donuts.

Early this morning, even earlier than breakfast, Ren went downstairs to get a cup of water. While he was down there, he spied a rare treat in our house­—donuts! He grabbed two and started to make his way back upstairs to where I was. B saw him and asked, “Whatcha got, Ren?”

“Donuts.”

“I see you have two. Is one for mommy?”
 
“Yes,” Ren said and continued on his way back upstairs.
  
By the time he got to the top, he had broken one of the donuts in half and handed me half a donut. “Half for you, and half for me,” he said holding up his half, “and another whole donut for me.”

thanksgiving traditions

Early this morning, Ren crawled in bed with me, not something he does every night...anymore. I looked at the clock and thought of early Thanksgiving mornings a few decades ago years ago when my mother was already out of bed to get the turkey in the oven. By the time the rest of the family woke a couple hours later, the house would be filled with the aroma of roasting turkey. And just a few more hours after that, around the formal dining table set with my mother’s finest china and silver, we would all take turns stating what we were most thankful for. Then we would dive into a very traditional Thanksgiving dinner. We filled out plates with turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, yams, rolls, and cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. Truth be told, I only ate the yams for the toasted and gooey marshmallows baked on top, and I never, ever liked the cranberry sauce. I didn’t understand it. Canned and jellied cranberries. It wasn’t until years later when I made cranberry sauce from scratch in my own kitchen that I understood its allure. [People, it is much better homemade.]

Aside from the feast around our own family’s table, we had few other traditions that rarely included large gatherings of family and friends. It wasn’t until after B and I were married that I began to experience that on Thanksgiving. And it wasn’t until years later that we began to forge our own traditions.

Everything changed for us in 2004 when, on Thanksgiving Day, Ashlyn Diane Groshong came home from the hospital. She was seven days old and perfect, and we had no idea what to do with this tiny baby. We asked ourselves why the hospital would think that we were qualified to take her anywhere, let alone to our house. We didn’t have around-the-clock nursing care or the machines that tracked her vitals. We knew nothing about babies, save what I read in a book, and looking back, I can authoritatively state that those books did not prepare me for what was to come. Somehow we made it through that first Thanksgiving Day with Ash and indulged in a feast of cold sandwiches and potato chips and little sleep.

Like that day, our new Thanksgiving traditions still do not include turkey or stuffing or a traditional feast but rather a celebration of our little family being together—dearly missing our parents and brothers and sisters and cousins. Sometimes it’s a day spent in pajamas watching football and Christmas movies and playing games, sometimes a day snowed in at home, sometimes a day spent at church, sometimes a day spent with friends, sometimes eating grilled pizza or chocolate salad. For us, it’s rarely about the feast of food—our kids have never known a traditional Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. They are learning that our traditions are about living a life of gratitude. They are learning that the best things in life are not those measured in money but rather in love and joy and laughter, all the gifts that come from heaven. For that, for Ashlyn, for Ren, and for our family, that is Thanksgiving.

to lock or not to lock

“I’m glad you don’t do that,” said B as he watched tv in bed late last night.

“Do what?” I ask, looking over my book at the tv, “Cross my arms and stand in the middle of the road to scare you as you back out of the driveway?”

“No, give me that disappointing look…” he says nodding toward the woman on the tv.

I bit my lip and laugh that nervous sort of laugh. I knew what was coming next.

“…but I get locked out a lot.”

It’s true, I do lock him out a lot. It’s not so much because I get angry with him and demand he spend a night on the front porch to think about things. Rather, it’s habit. I come in the house and my fingers automatically twist the deadbolt keeping those in, in and those out, out.

“I didn’t mean to lock you out…tonight,” I said. I don’t know how long he knocked on the door before I let him back in.

“The funny thing is tonight, I saw the porch light come on and then I saw you come outside. The least you could do is say hello when you come outside to see me.”

“I didn’t see you, so I thought you were still next door talking to the neighbors. I didn’t want to walk over there and leave the kids alone.”

“I was on the other side of the car.”

“Nope, didn’t see you.”

“I stood up and whistled.”

“No.”

“My bucket of cleaning stuff was right there next to the car. If you would have taken 10 steps, you would have seen me on the other side of the car.”

“Why would I take 10 steps to look on the other side of the car? The car was parked on the street. I didn’t think you would be crouched down in the middle of the street.”

“I was cleaning the wheels and tires to make them all shiny, for you.”

“In the middle of the street?”

“I didn’t feel like getting out the jack, taking off the wheels and cleaning them on the front porch, but I will do that next time if it means that I don’t get locked out of the house.”

our song

Two of my best friends from college just celebrated a milestone wedding anniversary and in recognition shared a link to their song on Facebook. The bride wrote, “Our song. The perfect way to end our 20th anniversary. Please enjoy the music while I slow dance with the love of my life…” Beautiful. 

B and I have a song, too, although I can never remember the name of that song. Today over lunch, I had to ask him again, “What is our song?”

“When I Think of You by Sheriff.”

           

“Oh. Really?”

           

“You remember the first time I sang it to you?”

           

“Yeah,” I blushed. “Well, I remember you singing to me. I didn’t remember the song. The song wasn’t important.”

He first sang our song to me 18 years ago during a snowy Thanksgiving weekend in Colorado. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly three months. B was visiting from Seattle and meeting my parents for the first time. That was the also first time I had heard him sing—I mean really sing. And when he sang, my world stood still and I had to remind myself to breathe. That was when I knew that he was the one I was going to marry.

Over the next few months, we talked as often as we could, which seemed almost every day. I spent a long weekend in Seattle for Valentine’s Day, and a month later he came back to Colorado for my birthday.

“I don’t want to keep doing this long-distance thing,” he announced shortly after we left the airport on Tuesday night.

“I don’t like it either, but I’m close to my family and I like my job here. There’s upward mobility, and it’s a stepping stone to a larger publication,” I said. “I left Seattle because I couldn’t find a job that I really liked.” I also left Seattle because B and I were committed to nothing more than a summer romance. A May through August thing—the funnest relationship I had ever been in—even so, we both agreed at the beginning that it was just for the summer. I moved to Colorado over Labor Day weekend. By the end of September, we realized that there was a lot more there.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll look for a job here.”

He spent the next few days on the phone and in interviews, and he even received a couple job offers. One of the companies paid exactly half of his Seattle salary with even less benefits, and that was the one with the most promise. So, Friday night found us sitting in my car in my driveway having a rather serious conversation, which was quite unusual for us.

“I still don’t want to keep doing the long-distance thing. I think one of us should move, and I think it should be you,” he stated. “I looked for a job here, and it’s not worth it. Your salary won’t be able to make up the difference I would lose.”

“I’m not sure if I will be able to get a good job there, and I don’t want to move back to Seattle and then break up,” I said.

He sat back in his seat and stared out the front window. “I don’t want to be pressured, and I’m not sure that I am ready to make that sort of commitment.”

“No pressure. You just let me know when you are ready.” I wasn’t going to pressure him at all. I would wait. Besides, I was so sure that we were going to get married that I already purchased my wedding gown. It was hanging in my closet. I just didn’t tell him any of that, yet.

That rest of the weekend was remarkable, although ironically, I can’t tell you what we did. I think it was more about of how I felt when I was with him. I know he felt it, too, because on Sunday night, just hours before he returned to Seattle, he said to me, “I’m ready.”

Not quite seven months later on October 15, 1994, we were married. That night, B drove me to a hilltop overlooking Seattle. He put “When I’m With You” on the car stereo. He held me close, singing softly in my ear as we danced behind the car.

Happy Anniversary, B. I still get chills when I’m with you.

            

burned.

I burned dinner tonight. Not all of it. Part of it.

I remembered the dish in the oven only moments before pandemonium ensued. The smoke detector beeped deafeningly. It’s human voice broadcasted with urgency, “Fire, Fire, Fire.” The dog barked incessantly, increasingly louder and in sync with the smoke detector. The girl covered her ears, screamed and ran from the kitchen. B reacted calmly. He handed me the baby after I removed the offending pan from the oven and set it safely to rest away from any fire. He stood under the battle claxon attempting to silence it.

Once the moment was over and there was once again peace in the house, we gathered along the countertop and stabbed at the half burned chicken with a fork.

“I’m not eating that,” Ash declared.

“Why not?” asked B. “What’s wrong with it?”

Ash stared at her father with shock. “Mommy’s not eating any.” True. I wasn’t going to eat any of the chicken anyway, and now there was really no way I was going to have any.

“I’ll eat it.” He took a bite of the chicken, “Crunchy.”

He took another bite and said, “I don’t think it’s supposed to be that black, and it’s a little drier than I usually like it.”

Ash looked at the chicken again, to me and said, “Are you kidding me?”

B took another bite, making a yummy sound.

I don’t know if it was because she was really hungry or if B just made the chicken look so appetizing that Ash eventually reached for a piece of her own. Two.

Before she could take a bite, B intercepted, “Let me help you.” He then picked up a sharp knife and began to butcher the chicken. “The black runs a deep into this piece,” he said examining it. “But I think I can fix it for you.”

By dinner’s end, all but two pieces of the chicken—did I mention they were chicken nuggets?—had been eaten. Those last two pieces had been decidedly declared, in no uncertain terms, to be sawdust, “and none should be subjected to them.”

The funny thing is, it’s not the first time I’ve set off the smoke detector, and it will not be the last. If you want a really good story, just ask B about Christmas morning 1995.

singling out t-shirts

B has a lot of t-shirts, his attire of choice. Over the years he has owned a variety of them, his favorites becoming shabby and threadbare. Periodically, we go through his dresser to remove the most frayed, decrepit, holey and stained, always accompanied with a chorus of “What’s wrong with that one? I don’t see the problem. I can wear that when I’m working around the house.” My duet sings in reply, “You already have 50 work-around-the-house shirts, and still most of the time you choose to work around the house shirtless.” (That’s a fact, not a complaint.)

Eventually we hold a ceremony to severe the bizarre man/t-shirt attachment, and the shirt is surrendered. And over the next few weeks during the customary mourning period, there will be a tear or two welling up in his eyes and a new “favorite” worn almost everyday. I think he wears the same socks, too, in honor of the fallen.

Just the other day, I saw B rolling–instead of folding–his t shirts to fit all of them into his dresser. I wondered if we needed to light the incense and dust off the ceremonial masks. Surprisingly, no. But, somehow a conversation started about some of our old t-shirts, ones that haven’t been seen or worn in, I guess, years.

Me: “What about Eskimo Joe?”

B: “Don’t have him.”

Me: “Me neither.” (We had matching shirts, a gift from my brother.)

B: “I noticed I got back Superman.” (I had borrowed it from him last summer, but now my belly is too big to wear it well.)

Me: “I take it back in the fall after the baby is born.”

(pause)

Me: “What about Singled Out.”

B: “No, I gave that one away.”

Then suddenly I became very sad. You might remember the MTV game show, Singled Out that featured 50 men and women competing for a date with a contestant of the opposite sex. We watched it when we were first married, and I chewed about 20 packs of Hubba Bubba Bubblegum to get that shirt for B, who, every time he wore it, told people that’s how we met. He won me on a game show. His story always made me giggle.

No more Singled Out. I’m not sure what message he’s sending with that, but I think I’m going to take back Superman now.

the mysterious case of the dish fairy

This morning as B is getting ready to leave for work, and I was fixing breakfast for Ash.

Me: I need to empty the dishwasher.
B: It still needs to be emptied? It didn't happen overnight?
Me: No. Apparently the Dish Fairy did not come to our house and empty the dishwasher.
Ash: There's a Dish Fairy?
Me: If there is, she didn't come to our house last night.
Ash: You know, Mommy, I was going to empty the dishwasher for you and put away all the dishes, but now that I know there's a Dish Fairy, I don't have to.

snippets from mother's day

Ash said, “Mother’s Day is not just about you, Mommy.”

~~~

Brent wrote me a card on Mother’s Day. It read, “I heard a quote the other day that said you don’t only marry someone because you love them but because you can’t live without them. I can’t live you. I will always be here for you. I may be plopped down on the couch in front of the TV, but I'm here.

~~~

Our neighbor stopped by and he said, “I told my wife the other day that Kat looked like she had gained weight and not just a little. She’s getting big.” He didn’t just blurt that out when he walked onto our back deck; he waited until we told him that we were expecting. And then he said, “Congratulations. But, you look great otherwise.”

a rather blue confession

(From the 2007 vault.) This one falls under the category of: You never think it will happen to you, but…well, I don’t think I need to finish this sentence.

It’s was late morning here on the eastern side of the country and with a couple of fun client projects sitting on my desk making good progress, I decided to take a short break and go for a Big Gulp–a college habit I just never seemed to break. Ash and I grabbed some loose change from B’s giant jar and hopped into the car headed for 7-11. As we pulled into the parking lot, she started on her chorus of “I want a Slurpee, I want a Blue Slurpee.”

Innocently and unsuspectingly we walked into the near-empty convenience store. The Slurpee machine, positioned just so under the glistening fluorescent spotlights, shot an unblinking come-hither stare from the back wall.

“Ohhhh, there is Blue Slurpee!” sang the girl.

From its rotating chamber the sweet aerated frost gave us a just peek into the magical, mysterious arctic wonderland of Slurpeetown and entranced us.

We picked out the smallest of the cups and domed lids, and in the course of Ash’s cheers, I put the cup to the machine and gently pulled the handle. Nothing happened. I pushed the handle back to the start position and tried again.

Nothing happened. I pushed the handle back to the start.

Ash began the second chorus of the Blue Slurpee song, which is just like the first, a little bit louder and a little bit worse. And, ever so determined to satisfy the girl’s desire for the rimy azure substance, I applied a little more pressure and pulled the handle as far as it would go…nothing, nothing and then suddenly the machine rumbled to life. In what can only be described as a blue flash, the machine erupted. All I saw before my eyes was a swirly blue explosion. Blue everywhere. The sheer force of the slurpeeclastic eruption ripped the domed-lidded cup from my hand and spewed icy-cold slush in all directions for several feet consuming all that lay in its path.

A second later when it was all over, the machine stared back at me as it had before, only this time not beckoning but mocking me and the girl, frozen in our tracks, covered from head to toe in Ash’s coveted Wahoo Blue Vanilla.

The Slurpee-machine attendant slowly poked his head from his hiding spot on the other side of the hotdog rotisserie and said, “Uh, here’s a towel. You might, uh, want to wash your face, and when you’re ready, that’ll be $2.50 for the Slurpees.”

was it the tacos or the pineapple?

Last night, baby was moving a lot. For the first time, I could feel the kicks outside of my tummy. I asked B if he wanted to feel the baby. He rolled over and placed his hand on my tummy just as a super power kick thrust from my belly.

He asked, "Are you sure that wasn't the tacos?"

I know our Mexican food gets a little aggressive, but we had quiche with homemade french bread and fruit salad for dinner.

walk or run, hamster style

Ash and I like to walk to her preschool when we can. It's exactly one mile door to door.
This morning after a brief discussion on finding sneakers and getting them on to feet as quickly as possible:

Me: I don't know if we have time to walk to school this morning.
Ash: I really want to walk, Mommy.
Me: Okay, but we'll have to walk really fast.
Ash: We could run!
Me: (Five months pregnant) Let's stick to walking really fast.

Ash: (One third mile from home) We should have taken the car.
Me: You said we should walk.
Ash: I changed my mind as soon as we got outside.
Me: You didn't say anything.
Ash: But I was thinking it.

Ash: (Half mile from the house) We really should have taken the car, Mommy.
Me: (Pulling her along, only to increase my calorie burn) We're almost there.
Ash: Mommy, you're walking too fast. What do you think I am, a hamster? I am not a hamster.

We made it to her preschool in 21 minutes. Then I walked home. It took me 20 minutes.

Barnyard Fun

Today over breakfast.
Ash: Mommy, you're a cow.
Me: It's not very nice to call someone a cow, unless they really are.
Ash: You're a horse.
Me: No, I don't want to be a horse, either.
Ash: Then you're a funny duck.

the twilight of my sleep

5:10 am
Very loud music interrupts my dream about me trying put fuzzy caterpillars back into a test tube in a hospital hallway. The caterpillars were unwilling. One tried but got stuck half in and half out. The rest attempted to make a run for it.

5:11 am
Music still blaring.

5:11:30 am
B: (Rolling over toward the nightstand and slapping at the alarm.)
Me: That’s some fancy song you’re playing.
B: (Nothing.)

7:00 am
Me: I wonder if B is still here. (Little did I know then that I received my first email from B’s office at 6:15 am)

7:01 am
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzz

7:15 am
Ash: Good morning, Mommy.
Me: Good morning, sweetie.
Ash: I had a really good dream last night. I had this elephant that only had one eye…
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzzz

7:18 am
Ash: Mommy, I said “good morning” to my lady bug. (She captured one in her room last night) He’s not moving. His leg is stretched out to the side. He must still be sleeping. Come look.
Me: (Knowing there’s no urgency). Let him sleep a few more minutes.

7:20 am
Ash: Mommy, I can’t find my dog ears. The one’s I got from Kitty’s house.
Me: They’re hanging on your closet door.
Ash: I looked there.
Me: They’re in the chair downstairs. (There’s only one chair to which I am referring, and that’s the one where she piles all her toys. A staging area, if you will, before the toys are transported back upstairs.)
Ash: I don’t want to go down there by myself.
Me: Give Mommy a few more minutes.
Ash: Two more minutes..

7:21 am
Ash: Mommy, I can’t find Sean.
Me: Huh?
Ash: Sean the Dog. I can’t find Sean.
Me: He’s in the chair downstairs.
Ash: Oh. (Pause) Get up Mommy.
Me: A couple more minutes.

7:25 am
Ash: Good morning, sleepyhead. Time to get up.
Me: Okay. A few more minutes.
Ash: Two more minutes. And that’s it.

7:30 am
Ash: Mommy, look at me.
Me: (Peeking with one eye)
Ash: See, I cut my hair.
Me: What did you do? (I open both eyes.)
Ash: I cut my hair right here. See…right here. (She points to the front.)
Me: (Putting my glasses on and straining to see just how much of her long, blond locks she hacked off with her zebra-handled safety scissors.) Why did you do that?
Ash: Because I think it looks cool.
Me: (Damage done. No urgency) Very cool. Please don’t cut off anymore. Let’s leave that to the professionals.
Ash: Okay, Mommy.

7:35 am
Ash: Here’s the hair I cut off. (She has it in her hand)
Me: What are you going to do with that?
Ash: I am going to make sweater for my bear.
Me: I don’t think there is enough to knit an entire sweater.
Ash: A small sweater. I think we should get out the sore.
Me: The sore?
Ash: Not sore, Mommy. SEW–ER!
Me: The sewing machine?
Ash: Yes, that’s it. You can sew a sweater for my bear.
Me: No, I don’t think so.
Ash: Okay. But you have to make me a dog costume. (Party at preschool next week.)
Me: Later, okay?

7:38 am
Ash: Good morning, sleepyhead. Time to get up.
Me: (Big sigh.)
Ash: (Pulling back the curtains right next to the bed.) See, the sun is up.
Me: Two more minutes.
Ash: And that’s it.

7:40 am
Ash: Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…
Me: Sssshhhh.
Ash: Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…

7:41 am
I hear the click to the dog’s kennel, his door opening and him running toward my bed. That’ll do it. I throw back the covers and roll out of bed
Me: We need to get the dog outside.
Ash: (Giggling and dancing) Mommy's up, Mommy's up, Mommy's up…

a plot to take over the world

To All Comrades in Arms:

Yesterday our home-front mainframe was overtaken by a diabolical and extremely invasive mutant-space virus. Our frontline firewall and two anti-virus protective shields failed in the face of, I’m sorry to say, a far superior technology. This malevolent alien hacked through our entire system assuming command and disabling environmental controls. All was not lost. Most personnel and data were already safely stored off-site, keeping casualties low. It was through the self-sacrifice of a few brave scribes, email we call them, that any residual data made it to the escape pods and saved.

When the dust settled in the aftermath of the initial onslaught, the intrepid Commander B was able to decipher the enemy’s despicable tactics and take back control of our system. That battle was fought quickly and swiftly. At every turn he was able to out maneuver and outwit the enemy. Once again, our lines have been secured and reinforced, and the alien was completely eradicated.

Ahhhhh

I love my bed. Every night I pull back the covers, stack my pillows just so for the optimum comfort and then sink deep into my bed. “Ahhh.” Sometimes it’s, “Ohhhh. Nice.” And for those nights when fatigue has come upon me and words fail, it’s more of a “Ahnnnnzzzzz.”

For as much as I love my bed, I spent precious little time there last night. Sometime after the “Ahhh,” and my arrival at sleepytown, the girl called out a terse, “Mama!” I bounded out my bed to find her wandering in circles in her room.

“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she says still walking in circles.
“Do you need to go potty?”
“No.”
“Did you have bad dream?’
“No.” Still walking. Sleep walking.

I try to direct her back to bed. She was able to skirt my gentle guiding and then duck the more direct marshalling. What finally worked was a shepherding approach where I led her to her bed and crawled in myself. As soon as I pulled back the covers and lied down – no “Ahhh” in her bed – she snuggled in close. And then, for the next two hours, where there should have been blissful rest, there was much disturbance from the 4-year-old spanking and kicking machine. Kick. Roll. Squirm. Whack. Poke. Push. Wiggle. Punch.

A very short while after receiving a forceful stomach kick and sharp chest jab, I returned to my bed. I slid under my covers and sank into the “Ahhh.” And then nothing. Nothing but the sound of the frigid Nor'easter rain on the window. Nothing but the dog snoring. Nothing but B talking in his sleep, interrupted only with the occassional wall kick coming from the girl's room. And nothing but me, wide awake, eyes like saucers, watching the seconds blink away on the alarm clock. Nothing, and two more hours of that.

So here I am. Email. Blog. Work. Oh, but tonight, that “Ahnnnzzz” will come early and it will come sweet.

confessions of a rock star

Just after sound check this morning at Musikfest, in Bethlehem, PA, an elderly man approached B, who he surmised as the leader of the rock band and said, “You’re too loud.”

B smiled and said, “Thank you.”

three dollar pants

Ash and I went to TJ Maxx, where I found a pair of jeans for $3. I actually said outloud, "How bad can they be? Jeans! Three bucks!" As soon as I stepped into them, I knew how bad it could be. I blinked, and gagged and stood staring in mirror, fixated on the horror before me. Ash - who let out a small "eeeek" - turned her face from the mirror, covered her eyes said, "Ewwww, Mommy. Take them off. Now!!" We agreed that was the worst pair of jeans ever. Noone should ever wear them. Not even for $3. Those pants should be burned.

the church

There's one line in the Apostle's Creed that Ash interprets as, "The Holy Kathryn Church." Amen and amen.

toy v. socks, rematch

A cool and drizzly Wednesday morning. Purple Day at preschool.

I walk into the girl’s room, as cheerfully as possible, flip on the light and announce, “Ash, time to get up.”

“Don’t. I’m sleeping.”

I ignore her and begin to rummage through her drawers for purple clothes.

“Here’s a purple top,” and then turning toward the girl, “Ash, it’s show-n-tell day. Something purple.”

I keep rummaging, “Here’s a purple sock.”

“I don’t want to take that. Can I take a toy?”

B, nearby, “Are you sure? No one else will bring one.”

“No, daddy. I want to take a purple toy.”

easter dinner

At the home of some good friends, as our host is carving the ham.

Ash: Is that pig?

G: Yes, it is.

Ash: I don’t want any.

Silent pause.

Ash: Is it dead?

G: Yes, it is.

Ash: Okay. I’ll have some.