More Snow, More Blessings

Last night it started again: the most amazing fluffy white crystals swarming my car. I think I've already mentioned how much I love snow. I was at work when I discovered it, opening the gym door to the swirling surprise. How beautiful it looked falling on the old blue Victorian that serves as our Parish Center building. The snow made the old house appear younger, the landscape surrounding it no longer seemed to be a parking lot, put instead a stately white property.


This morning the view from my bedroom window was so amazing. Snow is such a beautiful gift from heaven during such a dismal season. I spent the morning eating my breakfast with MLK Jr.'s voice bellowing in the background. There are so many blessings, and reasons for hope: a leisurely day off, beautiful weather, and the gift of family. Happy Birthday Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Here's the view from my window. The picture doesn't really do it justice.

Snow Down

Let's talk about snow. I love it for many reasons. For me, it's all or nothing. Give me a blizzard. I like to shovel it. Yes, especially when it's newly packed, untrodden, smooth. As I scoop it up and toss it, I'm reminded of white icing on a stacked wedding cake, so pure and sweet. Snow is delicious.

Am I on a diet? No. I was just shoveling a path to my mailbox today and thinking how snow makes the landscape look so much more beautiful in the winter. Sticking to the frames of houses and naked trees, it illuminates the lines of every structure and plant. It covers the spots in my fence that need repair, the leaves I never raked, the barren garden. A real snowstorm is the only one worth while. It has the power to force life to a halt. Snow is a trillion white sticky notes falling from the sky on which God has written,

"Slow Down!"

I was born in a snow storm. When I was under the age of ten I remember high piles of new fallen snow in my yard. So much white that the road disappeared and my father would walk us down to the the hill near Robert Moses Causeway. We'd stamp down the street in boots and layered clothes pulling red plastic sleds. The sounds were muffled, and suburbia transformed into a magical white crystal forest.

Back home I'd lay my gloves and hat on the radiator and then sit on top of the pile. There's nothing like a seat of old-fashioned hot pipes. My feet were thawed, my cheeks ruddy from the cold. The only logical thing to do next was watch television and eat popcorn. Life is good.

Wedding Gift From Santa

(This post is for Marty Meehan. Thank you.)

1999. That was the year I wedged Santa Claus in between a gray military blanket and a stack of college textbooks marked "USED" on the top shelf of the living room closet in the first house we rented as newlyweds. It was December 26th, my husband's birthday, and he was working odd jobs after leaving a deplorable teaching position in Bedford Stuyvesant, NY. His salary was being held because of bureaucratic red tape. He could no longer wait to be paid and afford the commute. It was a dismal place to work, an overcrowded middle school where he taught English and gym on the fly in addition to social studies, (the area of his certification). He had no paper, no chalk and no experience. His scenic walk to the school from the train station included rotting dead cats in a gutter. (The idea that children have to live, and try to be educated, in such an environment is another story altogether.)

I wasn't really surprised when he came home from work one evening and told me he had quit. I was at the stove stirring noodles, and not at all shocked, but crying, nevertheless. Our rent was $800 a month back then, and I made $700 every two weeks working in a parochial school. We had student loans, combined single-life debt, utilities, you-name-it. It was beyond tight, and I was not used to sharing.

I took down my Christmas decorations the morning after the holiday, irritated by being financially pinched for the first time in my lucky little life. I got right into this paper mache Santa's face, whispering some expletives into his glue-encrusted ear plus: "There's no Santa, after all."

I could not believe it. ME, someone who LOVED CHRISTMAS, was suddenly "Scrooged" by a bad case of fear. I didn't know how long we could survive on my salary, and whatever temporary situation my husband got until a teaching position came along. He was working as an individual aid for a disabled boy in a local school district; he had no health insurance. He had to go to clinics for Veterans to receive prescriptions. Creditors were already starting to call us, since it was pretty inevitable that some of them had to wait to be paid.

Regardless of my faithless declaration, Santa's smug grin remained beneath the layers of blanket and books. I pulled his head out by the hat to check, twice, then push him into the pile until he was no longer visible. This falling out between Santa and I was not something I mentioned to anyone, but I hoped God saw it, because I was mad.

I'm what you might call an early bird. I did things on time before I had kids. I am dependable. The day my husband left his job was the first time I ever burned pasta. "How could you just quit like that?" You're married now!?" I said, exasperated by his fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants personality, a quality that, ironically, I used to think was so cool. Then the water boiled over.

Although I talked fresh to Santa, I still had hope that God would help us through those rocky first months of marriage. I bet God knew that if I really was done with Saint Nicholas, he would have ended up in the trash can. In the closet, beneath the pile of stuff, Santa kept smiling, but I didn't have to look.

One day before the new year, the closet shelf collapsed and the phone rang while I was cleaning up the mess. When my husband hung up, he had a full teaching position with health benefits, thanks to a wonderful friend. I was standing there with the blanket in one hand, and my rejected Saint Nick in the other. I looked down at the paper Santa, shocked by the generous belated Christmas gift. In light of this surprise blessing, he was placed in a spot of honor until Easter 2000.

Looking back to that Christmas now, I'm amazed by how blessed we are. Despite the current grim national economic situation, we own a home and can save each month for the first time ever. Every Christmas when I put that Saint Nicholas on the table, I think of the day I told him off, and secretly thank God for not giving up on us.

Time To Hit "Pause"

It’s Saturday night and we’re on the babysitter’s dime, supposed to be escaping like a single couple with no responsibilities; (pay no attention to the cell phone in my coat pocket on vibrate). Instead I’m stranded in the back seat of a complete stranger’s SUV with three-year-old twins I just met, who are bouncing out of their car seats. We were supposed to be going out on a date; (I can TOO still call it that after nine years of marriage, because there is no expiration date on the word.)

Why am I paying a babysitter so I can watch the children of strangers? My dear husband, whom I affectionately call “Milk Man,” (for reasons involving his diligence in bringing home dairy products), saw someone stranded in the middle of the road. This someone’s car ran out of gas. I thought Milk Man was the only one in the universe who had that happen to him, but apparently, there is another man whose gas gage is broken, and we just found him. What luck. Now I'm watching the stranger drive away in my car, sitting in my seat, with my husband, to get gas. I think I’m jealous.

“Are you the teacher?” asks the boy twin in the fuzzy sweater. He has tight curly hair like the runner up on the first season of American Idol whose name is now a Trivial Pursuit question. Apparently, this boy loves to sing too, (about poop). “No," I say, shutting the car door because it’s getting cold. “I’m just a mommy.” The twin sister is amazed. “That’s your job, just MOMMY?” She’s chewing the strings on her pink coat. “Pretty much,” I shrug, not expecting to need a copy of my resume to supervise preschoolers for a few minutes. “Oh,” they say in unison, then grow quiet.

Milk Man and the stranger pull up with gas. The dad sticks his head in the window and asks, “How were they?” I tell him his kids are beautiful and adorable. He laughs. “Spend a whole day wit em,” is his response. I’m thinking this man is a dumb ass. I look down at the floor of his car so he can't read my expression. I climb back into the passenger seat of my own vehicle, ready AGAIN to go out to dinner.

After pouring the gas into the stranger's car, Milk Man stands back, watching it not start. I sigh. "I think you need a jump," he yells. Both men look up at me, and I know what’s coming. Next I’m back in the SUV with Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, as the men drive off to an auto shop to borrow jumper cables. “I have two bedrooms,” shouts the girl. “My green one is in my daddy’s house and my pink Dora bedroom is in my grandma’s house.” “Wow” I say. Meanwhile, I have to start directing traffic. Dozens of cars operated by oblivious, speeding drivers talking on cell phones, buzz around the stuck SUV. I stick my head in the window to ask the kids how they are doing. They’re playing "tickle."

The men return with cables. I get into the back again with the children, and shut the car door, as my husband and the stranger try to start it. “Where’s mommy?” I whisper-ask the kids. The little girl leans toward my ear, like she has a great secret. “Daddy was yelling at Mommy again, so she went to grandma’s house.” I look over at the twin brother. He’s shaking his head in grave agreement. “Oh,” I say, upset for them. “That’s very hard for you.” They both nod, and stare off into space.

The car is running now and the stranger thanks us. I say goodbye to the kids and walk away. When I look back they’re still waving, and I feel compelled to bless them secretly, and thank God for my good husband, whom I love so much.

News FLASH! Animals Flock to Christie Yard Possibly Searching for an Ark

Did you really think I'd give up on bird watching that easily? After my little dinner joke, which prompts screams of horror from Big Brother, and the scolding: "Mommy, Don't be RI-DICK-OO-LUS!" from the princess, I decide not to teach Milk Man a lesson. I cook something other than birdseed for dinner, choosing a recipe from my treasured Campbell's Soup cookbook. Later that evening, I refill the feeders.
(A FEW DAYS LATER...)

Sometimes, in order to to feel more calm and centered, I sit at the kitchen table and say a Rosary. Today, the princess joins me. She has her own colorful wooden beads that were a gift from grandmama M. During the prayer I get up to pull baby brother out from a tangle of curtains. There in the window perched on one of my new feeders is a beautiful male finch. He's looking directly at me, chirping loudly. Meanwhile, I hear thunder, and strangely, the sun is shining.

I inch closer to the window and peer out. Down on the grass below the feeder is a big frog. I grab my camera and try to get a picture. Then I go outside to safely relocate the frog before Hell Hound finds it. I hold him carefully and bring him to the back of the yard near the old cemetery. He jumps safely through the chain link fence. Walking back to the house, I spot a large Monarch butterfly. In the clouds ahead, I see breaks of sun light and lightening at the same time. Milk Man calls me from work with a weather report. "What's the weather like by you? It's raining buckets here. I bet you're going to get this storm soon."

Now, if I see a swarm of locusts and possibly, a giraffe, then I'll know for sure that God is trying to tell me something.

House Arrest: A Blessing!

Isolation can be a phase of life that makes a person wiser. A stay-at-home mom experiences a sense of isolation, and must come up with creative ways to engage her adult self. Going out and being active, with the children, is very important to maintain sanity. Currently, I own three strollers, and I’m ashamed to say that I have purchased a total of four in my lifetime. None of them are ideal, and that’s why I ended up with four. I’ve got a single, a double, one that a child can stand up and ride on the back, and another double that bit the dust. Big Brother spent so much time in the last one that eventually, the weight of his growing body actually cracked the frame. I drag one of the survivors outside to wash it down with the hose. It’s full of dust from its exile in the basement. As I open the front door, I hear the house alarm beep, alerting the kids, who are playing in the den, that the front door has opened. Big brother runs to the window. “Mommy, where are you going?”

“I’m just outside for a minute. Can keep an eye on your sister and brother?”

Yes, I do realize that I’m asking a five year old to watch a three year old and a one year old. Reader, one has to understand that Hell Hound is not a responsible babysitter, so that leaves me no choice. I remember fondly the good old days of reckless, unlimited freedom. I could walk to the shed at the back of my property all by myself, and no one stopped me. Heck, I might even grab a rake and get some yard work done if the whim struck me.

Today, I have to hurry up and finish washing this stroller before something goes wrong in the house. Big brother is jumping up and down at the window. “Mommy, something terrible and urgent has happened. Come inside immediately!”

I drop the hose and run inside. Baby Brother is eating the Princess’ oatmeal. He looks up at me and exclaims, “MMMMMMMM!” The Princess is missing. However, those are not the problems that Big Brother was referring to. He’s playing a game on Noggin Online and the screen has frozen. I put the baby in the play pen for a minute. “Where is your sister?” Big Brother shrugs. To my right is a trail of clothes on the kitchen floor. I follow it collecting shoes, socks, wet skirt, and wet Care Bears underpants. Then I reach the steps. I call the Princess. Her response is “Sorry Mom. I’m just changing my clothes. Accidents happen!”

As I put the clothes in the laundry, the babysitter rings the bell. Don’t arrest me yet, she is a human over the age of 14. Every Tuesday I go to the nursing home to play Bingo, and until my entourage gets older, that currently requires a real babysitter.

At the nursing home, a dozen elderly folks are watching soap operas in the common room. I smile and greet some as I cross into the dining room where the game takes place. Nearest to the television is Bess, a slight woman with piercing green eyes who was a librarian for many years. “That was when I was young,” she explains. Her daughter is grown and lives in California. Bess looks down at her hands. After a pause she's suddenly glassy-eyed. “It’s sad,” she says. I take her hand and talk her into joining me at Bingo.

We sit with Addie, a Bingo regular. Mike, a war hero, according to his hat, wins five games straight. “He must be cheating again,” I whisper to the ladies at my table. Bess giggles. At our table, we talk in between games about my children and their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Addie is the oldest person I’ve ever met. She’s also one of the most joyful people I’ve ever seen. She fascinates me. During our small talk her eyes light up. “How blessed you are! The children keep you busy. I remember those days…It’s not easy! Before you know it they’ll be grown up and gone. You’ll have your own time again.” An alarm sounds in the distance. One of the residents, who suffers from an illness that causes him to wander and get lost, wears a bracelet that triggers an alarm when the exit doors open. A nurse goes over to assist him.

Addie continues. “Do you know how old I am?”

I do. She asks me this question every time I see her, but I say no, because it makes her happy. “One hundred and four years old!” She almost shouts this fact, proudly. She laughs, because apparently, being that old strikes one’s funny bone.

“What’s your secret, Addie?” I love listening to her, but she has trouble hearing me. I shout my question about four more times. “Well, I stay involved. I’m on the Resident’s Committee. I try to make healthy choices, but mostly, I stay positive. Live in the moment and be satisfied with it, because life changes.” “Bingo!” I say, loud so Addie can hear me. Mike looks up. “This game didn’t start yet,” he yells. Addie looks confused. People are grumbling. I apologize to the whole crowd, and then, leaning close to Addie’s hearing aide I say, “I meant you’re right.”

Zombie

"It is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh from God, love us."

-Charles Dickens

It's 10 p.m.; do you know how long your children will stay asleep? This is the question I find myself frequently asking as I force my eyes shut, sleepy or not, knowing that the baby will be wailing at midnight. It's true to say that I've let myself go slightly in the months following the arrival of child number three, and if not for pure exhaustion, I'd be more self-conscious about my appearance. The heartbeat sound on the baby monitor that is supposed to soothe my little infant gives me nightmares of blue teddy bears who have located the kitchen knives. So I toss and turn, muttering explicit phrases I can claim to not remember saying tomorrow.


Then, just as I'm beginning to drift off peacefully, it starts. It's a whimper that keeps on growing into a full-blown cry. As I sit up, I've got Michael Jackson's song "Thriller" in my head; I feel stiff like a zombie. I pass the mirror on the way to the baby's room and my fears are confirmed. The dark rings under my eyes would secure my part as an extra in the music video. Jackson could come over my house right now to do a remake; my backyard connects to an old cemetery.

I look out the kitchen window. The cemetery is quiet and dark. There's a perfectly spooky fog rising over it beyond the fence. The shed door is open, and my overworked imagination pictures the zombies helpfully shutting it for me as they limp across the lawn. Frowning at the baby, who is now wide-eyed and smiling, I wish he were sleeping. In fact, I'm kind of angry that I'm not sleeping.


I turn on the television to keep myself awake. The baby wants to play "blow on your hair." That's a game we made up, for the daytime. He laughs when he gets some strands to move. Lauren Hutton is speaking to me in an infomercial. She knows about my dark circles, and says it's a sure sign of aging. Maybe she's right, I think. After all, if it weren't for the shampoo commercial she did in 1974, I'd be a Jennifer. Mom must have liked something about her. I change the channel just in time to hear another model advise me to improve myself cosmetically, "because you're worth it," she coos.


The little person I'm holding is cooing too, as he looks up at me like I'm the most fascinating and beautiful person he's ever seen. Then suddenly, he digs into my cheeks with his chubby, sharp-nailed little fingers and smashes his slimy open mouth on my face. My son gives me his first baby kiss, followed by a clinging, joyful hug. My eyes are welling up; only I know this precious moment. Suddenly I'm the Grinch on Christmas morning; this little boy melts my heart. I think I'm okay with living life as a zombie. This midnight cuddle session is a moment of joy, and even Lauren Hutton can't bottle that! I'll live with the dark circles, because HE'S worth it.