Just our small family to spend Christmas and New Year's enjoying each other’s company. Bickering, shouting, annoyed at Danielle’s constant flute playing, but at peace in the love and support we all have of each other. God bless you and have a wonderful holiday season!

Life Goes On by Diane LeBleu

2009-12-03T19:27:00.000-08:00

December 3, 2009
Today is the first anniversary of the words delivered to me from my OB/GYN Dr. Stephanie Reich regarding my breast biopsy performed on December 1, 2008. “This is cancer” she told me.

My first reaction was ‘I KNEW IT!’ but one doesn’t get an A for intuition in this class. The doctor that performed the biopsy had told me casually ‘This doesn’t look like cancer’ when he was performing the ultrasound guided core needle biopsy. Thanks for the false comfort pal. All that seems like a lifetime ago and indeed it is.

I am embarking on a new career with new hair, new boobs, and an old work wardrobe that I can thankfully still fit into after more than eleven years and four children. My days are crazy – there are 10,000 balls in the air with several dropping beside, behind, and front of me but my problem solving skills and adaptability have never been greater, despite six months of chemo. I am, as Natasha Bedingfield writes in her song ‘Unwritten’ living my life with arms wide open. Instead of cursing the hot flashes, I now use the time it takes for them to peak in a pool of cold sweat to pray – giving thanks to God for all the blessings he has bestowed upon me and asking for guidance to use what I have experienced to serve others.

I recently met with Bill Bastas, photographer and author of the book ‘The Smile Never Fades’ (www.thesmileneverfades.com) to tell him about my new career – bringing life insurance and financial planning assistance to breast cancer survivors and their families and he was very enthusiastic about helping me, as he had lost his own wife to breast cancer several years before. He commented that I have a lightness about my personality – a spirited aspect that is both hopeful and positive to be around. I told him it comes from the realization that every day is a gift. Silently, he nodded his assent.

Caroline and Maggie by Diane LeBleu

2009-11-17T18:02:00.001-08:00

"Time spent with cats is never wasted." Sigmund Freud

Hopeless? by Diane LeBleu

2009-10-18T17:04:00.000-07:00

This is not a political blog – I try to stick to the Writing Mamas tag line “When you become a mother, you’ve got a lot to write about’. That seems to provide enough fodder to keep me going until mid-century. Today I digress somewhat, finding an observation worth noting. Let me say this about my political predisposition and that will be all: I hate big government with the white hot passion of a thousand suns. I find our world completely overrun with bureaucrats that have no accountability to their constituents. There is gross malfeasance (on both sides) but particularly those who want to tax and spend their way to ascertain a political legacy, whatever the results.

I am terrified of what kind of future my children will likely face due to the lack of stewardship and reckless spending going on in Washington. I fear for my daughters, who may inherit my breast cancer genetic mutation, knowing that in countries with socialized medicine, there is absolutely no technological and medical innovation. I fear for the kind of treatment they would receive if indeed they do contract this disease under a system of rationalized care. My husband and I fear what will happen to our children upon graduation from college (for which we will have worked endless hours to be able to afford to send them) when the unemployment rate for all citizens under the age of 25 is currently 50 percent. I fear for our own retirement, having been born under the demographically bad sign of ‘Gen X’. We follow the Boomers who will have busted the ‘social insurance’ bank upon their retirement.

Hopeless, that is what I feel most days. I don’t read the newspaper anymore – too depressing. And manufactured news. Propaganda for this administration. I alternate between a rabid need to ‘do something’ to a disabling sense of dread at what is coming down the road, as my voice is only one. I am a political nobody. My vote doesn’t matter. I feel like taking the advice my husband and I often sarcastically offer to those anti-American, anti-globalization anarchists that we see so often on the news. “Don’t like it here – there are probably a billion people on this planet that would take your place in a minute. Just move!” But where would we move? Still in my heart, I know this is the best country on the planet and it breaks my heart to see it taken to its knees in a matter of 10 short months. There is no country that has the talent, ingenuity, work-ethic, values, and business and political know-how as ours. Our country’s short-lived existence is a miracle. And those Representatives (or as they see themselves – our Rulers) in Washington DC are thumbing their nose at the Constitution daily. The dual feelings of rage and dread cannot be assuaged – it’s hopeless.

Except for today. After my eight-year-old son’s Pop Warner football game, the players and spectators were filing out of the stadium as the new players and spectators were coursing in for the next match. It was a noisy interchange for the victorious team and the heartfelt disappointment of the losing one. The anticipation by the parents and friends of the new teams created a cacophony of voices and bustle. I was starting to speak to one of my son’s coaches as we heard the National Anthem start up over the loudspeaker. He stopped mid-sentence in respect and looked over my shoulder. I turned to face the flag, waving gently in the blue fall Texas sky. Immediately a hush came over the crowd and my four-year-old daughter Sabrina put her hand over her heart and turned to face the flag without my prodding.

As the strains of the Star Spangled Banner played for a silent, reverent crowd, I felt myself get a little teary, and I’m not a crier. While this country is polarized over many issues, we can still come together in respect and honor for our flag, our democracy, our country, our freedom. Texas is, of course, a conservative state but Austin is a liberal bastion in an otherwise red state. We don’t often hear conservative viewpoints represented in our local media but for a moment today, we were all in synch, standing shoulder to shoulder on a warm October morning, united in our love for our children and our football. For a moment this morning, I felt something I hadn’t felt in some time – hopeful.

Burping the Chillow by Diane LeBleu

2009-10-07T12:43:00.000-07:00

It’s an afternoon in early October and I find myself at the kitchen sink burping the Chillow ®. Last year at this time, I was consumed with the usual ‘What will the kids be for Halloween?’ dilemma but now that I see the world through pink tinted glasses, I celebrate this month like many others around the nation in commemoration for all those who have had and will have breast cancer at some point in their lives. In my life.

I’ve lived several lifetimes since my diagnosis last December. Surgery, chemotherapy, lost my hair, gave up my ovaries but gained some fantastic new boobs. I managed to do the chemo without a portacath, making good use of my man-size veins for the first time so unless you take a good look at the delicate scar under my right armpit, there’s not much to tell the casual observer that I had breast cancer this past year. Indeed, strangers are now complimenting me on my new, chic hair style. I had been hearing this from close friends since the time I mustered enough courage to de-wig and de-hat but figured it was just those sweet white-lies of well-meaning encouragers. So with the exception of a much shorter, darker, and wavier hair-do, I look and feel pretty much like I did ten short months ago. Unless you count the hot flashes.

Years ago, my mother-in-law complained endlessly, in colorful detail about the cursed hot flashes and night sweats that ruined her sleep and wrecked her sunny outlook on life. I recall discreetly rolling my eyes and silently dismissing her rants with ‘Oh come on. How bad can they be?’ Even my twin sister didn’t get much empathy from me, as she fanned herself and bowed down to the woes of early onset menopause as a result of cancer treatment. Now it is my turn to flash and burn, suffering in silence, trying to get on with my new post-cancer life as best as I can.

I feel a freedom in my new identity because I can blend into the crowd once again. I am no longer the subject of curious children wondering what happened to my hair or concerned friends and neighbors wondering how I am feeling today. I can choose to talk about my experience or not. It’s up to me. Life has gone on.

I recently attended a meeting of my MOPS group (aka Mothers on Prozac but more correctly named Mothers of Preschoolers). I confessed to my new friends my recent history of breast cancer and upcoming oophoroectomy (that’s ovary removal to the layman) and our group’s ‘Mentor Mom’ advised me about the Chillow ® . ‘My sister swears by it!’ she wisely declared. Never heard of it. Hmmm.

Thank God for the internet and search engines because I found the Chillow ® (a chilled pillow) as a practical solution to my evenings of hot again/off again spells. I ordered one up and it was delivered to my doorstep within 3 days. It’s a foam-filled pillow-like device that you fill with water then massage the air out, like the back of a gassy baby, and sleep on, covered with a pillowcase, for a night of cool, peaceful slumber. I’m hooked. I count the hours until I can cocoon myself within it’s chilling calm.

I’ve found that some people don’t like to share their experience with cancer. They just want to do their time and get on with their life. Last month, I attended an event in Austin, TX titled ‘The Many Faces of Breast Cancer’, a national program educating and celebrating breast cancer survivors sponsored by AstraZeneca and local cancer service providers. A woman asked the speaker’s panel , composed of a renowned breast surgeon and oncologist, what she could do to serve her sister who was ‘in denial’ about her breast cancer. This woman tearfully confessed her desire to serve her sister but that she had not been afforded any opportunity. Her sister had shut her down, shut her out, and didn’t want to talk about or deal with her disease other than the doing her treatment regimen proscribed by her doctors. And that’s her prerogative.

But for the rest of the evening, a number of breast cancer survivors addressed this woman and provided a multitude of ideas about how she could listen to, respond to, and be available to the needs of the sister she loved as she battled this horrendous disease. Sometimes it is a matter of taking a deep breath and letting it all out. To suffer in silence may seem brave and selfless, but one might be denying oneself some great wisdom and useful advice. If I hadn’t been willing to share my story with my parenting support group, I would have missed out on the timely advice that has allowed me to sleep a little easier.

By the way, I love my new hot-flash remedy, as do all four of my children. Check out my next post, titled ‘Defending the Chillow ® ’.

You Go Girl! by Diane LeBleu

2009-09-19T08:38:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was the last of my surgeries related to my cancer experience – an oophorectomy . Great word, meaning ovary removal, so obscure that MS Spell Check doesn’t even recognize it. Not a bad procedure, laparoscopic day surgery, so by the time I was out of recovery into my little hospital POD, I was ready to go. With one exception. They wouldn’t let me leave until I had peed – ostensibly to ensure the surgeon hadn’t nicked anything important on the way to the fallopian tubes and ovaries. Anyone that knows me understands that under all other circumstances this would not be a problem. My most frequented room in the house is the bathroom. The ‘running’ joke around here is that my twin and I split one bladder between us. Combine that with having had four babies and drinking way too much beer in college, my bladder has been compromised. So when the nurse said “As soon as you void, you can leave”. No worries I replied confidently. Unfortunately, I was mistaken and no amount of coaxing was going to get me moving.

So as I sat in the can, my feet submerged in a pink plastic tub of warm water, a cup of hot coffee in one hand and the Marketplace section of the WSJ in the other, I had a lot of time to contemplate the many events that had transpired this last year. Bilateral mastectomy, reconstructive breast surgery, chemotherapy, followed by a triumphant trip to Cozumel with my twin and our husbands to celebrate our 40th birthday. I began to assemble a list in my head of all the people that had prayed, encouraged, called and helped this year in my battle and I quickly became overwhelmed. Like an Oscar-winning starlet with too many people to thank in her acceptance speech, I need to at least try to acknowledge some of the contributions, if not to assure myself that in a world of so much senseless violence and political strife – people really are generous, kind, and selfless.

Starting with God and his grace and mercy to give me the power of the Holy Spirit to walk by my side throughout this hellish ordeal and the countless angels that served me day in and day out including my husband of sixteen years, with his strength of spirit and ‘let’s dodge this next wrench’ attitude, my sweet children, without whom I might have succumbed to self-despair had their need for routine not outweighed my desire to sit around and feel sorry for myself, my mom and dad for their love and financial assistance, my sister for being a mentor and inspiration, as a 6-year-survivor, my in-laws for their tireless efforts to provide support and the most current medical information for treatment and healing, for my best friend Holly and her creative idea to form a ‘ChemoFairy’ network despite her being in Budapest, for Cici and her husband Harry in their constant prayers (I felt them every day), for Maggie and her family driving down from Virginia twice for both post-surgery support and to mind the kids while we went to Mexico, for all the neighbors and friends who provided meals and housekeeping and childcare. For the Football team, our extended family, for the teachers and counselors at River Place Elementary. Thanks for our church home, Austin Christian Fellowship and our 242 group. My writing mentor, Dawn Yun of the original Writing Mamas Salon (www.writingmamas.com) without whom I would never had recognized my passion and need to write. For my own Writing Mamas of Austin who I thoroughly look forward to seeing and commiserating with in our shared love of word craft. For the consistently fine care I received from surgeon to nurse to lab technician at virtually every medical center or doctor’s office this past year.

I’m totally ripping off my new friend and author Valerie Hausladen of ‘Professional Destiny – Discover the Career You Were Born For’ when I quote the following Sufi poem, attributed to Hazrat Inayat Khan:

I asked for strength and God gave me difficulties to make me strong
I asked for wisdom and God gave me problems to learn to solve
I asked for prosperity and God gave me a brain and brawn to work
I asked for courage and God gave me dangers to overcome
I asked for love and God gave me people to help
I asked for favours and God gave me opportunities
I received nothing I wanted
I received everything I needed.

I certainly did not ask for cancer but I received more love and encouragement than I could possibly have fathomed when I first heard the news on December 3rd, 2008 “This is cancer.” When I look at all I have in my life, I can never say I have not been blessed nor have my prayers been unanswered.

I recently read a book about British explorer Percy H. Fawcett and his adventures battling the Amazon basin in his famously unsuccessful quest to find the lost city of El Dorado in the 1920s. He wore a signet ring bearing is family motto ‘Nee Aspira Terrent’ or ‘Difficulties be Damned’. I love the idea of a family motto – a collective mission statement to inspire and rally the troops. My favorites, including Fawcett’s and William Borden’s ‘No Reserves, No Retreats, No Regrets’ and Yoda’s ‘Do or Do Not – there is No Try’ are obviously already taken so I’m onto a new theme. Perhaps it will be ‘Quit ‘effing around’. Too crass. Or ‘Tomorrow is another Day’. Too Scarlett O’Hara.

My dear friend Holly told me once that our pastor Will Davis, Jr. will pray for small things – like for God to show him where he left his car keys or misplaced his wallet and we always get a chuckle out of that but Will says God wants to be involved in the every day details of our life. So as I was sitting in the Seton Hospital bathroom, feeling ill, hurting, and just wanting to go home, I prayed that God would just let me pee so I could leave. Guess what happened next? Therefore, I’m officially deciding on the family motto of ‘You Go Girl!’ Sorry Tom and Travis – you’ll have to come up with a male version of the same.

Flying the Unfriendly Skies - Part 2 by Diane LeBleu

2009-08-15T19:01:00.000-07:00

Good job girl!” a young woman traveling solo told me as I pushed my double stroller up the jetway in Dallas, chasing my wild children like dogs off a leash, having survived the 3 ½ hour flight from Seattle. I made it.
No Caroline fits. No surprise moons. Just a pleasant cross country flight with my brood. The wine helped.

A flight attendant even stopped by to tell me how beautiful my children were. Travis helped her push her cart from the back of the plane up to the front (those drills at football practice come in handy) so he was on her good side. But then he has always been a sweet boy.

Things were looking pretty good until I reached our gate in Dallas. Our flight was delayed 2 hours. Do you know how hard it is to keep 4 kids out of trouble for 2 hours in an airport? You can only ride the Skylink so many times.

I blame Danielle – she spooked it. Our last two trips traveling from Seattle via Dallas had ended in canceled flights, rental cars, and an agonizing drive from Dallas to Austin. Danielle was predicting the worst as we were leaving Seattle. The only rain we have had all summer fell on our travel day. Thankfully, it was only delayed rather than canceled, but we still did not get home until after midnight.

Did my theory hold true? Were the passengers and flight crew more understanding and accommodating? Yes. While waiting for our flight, making the endless rounds with the stroller to keep the kids somewhat contained, I had a number of people strike up a conversation with sympathetic remarks about traveling with kids and my, how patient my children are. I had several people offer to help me carry my bags. One woman that was on our flight from Seattle even came up to talk to Caroline and give her high-fives for being such a good traveler.

If I had to choose between a chemo treatment and a cross country air trip with four children, especially my children, I’d pick the infusion chair hands down. At least there’s free wi fi and snacks. But a great visit with family, cousins playing together and camping out in the back yard made every painful mile worth the effort. And I don’t have to do it again for another year.

Flying the Unfriendly Skies - Part 1 by Diane LeBleu

2009-08-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

I’m a fairly seasoned travel mama having jetted with my first child for work, then with my first and second for pleasure, then with my first and second and third for obligatory family visits, and then with my first, second, third, and fourth child because I am a masochist. And all this all without the helpful hands of my husband. I traveled with them ALONE.

I’ve learned a few tricks over the years of air travel with tots. I will never get on an airplane without a DVD player. Some mothers can get away with books and crayons but that’s never been enough to kill the four hour trip from Dallas to Seattle. I’ve also learned that traveling with children you will be hated. No matter how cute you are, no matter how precious your children, no matter how tight you jeans, you will be greeted by fellow passengers and flight crew alike with irritation and dread. I know his because I used to be a hater. I would be on an airplane, safely wedged into my coach class seat, and a woman (never a man, I might add) will embark a plane with a baby or walking closely behind a toddler. I would roll my eyes with the rest of them, mutter under my breath ‘please, just not next to me, in front of me or behind me’, and resign myself to a long flight of crying, tantrums and seat kicking. Lisa Belkins of the New York Times Motherlode parenting blog posted a piece last December about a woman traveling with her children seeking advice about how to get through the day. A majority of the comments told her just to stay home. And those were the nice ones. (http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/12/23/any-advice-for-steph/)

I now have the greatest empathy for these traveling mothers, being one myself. I approach these trips with a great dread not knowing if I should throw myself on the mercy of my fellow passengers or go for the offensive strategy – I paid full price for my tickets so they can just kiss my ass!

I was looking at this most recent journey as a social experiment in sympathy and general good will. In my vast experience at making the travel from Texas (Austin) to Tacoma (via SeaTAc Airport), the trip from Seattle to Texas is much more peaceful, accommodating one than the trip northward. Why? What is the explanation behind this behavior? Why are the travelers more helpful and accommodating? I know in my heart it is because I live in ‘The Friendly State’ of Texas, where the nicest people in the U.S. live. So I theorize that when we are headed north, I am traveling with a majority of those that live in the Seattle area and likewise when I fly south, my fellow passengers are Texans. Getting off the plane in Seattle, there is no courtesy – if you don’t have your whole body in the aisle when the door to the plane opens, you can just sit back down and wait until the plane is empty because no one is letting you cut in. Too bad for you with the window seats. On the way to Texas, I am usually overcome with kindness from strangers offering help with my bags or an extra hand with the kids. And I was greeted with smiles. Who is nicer and more helpful to a woman traveling alone with her children. Will I be treated with disdain or will there be offers for help this time?

So here I am with my four children ages 11, 8, 4, and 3 laden with a double stroller, 3 heavy bags stuffed with a computer, DVD player, books, markers, snacks, drinks. Enough to safely pass an hour flight from Austin to Dallas and a four hour flight from Dallas to Seattle. But this time, I have no hair. Well, I have some, but it is mostly the fuzz of a baby duck (my baby head, as Caroline calls it) that I keep protected under a bandana and hat. Not ready for the world quite yet. I thought I would use this to my travel advantage this time. I clearly still have the cancer patient look and was hoping this would cancel out any bad will associated with the fact that I have four children boarding the plane with me.

Was I right? Did anyone go out of their way this time to help me and lend me an extra hand?
No. In fact, the only offers of help I got was getting on the plane in Austin to Dallas, the woman in front of me asked if she could assist and help with some bags. And it turns out I knew her! She owns the child hair salon that we frequent, Pigtails and Crewcuts. She had her two kids and husband with her and her profession obviously predisposed her to be understanding. Getting off the plane in Dallas, the man sitting behind us helped carry one of my bags to the front as I wrangled everyone off the plane. He clearly was a Texan.

Boarding the plane in Dallas for the Seattle bound leg, I saw the sigh and exchange of glances between the two women flight attendants as they took measure of me and my brood. I overheard one say to the other “It’s all right, we can take turns” like working in the area we are sitting would be some great hardship. Sky waitresses.

Then Caroline has a fifteen minute fit that lasted forever. She was ticked off because I wouldn’t let her wander around the plane. She finally fell asleep in my arms and I was too traumatized from the ordeal to enjoy the peace. After Caroline work up, I headed to the bathroom way in the back of the plane never making eye contact with any of my fellow travelers. I took Caroline with me, thinking a diversion would kill a few minutes of the still 2 long hours left in the flight and offer a change of scenery. Well, a change of scenery is exactly what the line of people outside the toilets got as the flight attendant opened the door on me mid-squat as Caroline had reinstituted her screaming fit in the bathroom. OHMYGOD. “I’m sooooo sorry!” she apologized, “I thought your little girl had gotten locked in alone”. Right – she’s 3 feet tall, there’s no way she could reach the lock. Sky waitresses. Get me off this plane.

As we were getting ready to land, the flight attendant came by one last time pausing at my aisle and looking at the floor in disgust. A few fruit loops had gotten in the aisle. I had done a pretty good job this time keeping food off the floor and seats. It didn’t look as if we had been sitting there for 4 hours. I apologized and said I was just getting ready to pick up the errant snacks up. She said ‘I just need to know if I need to call ahead to arrange the cleaning crew’. Sky waitresses.
So we finally made it – me not making eye contact with a single person the entire rest of the way. No one offered any helping hands getting off the plane either. On the other hand, no one was actually hostile, so I have to give them that. And I have to fly home next week. Part Two of my social experiment will be in play. Will the passengers headed south be more helpful and kind? I hope so. I also think a valium wouldn’t be such a bad idea either.

Drink Holders on Lake Austin by Diane LeBleu

2009-07-31T17:42:00.000-07:00

I never knew how many uses there would be for these. You learn something new every day.

Bedtime Boot Camp by Diane LeBleu

2009-05-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

“I have never taken any exercise except sleeping and resting.” - Mark Twain

I was in my oncologist’s office last week for my first post-chemo follow-up and we were discussing the side effects of Tamoxifen, the medicine I will take for the next several years as ajuvant therapy in hopes of keeping breast cancer away. She explained that one of the side effects can be hot flashes.

“If they get unbearable, there are a number of things we can try,” she explained.

“What’s unbearable?” I queried.

“If it interrupts your sleep and you cannot get a good night’s rest.”

“Doctor, I haven’t had a good night’s rest since Caroline was born three years ago.”

Not that Caroline has been a terribly bad sleeper, just inconsistent, and with three other children in the house, it has been a rare occasion that they have all been sleeping well without some illness, nightmare, sleepwalking, or other nocturnal waking to disrupt night. It’s like your golf game – there is never a time when all aspects of your game are on – if you’re driving like a pro, then your putting stinks. If your short game is hot, then your approach shot ends up in all types of hazards. Thus is the landscape of the LeBleu home after the sun goes down every night.

I never know who is going to end up where by the time I am rousing the children in the morning for school. Here is the latest in our nocturnally dysfunctional home:

Danielle sleeps on the couch in the living room – there is too much crap on her bed for her to sleep. She has a full-size bed.

Travis sleeps in the hallway instead of his very comfortable full size bed, replete with memory foam that he HAD TO HAVE. He is such a mama’s boy that he can’t bear to be far away from me. Far away, that is his room that is directly across the hall from us. The carpet is so nasty, I have to check his head every morning for vermin.

Sabrina is now sleeping in her new twin-size bed down the hall from us. The other bed is empty awaiting Caroline’s arrival (see next note). When Sabrina shows up at my bed once or twice a night, we have to step over Travis to get her back to her room.

Caroline just turned three and has decided that enough is enough, she can climb out of her crib at night. She has not yet figured out that the rest of the family is upstairs. She wanders around aimlessly, crying, calling for Mommy. Danielle, asleep on the couch, is oblivious. I run downstairs and try to get her back to sleep – slipping into the queen-size bed that is already in her room. This will be Danielle’s new room once Caroline vacates it. More room for more crap.
Why have I not put Caroline and Sabrina in the same room yet? Because I laughingly believe that I will get less sleep – trying to get them to settle in at nap time, at bed time, and in the middle of the night, when all they want to do is play when they are together.

Seems to me, we could get away with a two bedroom house these days – one for Tom and me and the other for the little girls. Danielle and Travis bunk in the common areas. Why do we maintain such a big home? So I can get my work-out without paying expensive gym dues, I reckon. Down the hall, down the stairs, up the stairs, back in bed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I’m not complaining, mind you, it is great for maintaining a 24-hour calorie-burning metabolism and since I’m having all these hot-flashes, who can get any rest anyway?

Wishing On A Star by Diane LeBleu

2009-03-03T10:35:00.000-08:00

I believe in Fairies. The Tooth Fairy makes frequent deposits under the LeBleu children’s sleeping heads and the Chemo Fairy has been to my house five times in the last six weeks dropping off cherished goodies and pampering gifts wrapped in beautiful pink packaging. And like Pinocchio dreaming of becoming a real boy and calling upon the powers of the Blue Fairy, what I desperately need in my life right now is a Potty Fairy.

Caroline is my fourth child and the last one clinging to her diapers. She will be three in May and by peer comparison, she should have been out months ago. She is a girl – she has three older siblings, she goes to preschool – she knows how the magic happens – she just has absolutely no interest in taking responsibility for her bodily functions.

I know – parenting gurus tell us to be patient. She will not enter kindergarten wearing diapers. But – by my accounts, I have been changing diapers since 1998 – with a year off for good behavior between 2004 and 2005. That’s it. I’ve been back on the clock since March 10, 2005 and we are now in 2009. I need a break from diapers. If she can tell me that her diaper needs to be changed, lead me into her room, lie down on the floor, then by golly she can be using the toilet.

For all the angst she is giving me now (she is a tween with a fitting birthday of July 4th, Independence Day), Danielle gave me no trouble getting her out of diapers at age two and a half. Sure, I was pregnant with my 2nd child, but I was able to give her my undivided attention. With my son Travis, he was out of diapers just before he turned three and the only way I got him to poop on the potty was to bribe him with a Thomas the Tank Engine train. Not the cheapie metal ones from Target, we are talking the full price wooden ones. With the economic times being as disastrous as they are, the only safe currency and haven for retirement savings these days is in goods with a secondary eBay market.

With Sabrina, she was ready just after she turned two but we had to ease off the toilet transition plan while we dealt with the ramifications of a pair of horrifying incidents when she was trying to convince us she could give up her afternoon nap . You may have heard of these children . You know – the ones that play with poop or perform some other artistic endeavor with it? Either they have Mensa IQs or they are on the eventual path to paranoid delusions. On one of these occasions when she was supposed to be napping – I ran to the grocery store for a few last minute items while my husband stayed home, working from the upstairs office. My sister and her two daughters were flying in that afternoon from Tacoma, WA. I was to drop the groceries off and immediately head to the airport. When I got home – I faced an unholy horror. A trail of poop ran from her room, down the tile floor, up the once-upon-a-time white carpeted staircase, and onto the banister and walls. OH MY GOD! This was a scene even Dr. Spock would agree called for a valium. Or two. One could not subject even the most sympathetic of family to this profane kind of domestic disaster. So – I found my poop covered toddler, put her in the bath and then proceeded to bleach, Oxyclean, and Pinesol the offending trail (OH MY GOD). Then I did it again. I was a mess of sweat and gore and my hands were burning with earth-hostile chemical s. I know I put my wedding ring down right THERE. Did I? It is all a blur. Later, when I was retracing my steps, I asked Sabrina if she saw my rings. She said, “Poop! Yeah!” and clapped – in a manner remarkably similar to what we said when she made good and we flushed. All I can say now is thank heavens for insurance.

I don’t know what will work with Caroline. She doesn’t like candy or trains, and she doesn’t sit to do anything but color with a permanent marker. She’s willful in a way that makes me want to pull my hair out (too late for that) but that will serve her well later in life. At least that is what Tom and I keep telling ourselves.

I haven’t even started yet but I’m already raising the white flag. I know that 90 percent of potty training a youngster is the change of routine for the parent. Sometimes is it just so much easier to change a diaper than look for the closest available public restroom – especially if you are a family on the go. Add to that the unwillingness of said toddler to be coerced to use the facilities and it is a recipe for disaster. My stamina these days is simply not up to the task. As I said to my neighbor the other afternoon as Caroline threw a full blown hissy fit about having to share a toy, “I’m too old for public tantrums”.

So I keep trying. Keep introducing the Dora panties and the Dora potty seat. She sits for half a second, fully clothed before jumping up and proclaiming “All Done!” Keep cleaning up puddles and piles. Wait a year on the new carpet and furniture. Keep wishing on a star.

To Quote or not to Quote - that is the Question by Diane LeBleu

2008-10-29T13:50:00.001-07:00

I’m often reminded of the fact that ‘I’m not a smart (wo)man’. I’ll get a tune stuck in my head – like a commercial jingle (the ‘five dollar foot long from Subway’ or Popeye’s ‘Chicken & Biscuits’) or get stuck on an endless reel of a mantra like ‘all democrats are bad’ or ‘big government sucks’ or ‘no more new taxes’. I’ll sing inane tunes from my children’s favorite shows under my breath all day long and won’t even notice until my husband will hear me and cry ‘Simple Minded!”

He’s right, of course. So since I do not have an original thought in my head, I like to pepper my speech or writing with an occasional movie quote that fits the situation. I contend that movie quoting is an art –the good ones make it look easy. You can sniff out the bad ones pretty easily. You know the kind – the ones that drop some completely random line that doesn’t fit the occasion at all and then they laugh to themselves at the cleverness of their own private jokes. These people are just one step away from therapy.

But the ones that can pull it off, now that is something to admire. My twin sister, Denise, is a darn fine quoter – she does it without drawing attention to the fact that she’s doing it. That’s what makes it funnier. I aspire to her level of relaxed and confident quoting. My brother-in-law, Paul, is probably one of the best quoters I’ve encountered. He doesn’t do it often but when he does, he is dead on. He is quite a storyteller – he can spin a yarn that holds your attention, even if it is about a subject that is completely mundane. He is also a fisher, hunter and an ex-military man so there is no end to the stories he can regale us with. My all time favorite of Paul’s was when they had their infant daughter – I don’t even remember which one – Lauren or Isabel, in an infant car carrier that Denise had placed down on the floor in a room during a family gathering. Paul looked over at her and said "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!"

Here are some of my favorite and oft used sayings. I have on a few occasions taken credit for some only to be watching the movie with my husband who hears the line and catches my theft ‘oh – so that’s where that line comes from!” I am unabashed in my use of these great sayings.

“Amen, let’s go”! Do you know how hard it is to corral a family of four adventurous kids and one chatty husband? Sometimes it takes an act of God to move this crowd. It took 45 minutes to leave our church’s Fall Festival last weekend. They kept wandering off – the expression ‘herding cats’ comes to mind. When we were finally all buckled into the van, I could finally make this exclamation, made famous by Chevy Chase – aka Clark W. Griswald in Vacation.

“That’s our son – we’re so proud of him!” We use this when Travis does something embarrassing like throwing up his pancakes onto his plate at IHOP or when he is sporting his Sock Monkey look with red chapped lips that he cannot, will not stop licking under any threat whatsoever. (Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias).

“We’re not twins.” I get to use this one with my sister on occasion – we get a kick out of remembering the scene in Splash as quack scientist Eugene Levy greets Tom Hanks on the beach as he is performing an experiment with his imbecile assistants. Levy’s line that precedes this is ‘”It’s just me and the moron twins!”

“I suppose I belong here … in this hovel” is what I use when my house is a disaster and I don’t know where to begin to clean. (Goldie Hawn in Overboard). “Home crap home” is another favorite from one of my favorite movies that few have seen (Tom Hanks in The Money Pit).

“You are not a loser!” “Who said anything about loser?” I love using this one whenever I need to make my husband feel better about some situation at work. It can usually muster at least a smile. Better than my own original – “Oh honey, it will all be better tomorrow” (Kelly Preston and Tom Cruise in Jerry Maquire).

“You have chosen poorly” or “You have chosen wisely” is used when comparing menu selections when my husband and I dine out (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade). When we were in Paris a number of years ago, Tom ordered what he thought was something 'beef bourguignon.' It was actually kidneys, according to our French/English dictionary. He had chosen poorly.

“Look harder Homer!” the line is actually “Think Harder Homer” as master-quoter Paul correctly pointed out but it works much better for me when I have to tell my kids or husband for the zillionth time where they have put something or where to find something (Bart Simpson of the Simpsons show).

“It’s just a joke Sponge Bob! Nobody has a spatula for a hand!” This one is harder to work into conversation but is appropriate for use when you are trying to tell a joke or make light of a situation that is not funny to the other person (Squidward in the Night Shift episode).

My kids quote now – even Sabrina (obviously a reflection on their mother letting them watch way too much television – there goes ‘Mother of the Year’ award). She was in her car seat in our mini van, patiently waiting to be unbuckled after we got everyone out including the cargo – as I was walking toward the house, I hear in a sweet, high pitched cry “Hey! I’m still in the car!” (Grandpa in The Simpsons Movie).

Some people quote great literature or poetry or the Bible. I quote movies but as I said, I am simple minded. Actually, the real question is not about whether or not to quote but whether or not to pun. My husband and his sister, Laura, are the presiding premiers of pun. I challenge anyone to match their wit and originality in the ring. Believe me, you don’t want to be anywhere near these two once they get started on an excruciatingly long volley of pun, especially if you have a sensitivity to this kind of verbal irony. That in my mind is a true art – but since I can barely put a sentence together without ripping someone off, I’ll leave that to the masters.

The Attractive Nuisance by Diane LeBleu

2008-10-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

We attended my son Travis’ football game this past Saturday morning at Westwood High School in Austin. It was a beautiful fall morning – the real reason why we all live in Texas and suffer the sweltering temps the rest of the year. It was cool enough for a sweater with the sun shining in a clear blue sky unmarred by any clouds. Tom went ahead early with Travis and I arrived just in time for kickoff (well, they don’t actually kick off, they just start their offensive drive) with the little girls. I groaned as soon as I saw it – the dreaded standing water in the grass just off the track and football field - I knew where I’d be spending a majority of the time at the game.

We had to pass it to get to the bleachers – I tried to distract Caroline so she wouldn’t notice. “Airplane” I cried pointing up at the sky. She usually falls for that one – she loves to spot planes or helicopters in the sky. No. “Water” Caroline exclaimed excitedly pointing at the muddy puddle. I pushed the stroller up to the bottom of the ramp that led up to the stands where all the parents from both teams were sitting. No no. There was a ramp. At least that got her attention diverted from the siren cry of a long trough of watery trouble– she could run up and down the ramp during the game so I could watch Travis for a play or two. She wiggled out of the seat belt holding her in the front of the tandem stroller going under rather than over and ran to the metal ramp. Morning dew had made it very slippery and Caroline slid once, twice and picked herself up as she ascended. Wow, that looks like fun. She turned and tried to walk down slipping again. She got her footing and ran straight down, mightily pleased with herself.

I managed to get her back up the ramp and opened up my big mom purse of goodies (bribes) to coerce her to sit for more than five minutes, like all the other younger siblings of the players on the football team. I found her Color Wonder Nemo activity book and got out one of the magic ink markers that leave no color except on the special paper. Those chemists and product developers at Crayola labs are truly amazing. Except she didn’t want the no-color maker. She wanted the sharpie she spotted at the bottom of my purse that I keep for Danielle's swim meets. No no no. Permanent ink all over her hands and perhaps her clothing and mine or wicked 2-year -old tantrum in front of all the other parents and no chance in heck of watching Travis play. Easy choice – she got the sharpie. She sat in my lap content to color black lines all over her book for the entire first half of the game. I was coaxed into a lull by her relaxed attitude. Finally, she got up off my lap and the marker fell straight through the bleachers to the ground several yards below completely out of reach. The ramp once again caught her eye and there she goes with me in hot pursuit in our daily game of The Chase.

Truly, there was nothing I could do. Once she got her feet and the bottom of her pants wet, what’s the point of dragging her out in a crying, screaming rage? Especially since I could watch the game from this vantage point and she was somewhat contained for a time. And her splashing and jumping provided great comic entertainment for the football team awaiting the field for the next game. Mothers and grandmothers smiled in bemusement and shook their heads. Men got the biggest kick out of it – especially the coaches from the other football teams. One remarked that he had never seen a girl get that wet and muddy before and another got some video of Caroline in all her wet, grassy glory. ‘Cheese!’ she cried gleefully and then putting her hands on her face ‘It’s cold!’

The list of attractive nuisances for Caroline is great and varied. Here are some things she MUST have if she spots them:

Sharpies – she couldn’t care less about crayons and washable markers are just ok. If she spots a sharpie, it’s all over.

Food on the ground – need I say more?

My makeup bag pushed far back on the counter but still somehow within her clutches.

Animals of any kind – especially big dogs at the park or being walked by their owner. Cats are ok too but harder to catch. She chased a horse and rider a quarter mile down the beach one time before she had to be stopped. She has even been banned from all petting yards such as those at church, neighborhood, and birthday party functions for cruelty to the bunnies.

Swimming pools – the original attractive nuisance and cause of many a lawsuit by homeowners who install pools without adequate safety fences around the perimeter to keep out the Curious Georges like our Caroline. Since Danielle is a year round club swimmer, our exposure to the pool nuisance is frequent. She is not allowed out of hands reach at the Nitro pool, since she has made the jump in one too many times.

The litter box – it finally had to go. Same with the cat food. The cats have to fend for themselves – lizards and birds make a great meal OUTSIDE the house.

An unattended cup of coffee. FYI, OxyClean DOES remove stains from carpet, if caught before it dries.

A full bath tub – clothing optional.

Caroline is our fourth child and thank heavens our last – I’m getting way too old for ‘Pick Your Battles’. Except that Danielle is 10 and soon we will be playing the adolescent version of this classic parenting strategy soon enough. I suppose it will be great training for us as Caroline graduates onto bigger and better temptations. For now, because I know better, I pack an extra change of clothing for both girls and keep a sharpie in my car. And – our backyard remains free of standing water.

Pacific Paradise by Diane LeBleu

2008-10-07T12:26:00.000-07:00

"Baby!" was the cry I heard from across the sand dune where I was huddled against the wind. It was my brother-in-law Paul. I don’t take that kind of abuse from most people but Paul has a way of making a sarcastic chiding remark into an endearing affirmation of my greatest weaknesses. In this case, I was freezing and had bundled myself up with two t-shirts, a hooded sweatshirt, and fleece lined windbreaker my dad had found in his truck. It was August in Washington State and we were spending the day on the beach of the Pacific Ocean outside the city of Westport. It was a beautiful day – the sun was shining, the inland temperature that day was somewhere in the mid-to-upper eighties but out on the beach with the wind blowing – it was downright frigid.

Not that my kids minded of course. Or their two cousins, Lauren and Isabel. As soon as we arrived, they jumped out of the trucks, pulled off all the clothes that they had on over their swim suits and jumped right into the surf. I got out of the car and drew in my breath at how cold it had become. Holy cow – we were supposed to spend the whole day here! How was I going to manage when I couldn’t stand five minutes of the breeze? I’ve always been a ‘cold wuss’ as labeled by Paul, my twin sister, Denise and my husband, Tom. No grace given by these guys. I admit, I am a little timid of cold swimming pools – I take about an hour to get in above my waist, chilly movie theaters and restaurants – not that I see much of either these days, and I sleep under a warm blanket in sweats and socks even during the summer months because we over air-condition our house.

In my defense, this was the Pacific Ocean, not the Gulf of Mexico where we would normally beach it or even the lakes around Austin. I did some checking and according to the US National Oceanic Data Center Coastal Temperature Guide,the ocean temperatures recorded for locations along the WA coast were in the 50 to low and mid-60 degrees Fahrenheit during August. That’s crazy cold, only a nut would get into that water above the toes.

I tried moving around a bit to stay warm – mostly to chase Caroline down. Even with a beach that stretched miles upon miles in each direction of the same sand, shells, and sadly, trash – she just had to be as far from our encampment as she possible. Caroline spotted someone riding a horse and proceeded to follow them for at least 10 minutes without looking back before she had to be reigned in and turned in the opposite direction. That excursion got my blood pumping at the very least.

I was counting the hours til we could say goodbye to this Pacific paradise and head back inland to where the air was warm and dry instead of windy, cold, and salty. I wore sunglasses to protect my eyes for awhile until the layer of salt became thick to see. I stayed downwind, in the protection of the truck to shield me from the relentless blowing.

Meanwhile, Danielle and Travis played for hours in the surf, digging and riding in an inner tube. Lauren and Isabel searched for shells and sand dollars (they came home with quite a pirate’s booty of those) and then they proceeded to bury Travis up to his neck in the sand. I feared frostbite for them but was told once again by my family to stop being such a wimp. Caroline was like a little breaded veal cutlet, complete with a sand beard and mustache. Sabrina kept throwing chips at the birds and chasing them around the dunes hoping in vain to bring home a new pet. Every now and then, the kids would dive into the back of my dad’s truck to have a snack or drink and warm up. Then, they were back at it again, playing hide and seek in the dunes or chasing after the enormous dogs people would bring to walk at the beach.

There wasn’t a huge crowd at the beach – certainly not the numbers we would see down in Corpus Christi or South Padre Island. More people like me, I suppose, too sane to brave the elements. I am convinced that living down in Texas these past 20 years must have thinned my blood. This must be a common occurrence, though, because there is a large population of seniors residing South Florida. The average age is somewhere around 85, so surely I'm not the first to experience this phenomenon.

It's hard to imagine that I am actually looking forward to my 40th birthday. I will celebrate it next June with my twin sister and our husbands (but sadly, without our kids). When I was younger, it was such a bummer to have to share the spotlight and birthday cake with my sister. We could never agree on the décor or kind of cake. Now, it is an excuse for a getaway to Cozumel and a real tropical beach vacation. No hooded sweatshirts for me – just lots of white sand, fruity cocktails and clear blue water. Should take the edge off hitting that milestone age – I don’t expect anyone will be calling me a baby then. Cheers!

That Darn Cat by Diane LeBleu

2008-09-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

That’s it, I’ve had it! What the hell was I thinking? Anyone interested in adopting a kitten?

We, that is, I made the terrible mistake of having a weak moment and agreed to take home a darling homeless kitten that a boy was giving away at my local Starbucks. I must have been high – and this was BEFORE I had my venti latte. Or perhaps I was in such a great mood upon having just returned from my annual girl’s trip to Vegas with my best friend Holly. Or maybe it was my excitement for Danielle, who would be competing in her first STAGs swim competition later that day in San Antonio that caused me to forgo my normal stance when it comes to the kids asking for another pet. Or maybe it was a chance to give Travis a pet he had been so desperate to obtain (and there was no way we were ever going to get a dog). In any case, I’m a big enough girl now to admit when I have made a mistake. Now what am I going to do?

This sweet baby boy kitten, christened Tiger by Travis and Danielle, started off so sweet and docile. He would be carted around in a shoe box and sleep on the kid’s shoulders. He was scarcely 4 weeks old when we got him, a darling, who showed such promise by using the litter box as soon as we got one out. We already had an adult cat, Maggie, who was left alone after her sibling Johnny became coyote feed (we suspect, anyway) a few years back. Maggie – the sweetest cat in the whole world, who I betrayed by bringing home this- this- this wild, nasty varmint.

He was put on probation after he began biting and scratching all of us with wild abandon. To be fair, he has to spend much of his time outside as much for his safety as for ours. I can’t keep Sabrina away from him and Caroline is just as bad. Now that he has a little meat on him, however, he knows how to fight back, and will stalk and attack the little girls as soon as their backs are turned.

Then there were the curtains – the linen panels in my dining room, the one room in my house that used to look like I don’t have 4 children. Claw marks up and down BOTH SIDES. Then we were at church last weekend, listening to another fine sermon by Will Davis, Jr. at Austin Christian Fellowship. I looked down at my new metallic wedge sandals and saw little kitty bite marks all over them. Later that day, we were dining with some friends when I heard a terrible cat screech coming from Sabrina’s room. Tiger had managed to get up under the box springs (to hide, I suppose from Sabrina and Caroline) and was trying in vain to get down. He was stuck – and stuck good. The screeching was so loud, I was certain it could be heard down the street. I had to get him out, lest my neighbors think I was beating my kids and call Child Protective Services. I reached up and grabbed him only to be rewarded by a big claw mark and bite on my hand. I did what any reasonable woman would do – I called my husband.

Tom came in and got under the bed to rescue Tiger in his frantic desire to get loose. He was rewarded with a bite two inches long and quite deep – enough to warrant 3 Sponge Bob bandages and a cursing of that cat that I had not heard from him yet (I was normally the one to curse the cat). Then, for all of our trouble, he peed all over the floor in Sabrina’s room.
The last, last straw came today when I was outside playing with the girls in the sand box. What’s that smell??? Ohhhh no, he used it for a litter box!!! I had already relinquished a full quarter of my non-utility utility room for a stinky cat crapper that he uses frequently – what’s he doing now soiling my babies sand box (not that they have used it in 2 months, but it’s the principle we’re talking about here).

Now he’s really on notice. Of course, I’ve been saying that since we brought him home, no wonder my kids don’t believe any threat I make. I used to be a cat lover before I had children. I even recall taking a subscription to that silly magazine Cat Fancy when I was young. Now a cat just represents another mouth to feed. At least Maggie doesn’t cause any material or physical damage. And NOW I have to pay money to have Tiger neutered and de-clawed. Yes, he will be de-clawed. If any bunny-huggers out there have any objections to that, they can come right over and take him away. Please oh please. Please?

The Escape Artist

2008-09-02T19:24:00.000-07:00

Have you seen me?

Take a good look at her. This is what an angel with a devil’s disposition looks like. While she looks sweet and innocent, she has a unique knack for sniffing out trouble, most recently letting herself out of the house and into the front yard or down the street.

It reminds me of one of my favorite movies ‘Cheaper by the Dozen’. I watch that movie whenever I am feeling overwhelmed and underwater about my chaotic home life. And I only have four kids. ‘C’mon,’ I tell myself , ‘I don’t have it THAT BAD!’. In the movie, the Baker’s new neighbors (who proudly only have one child – remember Cameron from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?) predict that one of the children will end up on a milk carton. It is the refrain that has been playing in my head the last week. I know people that tag their children with id bracelets – I’m thinking very seriously about getting one for Caroline.

I’ve been beating myself up and kicking myself in the booty about her escape antics. I know that God has stationed an angel over the intersection of Planters Woods and China Garden Drive these days because Caroline has been rescued twice from outdoor trouble in the last month by my neighbors. My disapproving neighbors. Now I have to move.

We are on lockdown at my house. Deadbolt, garage closed. When things get too quiet, I get mighty nervous. We have two stories at our house. The trouble areas are vast. Downstairs, she can figure out a way to get out. Upstairs, she turns on the water in the garden tub, colors on the computer screen, walls, floor (she is our budding artist), strangles our new kitty, Tiger. Well, he can take care of himself.

Unknowingly aiding and abetting in the escape antics is Sabrina, who will do anything to get her hands on the cat. I throw him outside or in the garage after he has taken the 20th bite or swipe at the girls, securing tightly the deadbolt and testing the soundness of the lock. As soon as I leave the room, Sabrina will unlock the door, grab the cat and run off. Caroline then jumps on these opportunities to make a break for it.

It’s almost worse than having a newly mobile one-year-old. They usually have the innocent desire to explore new places but not the means to cause too much damage (assuming, of course, all poisons have been locked safely away which they HAVE been at my house). Caroline has the means now to get herself into a multitude of messes. She can move chairs to climb, open the refrigerator (I’ve learned my lesson and moved anything in a glass container to the top shelves), and let herself into the garage. She can even open the garage doors.

I know this is no laughing matter and all joking aside, whenever Tom and I are out anywhere in public with Caroline, we decide who is ‘it’ to tail her. For being such a mommy’s girl who will cling to me when I leave the room, as soon as we are out she turns to me, waves and says ‘Buh Bye’ and never looks back. I just erroneously assumed she would not need to be under constant supervision under the confines of our own four walls and roof.

The only positive thing about this new worry is finding out how many other mothers and fathers have had to deal with exactly the same situation. Living with an escape artist. Every third person I confess my dilemma to will proclaim ‘Oh! My son or daughter used to escape too! He would walk to the park or the neighbors would bring him home or we had to install latches at the tops of all the doors to thwart his plans’. I’m in very good company indeed and - how does that old saying go? Misery does love company, I’m proof of that. With four children, we were bound to have one meet this statistically proven phenomenon. I am harvesting the best practices of those that have walked this path before me and have hope that we will get through this latest ordeal and prepare for what is inevitably coming next.

Back to School Bleus by Diane LeBleu

2008-08-25T18:41:00.000-07:00

Whew! I made it through another summer with my sanity (mostly) intact. Four children and a husband that works out of the home office can make for a very chaotic situation for the months that we call summer a ‘break’. A break for whom, that’s what I want to know. The teachers? Most certainly. They work hard all year for very little compensation so I think their ten weeks off is well deserved. For working parents who have to cobble together camps and carpools for their youngsters while trying to fit in a family vacation for themselves. Definitely not a restful period. And for the group of us known as stay-at-home-moms (SAHMs) or stay-at-home-dads (SAHDs), we look forward to the time when kids are out of school so we aren’t running ourselves ragged trying to stick to activity and academic schedules and an early bedtime. So why is it that we also look so eagerly to have our kids back in school when this ‘routine’ must start anew? I don’t know about the rest of you, but it’s because I need a break!

Looking back at all the highlights of the summer it seems as if we are actually busier in the off-season when we are supposed to be sleeping late, relaxing, and catching up with the friends we don’t see much in the year. We have so many to recount, I don‘t even know if I should try but I do have very fond recollections of our visits with our dear friends the Wrights, who regaled us with fantastic and humorous stories of life in Budapest and the Castillo family who we miss so much and still cannot convince to move back to Texas. We went to Schlitterbahn and Corpus Christi and spent many hours at the pool either practicing for or attending swim meets. Danielle flew unaccompanied not once but twice this summer – first to see Grammy and Grandpa Bob in Albuquerque and then to visit Maggie and her family in Roanoke, VA. They got to see the great sights of our Capitol and the Smithsonian Museum. Danielle’s favorite was – the Hope Diamond, of course. I got a jailbreak to Las Vegas with Holly for our annual girls retreat. Travis got to attend a Mad Science camp and Six Flags in San Antonio and Danielle finally qualified for STAGS for the 400 Freestyle (no small feat!) and drove down to San Antonio to compete. Oh, and we got a kitten. I usually only hear the phrase ‘Mom, I’m bored’ come up mid-way through July when it seems all the neighbor kids are on vacation or at camp. This is met with a favorite quote from my own mother ‘Bored are you? Well, let me put you to work. I’ve got toilets to clean, floors to mop, windows to wash. Where would you like to start?’ ‘Bye, I’m going to (insert name here)’s house! I’ll be back later!’ That usually does the trick.

Even after all that, the end of summer vacation always seems to sneak up on us at the LeBleu household. It’s probably because we wait until the end of the summer before embarking on a traditional family vacation. We fly the whole brood to the beautiful northwest city of Tacoma, WA in August since the weather here is so dang hot and the weather there is consistently warm and dry at that time of the year. We have tried in the past to go in late June or early July only to be met with chilly temps and wet days which is worse than 100+ days in Austin. We just got back from our trip that I’ve affectionately titled ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ due to my youngest girls terrible sleeping habits, which only added to my summer vacation fatigue (when will it be over!). It was two weeks of family fun and gorgeous weather – the natives complained a bit about the 90+ days but I was so happy to have dry air that can actually hold a hairstyle that I did not mind a bit. By the time we flew back, we only had three days left before the first day of school and little time for the boredom complaints to resume.

Danielle and Travis really enjoy school and do well – once they are back in school with their friends and teachers and activities. When they are out, however, they romanticize being home and not having to get up to an early morning alarm. In fact, on the run up to school this year, both of them were pleading with me to (stifled guffaw) HOME SCHOOL them. You might think the look of horror on my face would be enough to deter them but oh no, they kept coming at me. I tell them Mom would need to be taken away in a straight jacket if I attempted to educate them on my own. That seemed to satisfy them – at least for this summer.

Last night was our first school night in many moons. We prepared diligently with clothes laid out carefully and alarms set precisely to go off at the crack of dawn. Danielle even got up BEFORE dawn to shower and make lunch for herself and her brother. We shall see how long THIS enthusiasm lasts. I give her one night of late swim practice before I am poking her out of bed with a big stick and threats of extra housecleaning chores. There was no whining this morning about having to ride bikes to school on behalf of Travis, who is the pokiest rider of the neighborhood posse and no last minute tantrums about ill fitting socks (well, ok there was one) or heavy backpacks.

Looking ahead, we have four nights of swim practice this week and two of football when Tom and I will once again be thrust back into the routine of too many routines. Another summer under our belts, they come so quickly now. I know these are days I should treasure – I need to remind myself of that more often. Two more years until Sabrina joins the back to school gang and three for Caroline and then I really will have something to celebrate. For now, I’ll enjoy the few hours of daylight peace that I am still thankful to have while the little girls nap. A time to write, a time to sit, a time to catch my breath before the next round of mayhem descends on the LeBleu home. Oh look at the time! School is almost out – where did my day go?

Tiny Mites by Diane LeBleu

2008-08-01T11:20:00.000-07:00

Only in Texas will you find a tackle football league with a bracket titled ‘Tiny Mites’ for those boys weighing less than 70 pounds and generally between the ages of six to eight. My son is getting ready for his first team practice later this week. Travis is seven.

I know I should not be surprised at the seriousness of this passion for football shared by most Texans. Although I did not grow up here, I have been here since 1988, attending college at Trinity in San Antonio so I have seen first-hand what happens in the fall when football games are heavily attended or watched on Saturdays and Sundays all the way through until Super Bowl Sunday. Parents with young boys get them geared up as early as August even before school is back in session and the temperatures still easily reach the 100 degree mark in the afternoon sun. My husband and I have become just such parents.

Nobody asked me but I would have preferred a few more years of flag football for Travis but he had the chance to play under the tutelage of a fantastic coach and with all of his friends from school so I ambivalently agreed to his joining the team of other Tiny Mites, who will soon be second grade boys. I have a hard time seeing my sweet baby boy suited up in his shoulder pads, helmet, and mouth guard. I cannot even imagine how I will feel when I see him on the field for the first time, tackling other boys or trying to avoid it. I usually don’t get the chance to watch his practices or games. Because we also have a daughter that swims regularly, Tom and I usually split practice chauffeur duty – he takes Danielle to swim while I take Travis to either football or baseball or we swap. Our other two younger daughters just get to go along for the ride. I don’t even want to imagine the logistical complexities of adding another two to the mix of activity scheduling when they are old enough for organized activities. I suppose by then, Danielle will be close to having her own driver’s license so that may alleviate some of the variables in the driving algorithm.

I don’t know if Travis is quite ready for the intensity of tackle football at his young age. The two-hour practices two times a week (and don’t forget the weekly game itself) in the blazing south Texas heat, the heavy equipment required for his safety, and the sheer competitiveness of some of the players and most of the parents. Perhaps I am being too pessimistic, but I am setting my expectations low in the event that they will at worst be met and at best be exceeded. Travis loves to play but doesn’t share the same competitive spirit as his older sister. Her room is full of ribbons and medals from her career as a year-round swimmer. His three seasons on the local swim team has netted him a handful of ribbons, mostly for relay events and usually just for achieving a better time than his last race. In fact, this summer was the first time he won his a heat in freestyle (but not the event itself because he was in one of the slowest heats) and that was great but for the most part, winning or losing just doesn’t seem to motivate or bother him. He just likes to play with his friends. At least he has a good-ol-boy Texas football name.

I look forward to seeing his first game and being caught up in the Texas football craze that descends upon us next month. My college didn’t have much of a football team. In fact, I don’t recall EVER attending a game in the three years I was there and my boyfriend’s (now husband) roommate was ON the team. We never went. The most attention the Trinity football team has ever received was due to ‘the lateral’ play in a game last season that made national sports history and was an ESPN highlight of the 2007-2008 season.

Maybe I will become just as passionate about the game when my son is out there on the gridiron. I don’t know – I will probably be praying, like all mothers of football players, for an injury-free game and season. Se e you out at the stadium!

Job Search by Diane LeBleu

2008-07-30T07:46:00.000-07:00

I’m contemplating returning to the work force full time again. No, I’m not insane, masochistic, high (on anything other than baby powder fumes), or unfulfilled (a terrible term over-used by boomer’s in the angst of the go-go 80’s and 90’s). It’s been a complex algorithm of self-analysis, financial analysis, and future analysis of the skyrocketing costs of college education my husband and I plan for our four children that have led me to this decision. Plus, I really want a swimming pool some day. One must have priorities, after all.

I’m ok with my decision, REALLY. I’ve loved being at home full time and part time with my children over these past ten years and despite the logistical difficulties Tom and I will face with child care, after-school care, activities, and homework we will face for our brood, I think I’m ready to put my Ann Taylor pantsuit and sensible/sexy office heels back on and head into the work force. Now, if I could just find a job.

Call me naïve, unrealistic, foolish, but I thought someone with my skills would have no trouble finding gainful employment. Well, I should probably say experience rather than skills. What skills do I have to offer anyway? I have a resume full of valuable, relevant business management experience but I have yet to make much traction on getting any employer interested in my offerings. Oh I know there are tons of online and professional resources to help be better craft my message and sell myself but I suppose I’m not really serious enough (desperate) about my search yet to remake my resume and pitch and become something that would knock the sock off even the professional corporate recruiting gatekeepers. So I keep finding cool sounding jobs online and submitting my resume. I’ve had a few conversations and interviews. In one case the employer was definitely interested, I just needed more money (child-care sure does take a bite!) than the position was offering. I did have one phone interview recently with an employer to remain unnamed. Here’s a little how it went….

“Tell me something about myself? Well, I worked for ten years after graduating from a top tier liberal arts university with a degree in business and communications (read between the lines – no practical skills whatsoever), was hired by a big six consulting firm, was pawned off on clients willing to pay my unreasonably high billing rate due to the fact that I had no skills whatsoever but still managed to be pretty good at it. Blah blah blah blah blah, experience, value-add, successful, blah blah blah.”

“You want to know my GPA? In college? Why, that was 17 years ago for crying out loud, does my work experience not count for anything? It was my understanding this interview was for a position in HR.”

“Well, Ms. LeBleu, we have to draw the line somewhere.”

After I confided what I thought it was (to be fair, they did let me know ahead of time that they would be asking this question) because – who the hell remembers their GPA nearly two decades after you have not thought about it at all? Not that I’m ashamed of it – I did land a pretty sweet corporate job upon graduation, even with my no skills whatsoever and had managed to cobble together a pretty good resume over the years of practical, relevant work experience.

Here’s what I heard from their end. Nothing – you know when you are on speaker phone, you talk and talk and then take an unscheduled pause and there is silence – like those dropped call cell phone commercials. I was on ‘mute’ the whole time while Ms. Corporate recruiter and her suck up assistant were falling out of their chairs laughing at my audacity to waste their Mensa-IQ’d time with this interview.

Or maybe it was the fact that I have four children - two of them under five and ripe with frequent illnesses from day care - meaning I would be a completely unreliable and uncommitted employee if hired, slacking home sick five or six days a month. Except that I never mention that I have children during interviews – it’s the kiss of death.

Do I sound bitter? A little defensive perhaps? Because, though humbled and humiliated by this recent foray back into the corporate posturing, I know it was not meant to be. Does it mean I could be a bit better prepared and have a better looking resume, absolutely. I just thought it was terrible manners to conduct an interview – first on speaker phone with an assistant present that was never introduced to me, and then to keep pushing that mute button like it was a morphine pump. I may have no business working for them but I do have GREAT discernment and know when I am sent to that phone netherworld where I talk talk talk, they mostly don’t listen unless I say something else hilarious and off topic, then the hop to push the 'on' button back so that an answer to a question I have posed 30 seconds ago (a lifetime) finally gets answered.

So, I’ll brush up my interview skills, do a little better targeting of ‘fit’ jobs for my experience, and work that network of mine. And what would I say to these corporate recruiters that never took the time to even email me thanks for my time but they would be considering other applicants for that role, “You can Google THIS!”

A Lament on Laundry by Diane LeBleu

2008-07-17T13:49:00.000-07:00

Woe is me, the basket is full to the brim.
It’s time to do laundry again!
How can this be? I was just caught up.
Yesterday’s empty basket is now full to the top.
The laundry ‘suck’ multiplier is based on number of children per store.
I have four, there will be no more.
‘Tis small comfort when there’s so many loads to fold.
Up and down the stairs I go
basket upon basket in tow.
Clean, dry, fold is my daily refrain.
More towels from the pool, the gym, the fort in the backyard. Here we go again!
Some claim batching is best. Save the hell for one day.
Others spread out the pain, doing one or two loads per day.
Our grandmothers really did have a reason to complain.
A day spent with a wash tub, soap, clothes pins and line, knuckles red, raw, and in pain.
Now we have dry cleaners, front-loaders and 2X concentrate Tide(what a scam!)
Delicates, sheets, towels, whites, and darks
What I wouldn’t give to be playing with my babies at the park!
My utility room has no utility.
I rearrange, add shelves and hooks to increase the miniscule space, all an exercise in futility.
In summer, the laundry volume is high,
Chlorine scented suits from the pool, towels caked in sand from the beach are enough to make me lose my mind (or look for the wine!)
Will it ever end?
Danielle is now ten, a perfect age to start.
Her help with my chores will play a very big part
In my keeping my sanity on this laundry lament.
Of course, I will need a very big stick (carrot?) to get her to do her share in this bit.
Today when I went into her room with a pile of freshly laundered clothing folded nice and neat,
Two piles of clothing lay at my feet.
Which one was yesterday’s clean and today’s smelly and worn?
It’s no wonder this vicious cycle of laundry cannot be won!
Better gather them all up for washing, just in case.

Popo by Meg Austen

2008-06-24T03:59:00.000-07:00

There is a tradition in my house. It begins with a five pound bag of carrots, fresh beets, and apples by the pound. Washed. And then sliced. When my kids were young the whooshing of my vegetable knife as it sliced through a carrot or an apple was enough to make them bolt into hiding. With my dogs, it has the opposite effect. They bolt into the kitchen and wait.

I think my dogs can hear a banana peel.

I slice off a sliver and give them each a piece, be it carrot, or apple, or beet. They used to take anything I gave them till the day I slipped them an onion. Today they sniff carefully before biting, and run off happily with their treat.

I get out my Acme juicer and assemble it quickly on the counter. My thoughts always stray to Popo at times like these. My maternal grandmother. I think back to the days when I was a child and Popo stood in her kitchen the way I stand in mine. It is her juicer that I assembled today, her juicer that I use to create fresh fruit and vegetable juices for my kids and myself and sometimes my dogs.

I have so many memories of my Popo. The first time I remember her, I was in kindergarten, and didn’t much like her. She was so old and drought-like, with bones poking out where there should have been none, and skin letting go where it should have clung.

And then I am in the fourth grade standing in her house as she comes padding down the always meticulously clean, hand waxed hallway in her handmade fabric slippers. She has a small paper cup in her hand that she wants me to have. It is filled with a green liquid that I take and swallow and almost choke to death. It came from her juicer.

I am in college and wanting to help. Popo had natural wood Roman shades covering her very large picture window that once exposed a view of the ocean. Many a time I had seen her small, 4’11, 85 pound body pull hard on the cord and send that Roman shade quickly to the ceiling. I am strong now, trained in the martial arts, an athlete. I am strong like Popeye. Popo is weak, so I decide I will help by opening her shades. I grasp the cord, and I pull. I wrap my hand around the cord and I pull again, this time with the full strength of both arms and my body. I decide to see if Popo can still open the shades.

Popo was a single mother, widowed with five children in the 1940’s. As a single mother, divorced with two children in the 1990’s, I wonder how she did it alone. And I am always in awe.

Today I made carrot apple juice. My son is out with his girlfriend, my daughter upstairs on Facebook chatting with her friends. So there is no bolting by my children at the sound of my knife. My dogs have begged for just about all of my apples.

So, as I sit and drink my carrot with a little bit of apple juice, my thoughts wander back to Popo and the juicer that has survived her, and I wonder… what legacy will I leave to my grandchildren?

And so I sit down to write. This is my legacy.

Attachment Parenting by Nora Irvin

2008-06-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

“Don’t pick him up. If you do, he is going to want you to pick him up all the time. You’re going to spoil him.” So plays the internal dialogue I remember as a child. Every one of my female family members used this philosophy. Naturally, when it came to be my turn to parent I remembered these sayings. Yet the strangest thing happened. I found it more natural to do the opposite. I, unlike my mother, aunts, and grandmother before me, found another style much more satisfying.

When we brought our firstborn home, he came with no owner’s manual. My husband and I looked to the examples of our own parents. We, like many myriads of other newly expecting parents, embarked on the journey by wading into the mass sea of self-help books for parenting. We navigated through the rough waters, reading books titled What to Expect When You’re Expecting to The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy. The more we read, the more clear it was that we had to choose between the advice of our family or what we were learning about attachment parenting.

There are many ways to use Attachment Parenting and there are no set rules of dos and don’ts. Dr. William Spears, who along with his wife Martha, introduced Attachment Parenting to the public; they define it as “an uninterrupted, nurturing relationship, specifically attuned to a child’s needs as he passes from one developmental stage to the next.” This may include, but not be limited to, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and baby wearing. Co-sleeping is having the baby sleep in your bed, and baby wearing is wearing your baby at all times. We found all three of these aspects beneficial for our family.

The most bewildered look took over my sister’s face when I informed her that I was going to nurse the baby. Notice how I use the term “nursing” rather than breast-feeding. She, along with most of my Mexican-American family, would never dream of nursing a child. “That’s just gross,” she said as she shook her head. It’s a cultural taboo. Mexicans nurse their children out of necessity. Mexican-Americans have the luxury not to. We can afford to buy formula, and so we should.

Fortunately for us, we live in Austin and not in my small rural hometown just 35 minutes away. Big City Austin seems to foster the nurturing ideas behind attachment parenting. This is the city where a blind salamander can stop even the largest of proposed construction sites that would dare to try to enter their safe zone. Here in Austin, we are proud of our Central Market and Whole Foods mentality, which is “if it is healthy, we want it.” There is no doubt that breast milk is the best for the baby. Dr. Sears mentions that there are unique brain building nutrients in it that cannot be manufactured or bought.

In rural towns, such as the small town where I was raised, nursing seemed to be unnecessary. There are baby formulas to nourish an infant, and the thought of actually wanting to be attached that way to a baby seems unnatural. I remember vividly the look that I received from a middle age woman wearing a hat and shiny black patent leather shoes. Disdtain filled her face and with a quick shake of disproval and an elaborate rolling of her eyes, I knew what she thought about me nursing my son in public. In retaliation, I looked her square in the face and straightened up, with my shoulders square, I stiffen red in a proud manner. I repositioned away from her gaze, and continued. I was completely covered, and she was appalled. I thought to myself, she must be a prude. My thoughts went to a personal attack because, not knowing anything about her, I was free to make silent judgment on her just as she had on me. If she would have bothered asking our reasons for choosing nursing, she may have been surprised to know that it was simple economics and convenience.

Convenience was the reason we choose to use a form of co-sleeping. As an infant, the baby slept with us in our bed. I was already in the deep grip of sleep deprivation, which sometimes is a method of torture, and we rationalized I was better off getting a few more minutes of sleep when I could just wake up and feed the baby. There are those who would argue that this would increase chance of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) or that I would fall fast asleep and roll over on the baby. Both of those were a possibility but very rare. We chanced it and it worked out to be the best possible solution for me, as a new mom I needed to get as much needed rest as I could. There were some drawbacks to this sleeping arrangement, namely the problem of our intimate encounters. It did take a more creative mind for my husband and I to try to figure out our liaisons. That problem has not really lifted even now, five years later. Once again, creativity and the desire to do so can help in that category.

The third and final component of attachment parenting that we utilized was baby wearing. This by far was the easiest and most contrary to what I was raised to do. It is simple by definition; you just wear the baby on you at all times. While you do the dishes, fold the clothes, go shopping, you have the little bundle wrapped around you in a baby sling. My sling was blue with small white polka dots. I would strap him on and he would just watch the world go by. I would do dishes and he would be on the small backpack. I did what came natural to me. I found it hard to ignore my baby’s cries. I felt a pull against my family’s notions that you could actually spoil a baby.

Erik Erikson, a developmental theorist, calls doing so building basic trust. I read much later in my psychology textbook, that this is the building block of human development. According to Erikson, children who have a safe haven, a person who answers their needs consistently, develop secure attachment. These children grow to have a sense that the world is predictable and reliable. This is evident in later developmental stages where securely attached children are more apt to explore knowing that their caregiver is still in sight.

Maybe what my family did not realize is that what they perceived as a spoiled child was really a child who did not trust that their needs would be met. Granted, this was a different time that my aunts and grandparents lived. They had over twenty-three grandchildren, and to breastfeed, co-sleep, and baby wear would have been a bit of a challenge. Yet, they were not all babies at the same time and the crucial period of development is at infancy. So the next time you hear someone say not to pick up a crying baby, I hope that you will think about the benefits of doing so will bring, and do what you were meant to do and pick it up.

Possibilities by Diane LeBleu

2008-06-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

I love the Home and Garden channel – that’s HGTV to those in the know. My nine-year-old daughter watches with me. It doesn’t matter what we watch either – House Hunters, Designer’s Challenge, My House is Worth What? We are mesmerized by the home buyers or home owners as they consider what will for many will be the major purchase of a lifetime or remodel that commands thousands of dollars in disposable income on projects that will at best garner 80% of the initial investment. The nail biting decision as to which house they will make an offer on or which designer they will choose for their home redesign never fails to command our attention.

Why do I have such an obsession with this network of shows when I so clearly do not have any of the skills possessed by these designers and craftsmen and women? It must be because there is the possibility that any home, no matter how down trodden or unkempt, can be turned into a castle with the right set of hands. Really. It’s true. You should see some of the popcorn-ceilinged houses with shag carpet and moldy kitchen cabinets that can be turned into charming, freshly painted bungalows with just a little imagination, elbow grease, and maybe some two by fours. Those entrepreneurs that run the ‘Flip this House’ type of enterprise are the most amazing because they turn hovels into havens in such a short amount of time. It’s amazing!

My home is fantastic – couldn’t ask for a better home in which to raise my large family of four children. When we moved in, we didn’t know what we would do with a five bedroom house and now we are completely full up. No vacancies at the LeBleu Inn. We do have a few projects we have neglected over the years, due to too much work, too little time, too many children, and too little money to afford to invest in some of these home improvement initiatives. New carpet badly needed, rotting deck, new gutters. I could go on but it makes my husband think I am complaining so I won’t. Now if only I had some of the skills that these do it yourselfers possess, we would be in business. Our home is a blank slate in many ways for endless possibilities!

I truly admire (ok, envy) the do it yourselfers. In fact, there is also a whole network of cable shows and online instructions for those people that actually possess the skills to take on some beginning tasks, like painting walls and cabinets to very advanced projects like installing real hardwood floors or replacing kitchen cabinets or even those that involve electricity or plumbing. My neighbor is an uber-goddess of the do it yourself project. She is a true renaissance woman – attorney and mother by day, chef, plumber, electrician, painter, tile and brick layer (she and her husband built a brick oven in their back yard). Good grief, is there anything she cannot do? She has set the bar pretty high but thankfully, she is also a teacher, and is kind enough to help do a little skill transfer with those who are willing and able. I’m willing, just not able.

There must be a handy gene God forgot to give me in lieu of … something else. I’m still trying to work that one out. I can’t cook, sew, paint, or play an instrument. I did take piano lessons when I was young, with my brother and sister, and even tried the violin for a few months in the third grade, in an ill-advised attempt to groom a musical talent that my parents and siblings are still laughing about. I just don’t seem to possess any of these artistic tendencies that allow one to attack the myriad of home improvement projects that seem to keep growing each year. I try to do some of the elementary things, like paint, and even those attempts don’t turn out how I think they should in my head. There is a gap between what I think I should be able to do and what my hands actually execute. And these projects always take longer than anticipated. Isn’t that just the ugly truth of home improvement projects?

My dad had a career in construction, both residential and commercial, so when he comes to visit a few times a year, I always had him – not the ‘honey do’ list of things that have been ignored but the ‘papa please’ list of small chores that we need done and help him feel useful (he is an achiever like me – always needing a project to do). The trouble is, now after living in our home for eight years, only the big projects remain and he’d rather play with his four grandchildren than replace a crippling wooden deck or replace cracked floor tiles.

My husband also does not have the handy gene (so much for opposites attracting). I’d like to think we both make up for it in our vast intellectual abilities that would allow us to earn enough to pay someone ELSE to do these things. Outsourcing, I think it is called. I remember one request I made to Tom to change out the ceiling fan in the baby’s room. (What’s wrong with the old one? Works just fine. She won’t notice the peeling gold finish or the thunk-thunk-thunk. In fact, that might help her sleep better!) I still recall the cursing and grunting as he kept dropping the tiny screws from the top of the twelve foot ceiling down to the wood floors. Boy, those little screws sure can bounce a long way! We still have a few fans to replace throughout the house but I don’t dare ask Tom to do it and I sure won’t get up on a ladder (fear of heights!).

I learned another expression on HGTV in an episode of House Hunters. The prospective home buyers were being led by a realtor through a particularly expensive (California!) but upkeep-challenged home. A unique fixer-upper opportunity. The realtor referred to all the ‘deferred maintenance’ that would be inherited by the new home owner. I thought that was a really nice way of saying – we’ve just let things go – for now. I recently saw a movie (don’t even remember the name, it was so hokey) in which Queen Latifah (who I adore) had a ‘possibilities book’ for her life. I keep one for my home – clippings of kitchens I’d like mine to look like one day or furniture that I think would look just right in my house. Some day I’ll get to do these things – I’m hopeful but impatient to get on with the lists of projects that grows unexpectedly (like the shower tiles we now need to replace in the master bath – when did that happen?). I used to work with a fellow who liked to imagine a ‘big bucket of money’ into which you could dip your hands and pull out whatever you would need for this or that. I fantasize about a big bucket of money so I can start to make a dent in some of these. Alas for now, I'll just have to keep shouting to the kids out back 'watch out for the holes' on the deck but I’ve just got plenty of possibilities.

Night Patrol by Diane LeBleu

2008-05-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

I walk a beat the hours of 11PM to 5AM every night. I’ve been doing this for almost ten years now with some sporadic time off but for the most part I’m on duty seven days a week, 365 days a year.

I get no rest – not until all are sleeping well, no break, just patrol. I sleep with two baby monitors by my bed and socks on the floor that I can slip into quickly when I get summoned at all hours of the early morning. I doze with open ears to cries of pain or coughing or distress. Mother’s with teenagers out until curfew sleep with the same posture.

Peering into the mirror this morning, the reflection that gazes back at me mirrors the dull, sallow skin highlighted with dark circles and pronounced laugh lines. Where the heck did that expression come from? I’m certainly not laughing. No amount of water intake can undo the damage that years of too little sleep can cause. My body craves sleep but my job demands my time.

I was at our neighborhood park recently with my children. It was a beautiful spring Saturday morning. I was pushing Caroline, just turned two, on the swing and another bright eyed mother approached me with her own daughter about the same age. She began pushing her daughter in the nearby swing and struck up a conversation with me, as mothers are want to do. Any conversation beyond ‘You need to go to the potty?’ or ‘More milk, PLEASE’ can be soul saving on some of these sleep starved mornings.

“You look tired” she told me with a sympathetic, shy smile.

Good heavens! When did it become proper park etiquette to comment on a complete stranger’s haggard complexion?

I nodded my assent and took note of her tidy coif, clothing free of snot or other unexplained goo, and made up face.

“Is this your only child?” I say.

She smiles again and says yes with a pride that would be contagious if I weren’t so weary and ticked off that she noticed and commented out loud on how weary I look.

“And you?” she asks.

“Oh no”, I said “I’ve got this one, that one” pointing at Sabrina standing by a cluster of trees looking for ants “and those two over there” I nodded at Danielle and Travis over at the rock trail looking to add some new and interesting ones to their collections.

“Wow! You’ve got your hands full!” she remarks incredulously. I hear that A LOT.

I figure by my estimation I have not had a consistent eight hours of sleep for going on three years now. How did I arrive at this figure? Sabrina was born in March of 2005 and that last month of pregnancy, sleep is elusive and uncomfortable at best. She started sleeping through the night when she was about three months old but was an early teether, getting her bottom two just shy of four months so sleep was wrecked by a teething, cranky baby. Then, when Sabrina was only five months old, I found out I was going to have another baby. Woohoo. Colds, illness, teething can all be tough on the first year of a baby’s life but usually that is all and there is an end it sight. Just as I was getting through that first year, I was pregnant again, not sleeping well and we had Caroline. Caroline was also another early teether – she had ten teeth by her first birthday and sinus issues (similar to her brother’s) making sleep during her first two years inconsistent at best. And with four children in a house including two babies, there is the usual runny nose, ear infection, or random virus from school to contend with. Happily, with Caroline turning two and no allergies in sight, save the occasional ear infection, we are sleeping better.

Except for last night, when Sabrina woke up coughing, barking, and trying to catch her breath. She will occasionally (at least two times a year) have a reactive airways outbreak due to allergies (she’s the one with the chronic allergies and runny nose) so we had to break out the nebulizer for a 2AM breathing treatment. And, as always, it is up again at dawn as the house awakens and the coffee beeps my morning alarm.

I am thankful to not be a single mother, like my dear friend Melanie who was recently widowed after losing her husband to pancreatic cancer. She walks her beat alone, with her two daughters ages ten and eight. I complain about being the primary care giver after hours but at least I have back up. I’ve long since given up the resentment at my husband for having to be the one to sleep closest to the door or having any rest shattered by crying children because I have come to realize that, for the most part, children that wake at night want their mothers. We provide the unconditional hugs, kisses, glasses of water, and extra stories when sleep will not come due to a particularly bad dream. We cozy into bed until dream land has become the new destination. I am tired but I am also very good at what I do. I have angels sleeping in my alcoves and I get to kiss them and watch them dream.

So for now, on days after a triple witching of night time angst, I look at it as excuse to indulge in an extra cup of coffee and perhaps a chance to purchase some really expensive make up that I don’t need. I wear my mask proudly, knowing I do my job as only I can do in service to my family.

Writing Mamas Bloom in all Seasons of Life! by Diane LeBleu

2008-05-21T17:38:00.000-07:00

At our second meeting of The Writing Mamas Salon of Austin, our own original Writing Mama Elizabeth (mother of two boys) drove all the way out to Lakeway from Dripping Springs (at considerable expense, given the price of gas these days) to announce to our young group that she had just launched her own landscape business called Bloom in Dripping Springs. What fantastic news – we wish her the best in one of the most challenging and rewarding endeavors (after raising children, that is) – starting a business. Here are some details about how you can find Bloom when your are down in the Dripping Springs area:

Bloom by Elizabeth McIntosh
Open Wednesday through Saturday, 9AM – 3PM
Located in Dripping Springs, Texas on Hwy 290, just west of intersection of RR12 and 290
On the South Side – you can find Bloom plans on the grounds of Rolling in Thyme and Dough restaurant – 333 W. Hwy 290 Dripping Springs
Bloom offers native and well adapted plants plus beautiful mixed potted plants. Great gifts or for your own South Texas porch!

My Dog Left Me by Elizabeth McIntosh

2008-05-18T04:04:00.000-07:00

There were very few things I could be sure of in my twenties. The only constant in my life at that time was my toothpaste, good ol’ Tom’s of Maine, Cinnamint. Everything else in my life was in flux, but each morning and night Tom took care of my teeth. I’d been traveling, had worked on a farm, lived in two half-way finished shacks, and now was proud to call home a 20-foot Prowler travel trailer. No longer could I fit all that I owned into my Honda Civic and drive away (something I prided myself on), but at least all that I owned was on wheels. The Civic sure wouldn’t be what hauled it off, but it could be hauled off to somewhere else if necessary. You see, I had a desperate need to be free. Not bound to anything. So much so that I couldn’t even bring myself to put a bumper sticker on my car. One might say I have a fear of commitment; I like to call it a preference for flexibility. Did I mention that I am a Libra?

At the same time, however, some part of me—the maternal part no doubt—yearned to take care of something. When presented with the opportunity to own a dog I jumped at the chance. The important fact being that this was a grown dog, not a puppy. If there was one other thing I was sure of, it was that I did not want a puppy. I’d had a puppy. Under no circumstances did I want another. A dog was unmistakably a commitment, but if the need arose to move on, it would always fit in my car. And hopefully it wouldn’t puke in my car like the puppy once had, over and over. (Who ever heard of a dog with motion sickness?) Anyway, I had plenty of time to think this through since the dog in question had been found abandoned on the side of the road, pregnant, and was now nursing a pack of hungry puppies. I told my friend who found her that I’d take the mother if she’d find homes for all the others. Six weeks later and “Lilly” was mine.

She, as a matter of fact, fit in the Civic quite nicely. Everywhere I went, Lilly was the co-pilot. Not confined to the backseat like any old pet, she claimed the front passenger seat as her own. And when I couldn’t bring her in with me somewhere, she dutifully kept my seat warm. We were inseparable. Except when she got a little too friendly with a skunk. Lilly did not sit in the front that week.

Life goes on, however, and soon she found herself sharing the passenger seat with my new beau, who would within a year become my husband. Lilly took to John just fine and he accepted her as part of the family. Fast forward another year and Lilly’s world (as well as ours) was rocked. We had a baby. My mother had once told me that when we had kids I’d forget all about Lilly. Never, I protested. She was practically my first born. I am beginning to realize that Mom’s know everything.

As my mother accurately predicted, life with a child (a human child)has a way of rearranging one’s priorities. It didn’t happen overnight, but slowly and surely Lilly was no longer the favorite. She began to take a back seat. No longer did she get the full belly massage. A distracted rub under the table with the sole of someone’s shoe would have to suffice. But she took it in stride, and like most dogs she made the best of what little attention she was offered.

Her time inside was limited. She spent a good deal of the day pining away at the front door wondering, I suppose, when we would come to our senses and realize how easy we once had it. I mean, for goodness sakes, she came house trained! And there I was scrubbing baby poo off cloth diapers. What were we thinking? Trained, weaned, and fixed. And if she stunk, (usually due to her uncanny ability to find road kill and roll in it) out she went. No back-talk (in fact, no talking at all), and she ate the same food, straight from a bag, everyday without complaint. Mind you, our subsequent son ate chow of one sort or another by the fistful. Cat chow was prized above all else. I love my children dearly but sometimes I find myself wanting to run up to child-free dog people and shake them and say, “You have no idea how easy you have it! Stick with the dog!”

When our first son was barely one we heard him yelling “eye Da-Da eye” on the porch. Only to find him with his index finger knuckle deep in her eye socket, her tail wagging the whole time. Lilly doubled as the perfect pillow, and even occasionally permitted passenger rides. She was a trooper, and if ever there was a perfect dog for kids, she was it, almost.

Problem was, as tolerant as she was, at some point she must have realized this isn’t what she signed on for. Lilly may have been great with the boys, but I think at the end of the day she would have been pleased as punch for them to go back where they came from so she could return to being numero uno. Our child psychiatrist says my older son has had a hard time coming to terms with having a brother. He doesn’t know how to share me. Looking back, I suppose Lilly suffered from this affliction as well. Sadly, she never adjusted to having siblings.

Years passed, the boys got older and wilder. Lilly also got older. However, far from getting more rambunctious, she was turning the corner from middle-age to her golden years, silently yearning for some peace and quiet. She began wandering, as I am often reminded (I suppose to ease my guilt) Golden Retrievers are known to do. As long as I was home she was loyal to her homestead. But within seconds of my departure even if everyone else was home she split. It took us a while to figure out was happening, being all consumed as we were with our growing boys. Eventually a phone call from our across-the-creek neighbors shed some light on the situation.

Lilly, in her desperate quest for a quiet sanctuary, had stumbled upon the canine equivalent of Sun City. Not only did the neighbors not have children, but they had a pool (which strangely enough seems to intensify dog stink to levels otherwise unheard of). After retrieving Lilly countless times from the other side of the creek, and a few heart-to-heart talks, we agreed that she had made her choice. She ruled the roost once again. Lilly could return to being the completely spoiled-rotten, only child she was before. She even got the front seat back.

I remember being particularly concerned with how the boys would react to my decision. I didn’t want to look like the uncaring Mom who would give up her dog the minute the going got rough. But then again, what would I be teaching them if we kept her here against her will? It was my hope that they would see how much joy she brought to our neighbors lives and know that we did the right thing. In the end I learned once again that kids are tougher than we give them credit for and it was really my conscience I was trying to reassure.

Now half-way through my thirties, I’m still not sure of a whole lot, and some part of me is still desperately hanging on to the flexibility thing, but there are a few things I have gleaned about myself. One: I’m still loyal to Tom. The flavor has changed over the years—from Cinnamint to Spearmint, with fluoride and without—but you can be sure to find that trusty tube of Tom’s on my bathroom counter. Two: I am no longer a dog person. Jaded, I suppose, by Lilly’s abandonment I am now perfectly happy with cats. Given their druthers they are content to eat, sleep and lick themselves. Cats don’t roll in road kill, never would they consider eating another animal’s feces, and if they don’t like the kids, so what. Cats don’t need constant reassurance like dogs. Three: I know that all I own will probably never again fit in my car (awful mini-van that it is), but everything that I hold dear could. It’s a seven-seater and since we’ve drawn the line at doubling our numbers, there’s plenty of room for me, the boys, the hubby and of course the two cats—who, thank God, don’t get car sick. Everything else is just stuff. And last but not least, Four: Lilly still loves me. I see her at the neighbors quite often and although I’m more like an aunt these days she hasn’t forgotten our time together. And if the going ever gets too rough here for me as well, my neighbor has offered me a one way trip to Mexico.

Mother's Day by Diane LeBleu

2008-05-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

I recently had a dream in which I was describing my mother to a stranger who had not had to good fortune to meet Janet Ungurs. I told her this:

She’s one of the most thoughtful people I know.
She’s generous.
After my twin sister, she’s the only one who can
make me laugh until I cry about something my son has said or done.
She’s kind.
She has a great sense of humor.
She is a senior citizen and she still rides (relishes) roller coasters.
She will push Caroline in the swing until her sun starved skin turns lobster red.
She read Tops and Bottoms to Travis’ kindergarten class.
She joins me for a glass of wine when the five o’clock cocktail hour rolls around.
She serves her family selflessly over and over and over without complaint.
She watches HGTV with me when she visits.
She taught me about being a good example for my children.
She read chapter books to my siblings and me before bed.
She dragged my sister and brother to Sunday school so many years ago despite our moans and groans and now I know about the truth, the way, the life.

I awake as my list is interrupted by the cries in the night to which I must attend. I can fill pages with wonderful things about my mother but I’ll sum it up with this.

Happy Mother’s Day!
I love you dearly even if I do not say it as often as I should.

The Curiosity of Crap by Diane LeBleu

2008-05-01T04:04:00.000-07:00

Pardon my French, if you will, regarding the title and subject of this discussion. I do not wish to offend any sensibilities with this discourse, I simply could not come up with a more apt word to describe what I encounter every time I enter my nine-year-old daughter’s room.

I was preparing the guest room today for my parents pending visit. The guest room is actually Danielle’s room. Every since we had child number four, Danielle has been booted out on the infrequent occasions that we have guests stay the night. Not that she minds; in fact, six out of seven nights, she finds another place to sleep rather than her own plush-comfort queen size bed. It may be the sofa downstairs, the futon upstairs, or even the floor. Sometimes, when our three-year-old cries-out in the night with whatever distresses a youngster’s sleep, Danielle will go in to her room to comfort her and rest for the remainder of the night in her room.

When we first moved in to our home in Austin nearly eight years ago, we had one child and one on the way in a five bedroom home. We wondered – what would we do with all this space? Like a woman with too much spending money on a rainy afternoon at the mall, we managed to squander this space by having another two children in the course of our stay here. My husband and I are now the only ones that share a room. How fair is that? We have dueling desks and computers in the alcove of our master bedroom that doubles as a home office.

I went into Danielle’s room today while she was at school to make the bed with freshly laundered sheets, dust, and pick up (again). I have to threaten on penalty of death at least three times a week that Danielle pick up her room. Picking up for Danielle means shoving clothes, books, paper into any crevice or space that will hold it and hide it from mother’s ultra critical eye. Her closet – organized with shelves and bins to contain every item she might have in an orderly manner is most politely described as a disaster.

When I enter her room, I usually bring one or two large black waste bags, usually reserved for yard refuse. These bags are completely full upon my exit – every three months or sooner. How is it that I can fill a trash bin of crap every quarter? Let me define crap for you – it is crumpled papers, notes from school, plastic and other foam and bead crafts developed at friends homes, birthday ‘goody bag’ fodder, happy meal toys and who knows what else. I need to stomp on the overflowing contents of these bags to secure them tightly with the provided drawstrings in order to contain the mess.

I have puzzled over this phenomenon for countless hours. My husband cannot explain it either (but then he is also a pack rat. This may explain where her tendency to hoard and store comes from). I am at my wits end – it is difficult enough keeping my house picked up, I do not need another undoing effect at every turn.

I was speaking with my dear friend Holly today, who is currently residing in Budapest. She can commiserate with me because her daughter, the same age as mine, is also a pack rat. I confess I would never picture her daughter as a collector of crap. Holly and her husband are two of the tidiest people I know. Their homes, their cars, in fact, their lives, have an order to them I would argue borders on compulsory. It is my standard that I will never meet. Where her daughter gets her propensity for mess? I’ll never understand.

I was, perhaps for the thousandth time, explaining my bafflement at the size and quantity of the crap and Holly explained it to me in two words:

“It breeds.”

“Say that again?” I stopped in mid -stuff of trash bag.

“It breeds,” she explained to me with the confidence born of experience, 3000 miles and seven time zones away. Her wisdom of this truth, struck me. She’s right! “Crap breeds,” she said. “I don’t know how, it’s one of those unexplained mysteries of the universe, like, ‘where do the socks in the dryer go?’ or 'what happened to all the cash in my wallet?’

I know it sounds silly, but I’ll sleep better tonight. Not because of unfettered crap multiplying in the room my parents will be occupying over the next three nights, but because I finally got an answer I am satisfied with. She is right, it breeds. That can be the only explanation as to why I can de-clutter and de-clutter that room when at every turn I am stymied by more inventories making its way in. Where does it come from? Now I know. I do not know how this fantastic piece of wisdom has come about in Holly’s mothering arsenal. Maybe it is a fresh perspective, born of a new life in Hungary. She and I have had this crap-a-thon lament numerous times over the many years that I am thankful to say we have been friends and I have NEVER heard this explanation before today.

Thank you, Holly, for this peace of mind. I still need to purchase stock in the companies that manufacture these trash bags, but at least I will rest easier tonight. The curiosity of crap has been de-bunked, at least, for now.

Easter Sunday by Meg Austen

2008-04-30T11:48:00.000-07:00

There are always a few childhood memories that linger for a lifetime. For me, it was camping and campfires, growing up on the Mojave Desert, and air shows.

So when the local radio advertised the upcoming air show featuring the Blue Angels, I excitedly called my younger brother and asked if he and his wife would like to join me and my kids.

"I've never been to an air show. Have you?"

Ah. With eleven years between us, my kid brother and I grew up in different families together. By the time he'd come along, we didn't go camping, we didn't live on the Mojave Desert, and we didn't attend air shows.

But as a parent, this was an awakening for me. I was just beginning to grasp the importance of family traditions. Ask me if I remember ever being at an air show or going camping and I'd have to stand there and stare dumbly into space. Nope, I just have this vague sense of well-being at the thought.

Like the aquarium I had as a child and so desperately missed when I married and moved away from home. That is, until the day I brought home an entire aquarium setup and didn't have the foggiest idea what to do with it. It was only then that my general sense of well-being came into clearer focus. Ah. It wasn't me that had an aquarium. It was my kid brother. I was just an observer of the soothing effects of the bubbles and the graceful movements of the fish he owned.

With my own children, them being eighteen months apart, and me a single-parent, I figured family traditions and fond memories were entirely up to me.

So we attended air shows, went camping, had large, expensive birthday parties, Easter egg hunts, scratch-baked Christmas cookies, and a Christmas tree overflowing with gifts each year. I sewed costumes when needed. And each Christmas I set up the camcorder and recorded every painful moment of us sitting in front of the tree tearing through Christmas gifts that I would painstakingly try to capture on paper for the thank you cards that would sometimes be written, but more often not, as the list of gifts would get lost in the massive heaps of crumpled gift wrap never to be seen again.

So this year, as Easter approached, my daughter and I were perusing the aisles of the local grocery store when we passed the PAAS display of boxed dye for Easter eggs.

"Are you two interested in dying eggs this year?"

"Nah."

"Really? No Easter egg hunt?" mind you, her brother is closer to getting drafted than he is to any other semblance of youth.

"I didn't say that. Of course, we want an Easter egg hunt!"

"Really? Okay, then I'll get some refillable plastic eggs." A smile came over my face as I silently patted myself on the back. A family tradition that surpassed the wonders of early childhood, their enlightened youth, and one more year in the evolution of their growth into adulthood. I couldn't believe my good fortune at having hit upon such a tradition. Something they would surely remember for a lifetime!

So I loaded the basket up with an exuberance of refillable plastic eggs. 72 to be exact.

And I went home, happy that once again I would hear the excited squeal of children's delight at the prospect of locating hidden eggs filled with nasty, high fructose corn syrup laden candies. And I thought no more about it.

The night before Easter, the conversation went like this.

"Good night Mom, we love you!"

"Don't forget to get up early and hide the eggs!"

"Oh my! You remembered the Easter egg hunt?"

I hadn't.

And off they went to their beds while I dragged my sorry old body to the closet and pulled down all 72 of those refillable plastic eggs and began to stuff them. Guilt crept over me as I stuffed yet another egg with that colorful but nasty, high fructose corn syrup laden Easter candy I had purchased. So I turned to my wallet instead and began to unload all the cash I had. And I stuffed the eggs. All 72 of them.

I awoke early the next morning, hushed the dogs, hid the eggs, and woke my teens up to this long-standing, beloved family tradition. I was still amazed.

They chased quickly around the house, gathered eggs into recyclable grocery sacks since I had forgotten to purchase Easter baskets, and sat down to examine their eggs.

"This is great. I love it that you kids love Easter egg hunts." More pats on my own back. "So what is it that you like about Easter egg hunts? The family tradition? The thrill of the hunt? Or all that nasty candy?"

"The money."

"Yup. Definitely the money. Look at this stash! It's better than allowance!"

Ah, so my understanding of family traditions is still a work in progress.

Mother's Day Out by Meg Austen

2008-04-28T18:49:00.000-07:00

Austin is a family friendly town with gobs of wonderful programs for mothers of small children. You usually find the signs posted in front of stately, red-bricked church buildings with meticulously manicured gardens that read, "Mother's Day Out. I used to love to see those signs, though I didn't personally get the opportunity for many a day out.

But alas, there comes a time in every mother's life, when your children are too old for Mother's Day Out, and yet, mother still needs a day out. So last Friday, I left my kids at home, alone, and I went for a day out, to help a friend in need. I know. I know what you're thinking. You did what?! But before you come unglued, hear me out.

My kids are used to this. Being raised in a single-parent home they learned early on that when Mom isn't in the building, you keep your feet and your bum seated squarely on the floor in front of the television. You get up only to get something to eat or drink, or go to the bathroom. You don't climb on bar stools, or counter tops, or anything that would otherwise elicit an emergency call to mom while tying a tourniquet around the blood spewing body parts of your sibling. You never open the front door. Ever. Unless the house is on fire. In which case, you make sure to get yourselves outside. Away from the house. They were rules to live by, and we'd done it for years.

Fast forward many years-- probably too many for your comfort-- however, now my kids are in high school. Honors students. Capable of handling any emergency on their own. Can cook meals with nothing catching fire. Most of my stainless steel pans survived every fiasco, and so did my microwave. So when I left my two teens at home alone to drive to north to help Cheryl with her wedding preparations, I figured things would be fine.

I breezed up Highway 71 carefully calculating the traffic conditions and the way to avoid commute traffic, only to get snarled in bumper to bumper traffic naught but three miles from my destination. But even that moved surprisingly quickly, and I was due to be right on schedule, and looking forward to a time of laughter and chattering and otherwise engaging our hands and our mouths in the fellowship of good friends. And it was for a good cause. Cheryl is such a sweetheart, she makes a killer supper , and she was getting married in a few weeks. She needed us. Another girlfriend, Carrie, was converging on Cheryl's house at just about the same time from the other direction, so when my cell phone rang, I figured it was Carrie.

"Meg! Where are you?"

"I should be there in two. Where are you?"

"Meg! Listen to me. Where are you?"

My ears perked up as I suddenly realized this wasn't the voice of Carrie, but of one of my neighbors. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong, and I wasn't there. My house was on fire, maybe. Someone needed an ambulance. Argh, just when I thought I could get away for a moment, disaster strikes.

"I'm about an hour north. Going to help a friend. What's wrong?"

"I just got home. I'm standing in my driveway. Your children are on the roof of your house. And they've got a green couch up there! Are they supposed to be on the roof with a couch?!"

So much for life's lessons about keeping your feet and your bum planted squarely in front of the television.

After a quick phone call to get them and the couch off the roof of my house, I enjoyed my meal, the fellowship of good friends, and the hour drive home.

And when I got home, they both got an 'F' for obeying orders.

But even I had to admit, once I realized that nobody needed an ambulance, no bones had been broken, and nothing was on fire, that they'd gotten quite a photograph.

So I gave them an 'A' for creativity. And decided to write about it.

Writing is good for your soul.

Sigh.

Starbucks Son by Diane LeBleu

2008-04-27T13:11:00.000-07:00

My son became a man today. The kind of man I aspire him to be some day. The kind of man like his father – a kind, thoughtful, generous, smart, funny, Christian man. No, it wasn’t the result of a monumental rite-of-passage designed for seven-year-old boys from Austin, Texas. He brought me a coffee from Starbucks.

I was upstairs at home playing with our two young daughters and my husband, Tom, offered to get me a coffee when he ran out to grab a sandwich so I could get a little caffeine kick before sitting down to do some writing this afternoon. Travis came up the stairs, beaming with pride of his accomplishment. I thought his father had put him up to something. He called out ‘Mom, I brought you something!’ He came around the corner with my favorite coffee drink in the whole world – a grande vanilla latte with skim milk. He handed it to me, gave me a hug, and said ‘I love you, Mom’.

That’s enough to melt any mother’s heart, no matter how messy the room is or how many pairs of jeans have come home from school with holes in them or how many times dirt from shoes kicked off has spilled over onto my freshly mopped floor. Boys love their mothers, that is a truth that cannot be denied.

My husband later told me this story about their trip out for coffee. Tom was headed down to pick up a sandwich from the deli and he said ‘Hey Travis, want to get Mom’s coffee?’ Travis said ‘Sure’. Tom said ‘Order a grande vanilla non-fat latte. Got it? Here’s five dollars’. Travis took the money and started walking away into the store. Tom called out ‘Travis, what are you going to get?’ thinking Travis didn’t quite get the order. Travis is challenged with listening sometimes. Travis called back ‘Grande vanilla nonfat latte.’ He turned to walk into the store and Tom tested him one more time ‘Travis, what are you going to get?’ Travis stopped and nonchalantly said ‘Grande vanilla nonfat latte.’ Duh, Dad, were his unspoken words.

Tom met up with Travis in Starbucks after he got his lunch to go. Travis was waiting patiently for his order. The barista called out ‘Grande vanilla nonfat latte for Travis!” Travis went to reach up – he couldn’t reach the counter! His four foot tall frame wasn’t quite tall enough to reach his man size order.

I was touched in my heart with the smile my son brought me when he delivered my afternoon indulgence. But it wasn’t the coffee that brought me joy – it was that this simple act of pleasing me made Travis so happy. He is truly special and will make a fine husband to some lucky woman some day. Just like his father.

Bluebonnets in Bloom by Diane LeBleu

2008-04-23T17:43:00.000-07:00

It’s time for the annual pilgrimage outside to find the best field of the Texas State flower (not on private property, of course) for that completely unique photo of your children, your dog, your spouse, or all of the above. They really are quite pretty, these fields of blue wildflowers, sprinkled with some coral and lavender, on roadways and fields that are for a majority of the year rough, rocky and barren terrain. When I first moved to Texas from the Northwest a number of years ago, I would proclaim ‘What is all the fuss about? It’s just a glorified weed!’ but over time, I have come to appreciate the delicate beauty it provides as well as the pride it invokes in the heart of the Texan.

Pride is very big here in Texas – as big as the state itself, and that is LARGE. I find it rather comforting and refreshing, actually, for one cannot pick up a newspaper or listen to the news these days without hearing some complaint or protest about how awful, immoral, corrupt is this great country of ours. I wholeheartedly disagree with all those sentiments so it is nice for me to see, for a change, my fellow Texans out and about in the fields of blue, capturing yet another photo treasure of their most precious loves in a backdrop of wild flowers.

My husband and I used be business and technology consultants for Accenture many years ago. One of our first client assignments was USAA in San Antonio. We were young, just married, no children and we worked all time, including Fridays, which were non-work days for most of USAA’s 3000 plus-workforce. USAA is one of the largest, most highly respected employers in San Antonio and their office building (at one time larger than the Pentagon, it was boasted, in terms of square footage) was housed on a massive campus replete with jogging trails, soccer fields, basketball and volleyball courts and even a driving range. They also had numerous rolling fields that bloomed with a fantastic display of Texas Bluebonnets every spring. On Fridays, a number of employees would come back to campus with their families and camera to take photos of their loved ones amidst the sea of Bluebonnets. My husband and I would get a kick out of it – we said we would never resort to such suburban cliché. When the first of our co-workers in our peer group had a baby and took his son’s photo in the flowers, we just laughed and teased him about the goofy tradition that is embraced in South Texas.

Over the years after becoming parents ourselves, we found ourselves too busy to succumb to the lure of the Bluebonnet fields, despite urgings from grandparents who would love to have a photo of a beloved grandbaby to show around the office. One year, however, we fell victim to the tradition. Our daughter’s elementary school was located deep in a nearby suburban neighborhood that decades earlier had been a famous cattle ranch. A lot of the tract was spared homes in honor of jogging tracks and the open spaces to be enjoyed by the numerous residents of this high-priced real estate enclave. I drove by a stunning plateau of blooms one day on the way to school and a seed was planted. I would take a photo of my firstborn here in the flowers. I left my 2-year-old son home with his father and took 5-year-old Danielle out on a Sunday afternoon with fresh roll of film docked in my trusty 35mm camera. These were the days before good digital technology was affordable and commonplace. I shot a whole roll that day and she was more cooperative than I have ever seen her. After being displaced as queen bee in the household two years earlier, she had a chance to shine in the spotlight all her own.

When I got the prints back from the photo shop, I was amazed at how clear and bright they were. All these years – the Texans I once sneered at knew a secret I never suspected – that bluebonnets were as fine and forgiving a backdrop as any professional studio and with no sitting fee! You could dress a youngster in a dirty tee shirt and shorts and the effect would be casual and fun. You could dress them in their Easter finest, and you would have a moment set for the most exclusive children’s wear catalogue. I made a number of prints and sent them off to parents, grandparents, friends, siblings. They all remarked at the professional setting and quality of the prints. I confessed only to some that I was the actual artist behind the lens.

Two children later, we still have not been back to the Bluebonnet fields. Unfortunately, development at the first fields we found has removed them as a convenient possibility and my two youngest will not sit still for all the sweets in the candy shop. One day, perhaps, we will get the entire family out there to record our Texas pride for posterity. I am the only non-native Texan in my family now. My husband grew up in El Paso and all my children have been born here. I am a transplant – rooted in the fine Texas soil, just like the Bluebonnet, and I am here to stay.

Confessions of an Over-Planner by Diane LeBleu

2008-04-21T04:24:00.000-07:00

My name is Diane …. and I am an over-planner. My best friend, Holly, coined the phrase ‘over-planner’s anonymous’ when we were deciding what we’d pack on our next girl’s trip to Las Vegas - ten months away. I make my plans for the day, week, month, and year in a dizzying system of calendars although most of the information is locked away in my head. The only reason I have a hard copy schedule at all is to be able to communicate it with my husband, who is my co-conspirator on these numerous excursions and appointments that make up our lives.

I have three day planners - one large leather-bound one that fits into my computer bag and travels to work with me, a family month-at-a-glance version that is affixed to the refrigerator and contains all the kids’ activities and my husband’s travel dates, and a pocket sized version to fit in my purse. It is sadly low-tech and I spend more time synching these schedule than I do in executing most of these events.

Most days, I feel like an air traffic controller as I juggle all my inbound and outbound responsibilities with work, swim meets and practices, baseball games, preschool, birthday parties and an occasional (but too infrequent) date with my husband. Even more unusual to see on the schedule is any me-time recreation but then I feel as if I were just a little more efficient at time-management, I could write that novel by the end of the year.

I suspect there may be a genetic link to this tendency to try to control every minute of the day. My mother is a planner as is my twin sister and older brother. Holly’s mother is also a planner. I married a non-planner, however, so who knows how our children will end up. Tom’s is about as far at the end of the non-planner spectrum as you can get, although the discipline of work, travel, and raising four children is starting to chip away at the edges of his spontaneity. He’s the man who packs the morning of a 6AM flight for a five day business trip. He leaves the house with a baby for an all day excursion without a diaper bag, sippy cup, or stroller thinking that he’ll just wing it if something comes up.

I’ve already started to map out the summer months. Ten weeks of swim team, out-of-town visitors, vacation bible school, and a plane trip to visit our relatives in the northwest. Whew! It’s exhausting just thinking about it. I tried to recall what my siblings and I did in the summer months when we were old enough to be by ourselves. Back then, in the late 70’s and early 80’s there was a group of children called ‘latch-key kids’. We were the ones that let ourselves in after school because both parents worked, fixed ourselves a snack, did our homework, and tried to get along until mom got home and fixed dinner. What did we do on summer vacation? We didn’t have all the camps and schedules of activities down to the last hour of the day that working parents must spend a king’s ransom for to keep their children out of trouble and brain-engaged all these days out of school. My sister recalled that ‘we mostly hung around with our friends, made forts in the vacant lot, went swimming, or took the bus to the library or mall.

When did we get so regimented as a society in over-planning our children? I feel some days like having a blank schedule for the kids would be a blessing – it would be refreshing to have them around to merely take advantage of the fact that we live in a fantastic, safe neighborhood with lots of kids their ages. Then I flinch in this modern day game of chicken because all the neighbor kids are at camp or engaged in one of their myriad of activities so my kids are left hanging around the house – with me.

I do recognize this need for me to over-plan and control robs me and my family of any spontaneity and the chance to just do nothing. Why, in our hyper-competitive society, has it become a crime to just do nothing once in a while? I need to learn that just winging it as my husband does, more often than not opens up new, fun possibilities and is not in fact opening the door to disastrous consequences.

I’ll never pack for a trip the morning of a flight (because usually I’m packing for my self and four kids) but I do need to learn to look at a blank space on a calendar as something to be cherished and embraced and just let the day and it’s possibilities unfold. Who knows what might happen?

Life Comes At You Fast. By Meg Austen

2008-04-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

Outlook popped up its all too familiar reminder that it was time to leave my work and pick my children up from school. I smiled and dismissed it. Then continued with my work. At 5:30, I shut down my computer and walked downstairs.

Earlier that day I had dropped my children off at school, their suitcases packed with clothes and activities for their weekend away. My daughter climbed out of the car with her suitcase and band uniform for the weekend performance, and said goodbye. My son climbed out, a backpack on his back, a fishing pole, and my wok. I know, I didn’t ask either.

And then it was just me. With my kids gone for the weekend, I was about to begin an all too rare weekend alone. For three whole days!

For dinner, I went to Marble Slab Creamery and got myself a chocolate malt. That’s it. After all, ice cream is a basic food group, you know. And it was delicious!

I put my favorite CD on the Playstation, (since my stereo equipment had long ago been replaced with game equipment), and I blasted MY music throughout the house.

I set the security alarm at 10PM, knowing that nobody would be coming home later that night to set it off accidentally, and I climbed into bed and finished reading a book till I fell asleep.

For breakfast, I went to Sunset Valley Farmer’s Market and ate a cinnamon roll while I strolled the many booths of organic produce, handmade jewelry and yummy baked goods. Live music accompanied me on my walk, and the wind blew through my hair. I caught the eye of a young man and I smiled, all the while contemplating all the vegetables I didn’t need to cook for teenage kids who wouldn’t eat it anyway. And I took another bite of my cinnamon roll.

I went home and noticed that everything was exactly where I had left it. No new trash strewn on the floor, no kitchen sink piled with dirty dishes and food that just couldn’t, wouldn’t make it into the beckoning dishwasher. And I began to clean, without the constant interruption of, “No sweetie, you need to stay focused on the task at hand.”

I sat down at my computer and began to write.

And as I got to the bottom of the page, I suddenly realized what you’ve probably already figured out.

Boy oh boy, do I need to get a life of my own! And you do too.

When we become mothers, we become selfless, all-caring women who just about live life vicariously through our children. What with work and housework, and cooking, and driving children to and from play dates and lessons, there is no time to be anything but mom.

But life does come at you fast. And you don’t need insurance. You need a life.

Of your own.

Has it Really Come to This? By Meg Austen

2008-04-18T19:00:00.000-07:00

I know I need to write about this, just to get it off my chest. But the words don't come. I've sat here, day after day, blank screen before me, and yet the words don't come. I think the reality of the situation is finally settling into my heart.
And the burden is heavy.

Who would have thought that my precious little boy, after years and years of, "I love you Mom, you're the best!", of personal sacrifice, sleep deprivation, career sacrifice, and pure joy in watching his twenty one and a half inches develop into the handsome young man that he is, that it would come to this?
I have been replaced. Prepare yourself. It will happen to you too.
He stands before me, supposedly in conversation, but I know better. The cell phone in his pocket gives off an almost unending buzz, and its intermittent glow makes his face light up, almost as much as the mere presence of her message.
The dogs bark.

Words come out of his mouth, but he's not really present. He's carrying on two conversations, the most obvious one with me, his mother of seventeen years and the one he is with, but the other more pervasive conversation, is the one that seems to go on forever, every waking moment of his day, and I'm sure, night.

I rinse and place another dirty dish into the top rack of the dishwasher.

Another buzz, another light, and he reaches into his shirt pocket. I can't even hear her words. But he does. He sends her a text message in response. And I realize that my days are numbered.

He no longer needs me to mend his boo boos, tie his shoes, or calm his fears. He is fearless. And he is becoming the man I have always dreamed he would. So we begin to enter a new phase in our relationship as mother and son.

We shall become friends.

But for the moment, I'm sad. And already missing the too few years that led up to this moment.

Who would have thought it would come to this?
I have been replaced by a text message.

The Real Sixth Sense by Diane LeBleu

2008-04-16T04:13:00.000-07:00

There is a mysterious power that exists in this universe – no, it’s not ‘the Force’, it’s not those possessed by our benevolent Creator, it’s that ability for children to sense when Mom is up and moving around in the HOUSE.

This ability is seen largely in toddlers and manifests itself in a number of ways to foil any plans Mom has to have a bit of ‘me time’. In trying to carve out a small bit of my day that is reserved for just me, I set my alarm for the ghastly hour of 5:00 AM thinking that I will have at least an hour or an hour and a half before I have to get the big ones up and off to school. I sneak downstairs in the quiet of the dark house, turning on only one light in the kitchen and stealthily pour myself a cup of coffee. I sit down in the living room or at the kitchen table to catch on some admin or just rest in contemplation of the upcoming adventures the day is sure to bring. I don’t even go outside to get the newspaper because that would involve opening the noisy garage door. No matter how quiet I am – THEY KNOW. I see a little blonde three year old head peek around the corner to greet me or I hear the monitor begin to buzz with cries or the music of one of her three fish tanks placed on the side of the crib to keep her company while I finish my coffee. In my many years of trying to keep to this routine, I may have finished maybe two cups of coffee before sending it to the microwave for reheat since it is so hard to get up when someone is crowding your lap.

How do they know that Mom is on the radar? Is it some scent that I exude? Or is there an internal alarm (that infernal alarm, as my mother-in-law refers to it because she too knows of this power) that goes off in their minds that signals a desire for hugs, kisses and refill of a sippy cup? How is it that no matter what complex ploys I contrive, my me-time is always thwarted by this hyper-awareness of Mom activity.

Mothers that try to work from home with children on the premises know this truth about the Real Sixth Sense these little people possess. Mary Poppins or another Super Nanny could be keeping them company with all kinds of games or crafts and they would still know that Mom was working behind closed doors. If I somehow manage to hide myself away unbeknownst to them, I cannot surface for food or another cup of coffee until all my work is done because once they see me, it is all over. I have learned over the years that I either need to leave the house or they do, if I am to be productive as I need to be in my tightly-budgeted and closely-constrained work time.

Me-time cannot begin after the kids are in bed either. My husband is lucky to get a passing nod most days and I am always the last one in line for any recreational activity I have any energy for after the dinner dishes have been done, laundry folded and put away, and backpacks and lunches readied for the morrow. I get two pages into my book and I am snoozing my way to a new day.

Today I took a badly-needed personal day. That is, instead of going to work, I sent my children to pre-school and stayed home alone to write and get caught up on personal admin. My husband has had to do some traveling for his job and I am home with my brood of four. I am still reeling from the guilt of playing hooky (where did this word come from, by the way?) but I hope that in time, I will get over it. A quiet home with no interruptions during daylight hours is some consolation. As is a brief rest for lunch outside on a bright, sunny (and not humid) spring day to finish a novel I started some time ago.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back on routine, getting up pre-dawn to start my day anew. I’ll tiptoe down the stairs – hoping against hope that there isn’t a sleeping child on the floor outside my room or on the couch awaiting my imminent arrival. I’ll never profess to understand the power of this power – but someday there will come a day (and soon, I am told) when I’ll have more than enough me-time and I’ll treasure the days when there was sleepy toddler awakened by her Mommy Sixth Sense and waiting for me to share my morning.

More Than I Could Chew by Elizabeth McIntosh

2008-04-15T03:34:00.000-07:00

I am not demanding when it comes to gifts. My list (when I go to the trouble to make one) can be summed up as practical verging on boring. For some time now I have been dropping hints to my family that I wanted a cake platter and dome. And not sly, subversive hints. In fact, lately they have been something more akin to, “Hey honey, look at this cake dome. It’s on sale for $12.99. It sure would be nice to have that for Christmas.” Seems like a simple, straight-forward request. Apparently not. Maybe the hubby thought he was doing my rear-end a favor since of course once I have a cake platter I will of course be compelled to bake something to go on it, and then of course I will be compelled to eat it. Whatever the reason—and I suspect the only reason has been lack of effort—up until a few weeks ago I still had no cake platter. But I do now.
I returned home from my annual Bunco Christmas party not with a ridiculous white-elephant gift destined to collect dust on a shelf until next year, but with a mighty-fine, shiny, glass cake platter and dome. That was a Sunday night. Monday and Tuesday were spent sifting through recipes to decide what cake should christen the new platter. The possibilities were overwhelming. There was always the new bundt pan to consider, sitting on the shelf itching to be baked in. In the end, however, I went for the two-layer poppy seed cake with lemon curd icing. Because, after all, our lemon tree had yielded an abundant harvest this winter. So, of course, the cake had to have lemons. Never mind the fact that I didn’t have two 8-inch cake pans. Let nothing stand in my way. After a few unsuccessful calls to my neighbors I was stuck using my one 9-inch cake pan, and my one 9-inch spring-form pan. So what if one was dark and one was light (I now know this boils down to different baking times), and sure the cake would be vertically less grand than it should be. Not about to be deterred now, I plowed on.
Despite the mismatched pans, the cake turned out beautiful, and it looked marvelous atop the new platter, so I was thrilled to share it with my neighbors that Wednesday evening. Everyone raved. Nobody even noticed that one layer was slightly more well done than the other. Fortunately no one was in any danger of a surprise drug test, because the quantity of poppy seeds would have guaranteed a failure. And that was only using two-thirds of the amount called for.
The recipe had also required six egg yolks. Not wanting to waste the whites (normally this somewhat pinchy tendency is seen in someone who has survived the Depression—ruling that out, it must be the repressed German in me), I naturally put them in the fridge until I could think of a use for them. Hopefully it wouldn’t involve some other dish that I did not yet possess. At first I thought I’d make a lemon meringue pie. Kill two birds with one stone, egg whites and lemons. And then I remembered my grandmother’s chocolate chip meringue cookies, aka “forgotten cookies.” My sister Amy had the recipe. I called her. She couldn’t find it. Call Mom. Five minutes later I had the recipe in hand. But no time to make the cookies. Thus, the whites sat peacefully in the fridge for a few days. Family members were warned not to throw them away. Would they go bad? I assured myself that no they would not, or at least no more so than the whole eggs sitting next to them still in their shells.
A few days later, with only three million other things to do, I set out to make the cookies. The recipe called for two egg whites, two cups of sugar, vanilla, one cup of pecans and a bag of chocolate chips. I had six egg whites. No problem, just triple it. Christmas was only a few days away; they would make great gifts. Mind you this meant using six cups of sugar as well, three cups of pecans, and three bags of chocolate chips! I decided that the sugar probably couldn’t be skimped on. It was bound to be crucial to the structure, but I drew the line at three cups of pecans and three bags of chips—that would get darned expensive. Never did I consider using only part of the egg whites. Nothing gets wasted around here.
Ingredients out and mixer at the ready and there I was beating the egg whites. I think at this point I was still in denial. I refused to believe that a single recipe would have been enough, and honestly how many cookies could six measly egg whites truly make? It is important to mention at this time also that I knew full well that all of these cookies had to go in the oven at the same time. It is the nature of the recipe that the cookies go into a 350 degree oven, the oven gets turned off, and then they sit there all day or overnight, forgotten—hence the name, until they cool and harden. I have one normal size oven, and three cookie sheets.
But there I was, whisking away. Time for the sugar, the six cups of sugar. I have never made anything, anything with even three cups of sugar. (Go fill a bowl with six cups of sugar and imagine putting all of it into one batch of cookies.) Gradually it went in, and gradually the batter began taking on the consistency of glue. I folded in the chocolate chips and pecans, gave it one last stir and began scooping teaspoonfuls onto my three cookie sheets. As you might imagine I had more than enough for my one oven. In fact, it only held two cookie sheets. Anyone else at this point would maybe have considered dumping the rest in the trash. Not me. I grabbed the phone. My neighbors are getting rather used to these frantic calls. I suspect Mark keeps an extra sack of onions on hand for my weekly onion emergency. Eventually they will have my number blocked but until then, what are neighbors for if not to rescue me from my cooking catastrophes?
There I was at 8 am on the Saturday before Christmas in my pajamas driving across the creek with a bowl full of what was quickly becoming the sweetest cement in the world, and two already filled trays of cookies. (I had resorted to using the top part of a broiling pan in the absence of another cookie sheet.) Neighbor number one’s oven was quickly at capacity, and lucky for me, neighbor number two also had an available oven. In the end, I had eight dozen cookies spread throughout three households.
Was it worth it? Here we are two weeks later and I still have over half of them sitting in a tin on my coffee table. When a cookie is that loaded with sugar the most any self-respecting person can tackle is generally, well, one. (I did the math, by the way, and the frightening truth is that each cookie contained one Tablespoon of sugar!) I’ve managed to force down two, but by then my teeth are aching in protestation. Even my boys are waving the white flag. Sweet little Ian (who has been known to consume an entire bag of Hershey kisses) said, “Can I just have a half?” Looking at the four dozen “forgotten cookies” now forgotten, I am almost willing to admit that possibly I bit off more than I could chew. Although, there is still time. They’re not bad yet. It would certainly be a shame to waste them after all that effort and teamwork. I wonder how well they will ship. If all else fails I bet they will make fine bait for the next animal that tries to take up residence in our garage. But that’s another story. To think, all of this started with a new cake platter. You know, my hubby just might have known what he was doing—or not doing--after all.

Sock Stress by Elizabeth McIntosh

2008-04-10T16:13:00.000-07:00

Attention all inventors: Please, I beg you, design a sock for my son. I even have some ideas to get you started. And I offer them with no strings attached (heaven forbid there should be stray strings!). I want no royalties, no credit whatsoever. The peace of mind knowing that a morning will pass in my house without sock stress is payment aplenty. Allow me to explain.

My son is not unlike the famous Princess and the Pea, capable of detecting a miniscule lump, bump, or crease in the fabric of his sock. Anything slightly awry can wreak havoc on our already tenuous morning ritual.

Over time we have increased our chances of success by eliminating all offending socks and stocking only one brand. (Thank you Champion.) But brand alone is no where near enough. They must also be the right style and, of course, the correct size. We are allowed a minimal amount of flexibility when it comes to style, but size is set in stone (regardless of foot growth), and any sudden change can be downright disastrous.

Take, for example, our most recent attempt to upgrade. Current shoe size is 3 ½. Current sock size is Medium. Current sock supply was dwindling. The possibility of locating two perfectly matching socks free of holes was decreasing. My husband bravely set out to purchase new socks. Thinking logically—given the discrepancy between shoe and sock size—he decided it was high time to move on up. He took the plunge and returned home with eight pairs of stark white, hole-free, size Large, Champion socks. Having been through this once or two hundred times, I saw the whole series of events play out in my head.

Initially there was excitement that his foot was so gigantic to warrant a larger size. What are a few bumps compared to the thrill of having a bigger foot? The euphoria of this boost to his self image got us through the first few mornings. I should take comfort in this baby step forward. This is progress, I remind myself. But alas, as I knew it would, the honeymoon came abruptly to an end.

Day three and no longer on cloud nine of big-footedness, the reality of lumpy socks came crashing down upon him. Off they came, and there we were, scrambling to track down a matching set of Medium socks. Once again, I remind myself that this is progress. In the recent past, and likely again in the future, this would have erupted into full-blown mayhem. Shoe hurling, door slamming, backpack slinging anarchy. But the planets were only slightly out of alignment on this occasion and after a minor amount of name calling (Dad was of course demonized for purchasing the evil, too-large socks in the first place), we had acceptable replacements and life was good.

Although we have made slight progress towards sock liberation, I have some thoughts to help ease the burden not only on my family but the countless others who suffer from sock stress. I envision a spray-on/peel-off sock. Form fitting and lump free. Disposable, yes. Not so good in these times of reduce, reuse, recycle. I suppose the fact that we would be reducing meltdowns doesn’t satisfy the environmentalists. Why not focus on reuse instead? Surely there’s some underutilized industrial by-product out there that would make the perfect spray-on sock. Something that once it’s peeled off can go straight into the compost bin. There, reuse and recycle all in one. It will be years before anyone discovers the revolutionary material leeches carcinogenic chemicals into our children’s feet and eventually into our vegetables through the compost. But alas, I’m just a Mom desperate for a meltdown free morning. Let the inventors and the scientists figure out the details. Just give me some stress-free socks, and maybe a bulk discount.

How many ways are there to say no without actually saying no?

2008-04-03T04:21:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books, “I Don’t Know How She Does It’ by Allison Pearson. I love fictional Kate Reddy’s struggles with career and family in some very familiar real life scenarios. In this case, Kate is describing her experience of dealing with the fact that she will not be putting her five-year-old daughter Emily to bed (again) that evening and trying not to disappoint her (again) for the absences Kate’s demanding career were having on the family. In my case, my desire to say no but also to not disappoint is related to the decision of taking a family pet. You see, my son wants a dog.

There are so many reasons to say no to this request. First, we are a family of two adults and four children and a cat. We have enough mouths to feed as it is and with our astronomical grocery bill being what it is today, we may all soon be eating dog food. Second, there is not enough time in the day already to tend to the needs of the human inhabitants of our home much less the furry four-legged critters. Our cat, Maggie, is the sweetest, most tolerant cat on the planet. Frankly, I do not know why she sticks around. She is mauled by my toddler and is only fed when my three year old remembers to dump out her food that I have to hide in the laundry room behind the door (so she can eat a meal in peace away from my none-too-gentle toddler). Most days, she subscribes to the fend-for-yourself meal ideology we have at our house – she brings in lizards (dead and alive), birds (dead and alive), mice, butterflies, cicadas, and who knows what else. Her favorite place to play and eat is under our dining room table. We have a dark carpet there that allows her to hide her recent kill without too much notice. Before every major holiday, we have to do a carcass sweep so as not to offend visiting guests. Which brings me to my third point, I’m not much of a housekeeper, obviously, and having dog hair, dog smell, dog footprints on my white tile floor would most certainly put me over the edge of this fine balance I am trying to maintain as a modicum of clean in my home.

There is part of me that wants to say yes to my son’s desire for a dog. He is the sweetest, most sensitive little boy I know and I know he would take good care of a dog and play with it (when he is not at school or at friends homes, or at baseball, football, swim practice). He is also the only boy in the middle of three sisters and is completely out numbered – a dog for Travis might make up for some of the estrogen that threatens to overwhelm our house some days. Travis brings home his journal from school weekly for me to add a response to his entries. So far, he has asked for a dog, a hamster, a fish, and a ferret. I have to keep saying no and I fear one of these days I will cave and we may end up with ….. a parrot?

Whenever I have a moment of weakness, however, all I have to do is stick my head out my door to see the dog walkers out at 5am with a leash and a poop bag and then I have my resolve back. I am just a few months away from getting my last baby out of diapers and the last thing I want to do is to start scooping poop off the sidewalk at all hours of the morning or night. My son insists that this would be his job but I am an old, wise woman of 38 and I know how the world works when it comes to kids and pets. Moms gets a majority of the tasks related to pet maintenance
and right now my ‘to do’ list is full.

My son came into my bedroom, which doubles as a home office for me and my husband. When we first moved into our five bedroom house, we had one child with another on the way. We wondered how we would fill the space of our house. Like too much closet space attracting clutter, we were able to fill all the bedrooms of our home with children and now have to make use of our master suite to house two desks, computers and printers, and files cabinets. I had a photo frame sitting on the floor (an incomplete dusting project) and Travis picked it up. There is a little blonde boy with blue eyes and a cowboy hat holding a golden retriever puppy. Travis was pestering me – who is this boy? Who is this dog – they are so cute! I told him laughingly, ‘It came with the frame’. He keeps this empty photo frame by his bed so every night he can see the happy boy with his pet dog – an unfulfilled dream for now.

When Travis asks about a dog, my current response is “Let’s talk about it tomorrow” and that usually does the trick. Travis is starting to learn about follow-up, though, so I will soon need to change my tactic and say no without saying no. We are not a dog family – never had one, never wanted one, but who knows, that may some day change. When we adopted our cats from a local PetCo several years ago, I recall calling my husband as I was looking at this darling duo of brother and sister kittens. I told my husband then “Talk me out of taking these kitties home.” Tom was unsuccessful at saying no to me then – perhaps Travis is taking his request to the wrong parent!

The Writing Mamas Salon Comes to Austin!

2008-04-02T20:32:00.001-07:00

Thank you for visiting the Writing Mamas Salon of Austin Blog. We welcome you and any comments you may have about our members’ postings.

As Editor-in-Chief of our new Best Selling Chapter and a contemporary Christian woman, I feel that launching this endeavor has been a divine inspiration. After all, I read about Dawn Yun’s Writing Mamas Salon at Book Passage in Corte Madera, CA in the February 2008 edition of the Costco Connections magazine and I can honestly say that I never read this publication. In an effort to de-clutter my home, mailings such as these usually don’t even make it into the house. They are deposited directly into our big green trash bin in the garage but for some reason I hung on to this one, ostensibly for something to read while my daughters were playing in the bath.

I read about Dawn’s vision of creating an encouraging and fun place for mothers to write and share these stories and I knew that I wanted to be a part of this type of experience. Since I was young, I had always thought about writing but the realities of the need to earn a paycheck and provide for my family has always caused me to put aside my ambitions in this area. After having four children, a full career (pre-children) and numerous part-time jobs since having children, I decided it was time for me to invest some time in myself and my interest in writing. Through Dawn’s encouragement and very detailed best practices for launching our own chapter in Austin based on her extremely successful group (she has grown from just 8 to over 70 regular members in just three years and has helped mentor several of her members into publication) we are conducting our kick-off meeting on Sunday, April 6, 2008.

In another act of grace, I was put in touch with Gloria Parker, who is generously offering her wine bar, Vino 100 in Lakeway, as our meeting location after-hours and free of charge through the duration of the year or until we outgrow the venue. Many thanks to Gloria and Vino 100's co-owner for their kindness and interest in supporting the Writing Mamas Salon of Austin. Gloria will also be one of our first Writing Mamas.

Please check in with us regularly to read our Writing Mamas postings and inspirational photos in the Mamas Gallery. We are going to have some great talent in our group, I know it. We also expect to host some local authors, publishers, and agents to give our members inspiration and a keen look at some of the information about the literary world that only experience can provide.

Watch out Austin – Here come the Writing Mamas!