"Did I Hear a 'Niner' In There?"

There she is! My nine year-old. This picture is rare because she doesn't sit in my lap very often anymore. She's too old for that. She has moved on to things like: getting braces, doing her own hair, diving into musical theater, and asking theological questions that sometimes I can't answer without research.

This year, to celebrate, she wanted a luau complete with a real pig on a spit and an apple stuffed in its mouth. Seeing as her dad has gone all vegan on us, that wasn't going to happen. But he did take her out shopping for decorations and they found a paper pig with an apple stuffed in its mouth. To say she was delighted would be an understatement. Cayna, in general, is all about OVERstatement.

On the day of her actual birthday, we went out to dinner with grandparents and that's where this photo is taken. I love my daughter. I love that I HAVE a daughter (two, in fact!), and I love seeing life through her eyes. Last year, she proclaimed her birthday with chalk on a park sidewalk. This year, she simply wrote CAYNA surrounded by the number 9 in crayon on a paper doily. I'm saving it. I want to remember this day because she won't let me hold her on my lap much longer.

News on my Neck

I have a funny lump on my neck. Had an ultrasound the other day, and I have two cysts and a nodule on my thyroid. I don't like the word "nodule," nor "cyst." And here's the REALLY fun news: they're going to stick a needle in my neck to biopsy the sucker and drain it. My doctor, who I want to trust, does not think I have cancer at this point. And in the world of words, I'd rather have a nodule than a cancer.

Here is where I do not like being a grown-up: I do not have anyone to hold my hand while they stick a needle in my neck. In middle school, I had a mole removed from my scalp. They stuck a needle in my head (only one step up from a needle in the neck) to numb the area before they cut off the mole. (Who is still reading this? This is totally gross but I gotta talk about it somewhere.) My mom was there. But now I'm the mom and all of my possible hand-holding resources should probably be watching my kids so they don't have to come to the appointment with me and observe everything and ask the questions I know they would ask: "Mom, what are they going to do with that needle?" "Mom, that needle is really long!" "Mom, what are they going to do with the juice once they take it out of your neck?" "Mom, what's a nodule?" "Mom, does that hurt?" "MOM! Wake up!!! MOM! - Oh, there you are, Mom - you were looking white as a ghost!" "All the stuff came out, Mom. We saw it. It looked like coconut milk." "Are you going to have a bandaid on your neck?"

So please say a little prayer for me. And maybe for all those people out there who are getting news that is scarier than a needle to the neck. 

Dental Visits & Ashes

There were a lot of forgettable parts of today. I didn't make a dent in my laundry. I yelled too much. Coffee + fasting = jitters by late afternoon. And I'm just plain tired.

But I hope I remember the sight of my four year-old John sitting in the middle of the very back seat of our van watching a Larry Boy DVD. I kept looking in the rear view mirror as we drove to the dentist appointment and he was as quiet as could be. We brought along his stuffed Shamu, but he had no need for it. On the way home, after having an extra adult tooth extracted, I kept looking in the rear view mirror again - this time to watch for excessive bleeding on the 25-minute drive home. But again, he didn't move a muscle. Just sat there with his prized orange balloon tied to his little wrist. Thank God for Larry Boy. And thank God for a wonderful pediatric dentist and his assistant; thank you, God for friends who pray for me; thank you, God for the example of the saints and for guardian angels to look to for comfort.

I got to hold John's hand all through the 20-minute procedure. He was cool as a cucumber. And I got to snuggle with him at home on the couch while we watched more Larry Boy until the bleeding subsided. And a little over an hour later, he felt good enough to make it to Mass for Ash Wednesday.

Tonight I went to kiss Bethanie good night and she said, "Mommy, you look so pretty in your ashes." That sweet comment melted my heart. I don't know if we're supposed to look good in ashes, but I have a feeling there would be a poem there if I contemplated ashes and mothers and beauty for just a few minutes. Unfortunately, I do not have a few minutes, because I am completely exhausted. Think I'll go cuddle up with Shamu and be glad this day is done.

For Sale, Finally Sold

My brother says that this will make a good story for my grandchildren. When the subject of the "Recession of the 2000s" comes up, it will be my "war story."

I think differently. I would like to write about it here and then never speak of it again. Deal?

We moved to Yucaipa in September of 2004. We bought a house. Why did we buy a house? We had bought a house in Hanford and it went wonderfully. But a lot of things went wonderfully in Hanford that didn't go so great in Yucaipa. Moral of this story: Just because things go well in Hanford doesn't mean they will go well in Yucaipa. Go jot that in your diary.

Eighteen months passed, Kevin's job was completed, and it became time to move. We treated the back fence with Thompson's Water Seal to make it look shiny new, then ceremoniously sledgehammered our "For Sale By Owner" sign into the front lawn.

If I call the ensuing months the "dark days of my soul," you should really kick me in the shins, because that's a tad over-dramatic. But at the very least, they sucked. I had three pre-school-aged children; I had to keep my house show-ready every day "just in case" even though we never had a showing; and my husband was traveling four or five days out of every week to Las Vegas. I think I owe my remaining sanity to the mothering website/chat room that kept me company, the Starbucks down the road that had a little "kids' area" next to a comfy couch, and my friend Magan who called me every single day. Kevin might have been paying her, I'm not sure. If so, it was worth every dime.

Here are some of the photos of the house. For my therapy, let's discuss what feelings they evoke.

There it is! Our little treasure just off the 10 freeway in sweet, hilly, little Yucaipa. I know what you're thinking: "Why, that looks perfectly nice! Why didn't it sell?" I KNOW! I've wondered the same thing myself, thousands upon thousands of times. Never mind its extreme proximity to the San Andreas fault. Ignore the disclosure statement we had to sign that shows surrounding area as "extreme fire danger" zone - after all, we bought it, didn't we? Certainly we aren't the only dumb-dumbs in the universe.

The quaint backyard, complete with handcrafted-by-Kevin playhouse/fort/slide, gas firepit perfect for roasting marshmallows, (which we did numerous times), and a pond and waterfall. I fondly recall Easter-egg hunts, inflatable kiddie pools, lots of friends over, and probably a thousand snails. But the snails don't show up on the photo - so why wouldn't anyone want to own this property?

Let me remind you: THREE young children. Three. And a mom with no place to go, aside from the grocery store. And this is how I kept the house the majority of the time. I am wiser now, of course. If I could travel back in time, I would tell Yucaipa Teri to relax on the housecleaning. Heck, I've since looked at houses for sale with roaches flitting about. But I cannot travel back in time and so this was the standard for the house-showings-that-never-were.

Made my bed, every day for fifteen months. Happily, this became a habit which has served me well in years since. At the time, though, it seemed grueling. I believe I became grouchy fairly quickly into the "for-sale-but-not-selling" months.

Meticulously clean. It is not lost on me that this house sold just days ago, no longer anywhere NEAR as neat and clean as it was during my residence. Yes, even I can detect the bitterness in my voice. I will work on letting it go. God was in control and still is. I am happy to report that now I hardly ever clean my bathroom. Call it post-traumatic stress.

A timeline:
Purchase house in Yucaipa - September, 2004
Give birth to Bethanie in house in Yucaipa - March, 2005
Celebrate Kevin's 30th in house in Yucaipa - complete with sumo wrestling and catered Italian (we are nothing if not diverse) - March, 2006
Put house up for sale by owner - April, 2006
Get nervous and list with realtor - December, 2006
Positive pregnancy test - 4th child! - January, 2007
Find rental house in Vegas, where Kevin is now working - July, 2007 - Kevin's company graciously and generously helps us with rent in Vegas for one year.
Realtor finds renter for Yucaipa house - August, 2007
Rental payment is $900.00 less than our mortgage payment. Hemorrhage money for three years and two months.
Various changes of tenants, problems showing the house, tremendous weariness with realtors.
Stop paying house payment and list as short sale - October, 2010 - Guilt and regret are enormous.
Fifteen months, two failed escrows, and many many minor heart-attacks later - SOLD!

Me: Adopted and Pro-Life

I am adopted, so this video simultaneously melts and ennobles my heart. As I am pro-life, it gives strength to my cause.

Lord, may the prayers of those who are begging for an end to abortion save lives on this anniversary of Roe v. Wade.

Some 200,000 people marched in Washington, D.C. today. President Obama also delivered a brief statement supporting the 1973 Supreme Court Decision. You can read about his disturbing affirmation here.

7 Quick Takes Friday

I think it's brilliant to get the mini-topics out of my brain once a week. So these are my 7 Quick Takes, linked to the wonderfully smart and funny Conversion Diary blog that inspires me regularly.

--- 1 ---

I sat at an intersection this week, checking out the cyclist waiting beside me. He had on the clothes that cyclists wear - the tight, shiny clothes that go along with the leg shaving that I was surprised to discover my brother engaged in when he was at the height of his cycling career. And this guy had sponsors. And the sponsors were: Allegiant and Patron. An airline and a tequila. Novel combination. No longer was I content to sit and wonder; I wanted to ask how he came to have these sponsors. And to ascertain if he has a life of cycling on weekdays, and jet setting on weekends to places where he can relax and indulge in "the #1 ultra-premium tequila in the world." But then the light turned green.

--- 2 ---

"Bad Day" by Daniel Powter and "Beautiful Day" by U2 are one after the other when my playlist is alphabetized. I like it. That's my life, baby.

--- 3 ---

IF you don't have the money for a boob job, or are morally opposed to such a thing, you can do worse for yourself than marching into Nordstrom and having a nice lady set you and your girls up with a professionally fitted bra. Even if you go with an eighty-dollar jobbie, it'll last a couple years and you'd have to buy a whole slew to equal the cost of surgical augmentation and you will have eradicated the pesky risk of booby breakage. Personally, I have been happy with Wacoal brand. Tell 'em I sent ya.

--- 4 ---

I can neither confirm nor deny my ongoing dalliance with coffee. I will admit recent purchases of Coconut creamer and Vanilla Cinnamon. But for all you know, I'm drinking it straight out of the bottle. Which leads me to state that I can neither confirm nor deny my ongoing dalliance with sugar.

--- 5 ---

Later this very day, I will join my good friend Michelle and our children in picking apart owl pellets, which Michelle was able to procure online. I have learned, as you now will, that owls swallow their prey whole. Within an hour or two, they regurgitate the undigestables - like bones and fur - into a handy, online-sellable pellet. We hope to reconstruct an entire rodent, glue it together, and put it out in the yard as a warning to the newly-discovered rats in our neighborhood.

--- 6 ---

The newly-discovered rats in our neighborhood: as this is not the year 1300, and I've never known personally any victims of the Black Plague, I am shocked to learn that our neighborhood has rats. Someone said they rode in on the palm trees with a landscaping company from Arizona - but someone said the same thing about the scorpions and, for all I know, the bunion on my right big toe; the delinquent middle-school boy across the street; my pre-menstrual headaches; the cigarette butts lining the sidewalk; and the pigeons which have taken over our street.

--- 7 ---

I'm doing my own breadmaking. It is in the preliminary stages. If I don't fail miserably, the next step is grinding my own wheat. That will be the final step - I can't plant a wheat field - there is no room in my backyard for a crop of any kind. Just like I can't have chickens in this neighborhood, (which is a crying shame since they eat scorpions), I can not grow wheat. Well, I think technically I can grow the wheat, but bringing in the oxen for the plow every harvest would be sketchy.

For more Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!

Broken Bones and Mafia Undertones

If I were to tell you a couple stories from my growing-up years, it could be boring. But what if I told you a couple stories from my growing-up years that had serious mafia undertones I'm only just now recognizing? Well, that would be exciting, wouldn't it?

Yesterday I listed some personal life incidents, one of which was: "Broke a bone - toes and leg-- one resulted in a plane ride, one in a '66 Mustang." And I said I needed blog topics, and Katie wanted to hear about this one.

First, let me tell the stories, briefly. Then, in a whisper, I will reveal the mafia undertones.


In my senior year of high school, my boyfriend was a goofball. His best friend was an even bigger goofball. But they were both VERY cute, so my best friend and I put up with them. One wintry December day, we loaded into boyfriend's sexy black Trans Am and drove up to Mt. Charleston for some happy, wholesome sledding. Things turned painful when boyfriend's best friend careened down the hill into my foot. My leg bone did not withstand the impact and I had to be carried back to the Trans Am. Thankfully, the six weeks of a cast and crutches would be over before graduation. Also thankfully, my friend in computer class felt enormously sympathetic toward me so for the entire six weeks of my handicap, she picked me up and drove me to school in her lemon-chiffon convertible Mustang.

Mafia undertone: this friend had an Italian last name. This is nearly all the proof of mob ties you need living in Las Vegas, but as I recalled today, there were also many many conversations in the car on the way to school, with our two other passengers, about how my driver's father always had tons of cash on hand, kept strange and secret work hours, and showered with his gun.


The broken toes are less serious from an orthopedic standpoint, but the implications for my own family are serious and sinister.


One happy, carefree day, my brother and I decided it would be fun to play baseball in the house. In our defense, we had a large, carpeted, non-furnished playroom above the garage. I have no recollection why we didn't take this idea into the backyard, front yard, street, or neighboring school grounds - but let's just chalk it up to a spontaneous burst of sports fun. (Incidentally, spontaneous bursts of sports fun in my house today on the part of my offspring result in swift relocation out of doors - so one could ask, "Where were my parents?" This would be a good question.) Anyhoo, in one action-packed inning, I was sliding into home. That's it. That's what I was doing. But home plate was right up against the wall and when I slid, my toes careened into the wall. (Notice in both of these stories that "careening" precedes breakage of bones. I have since learned to try to avoid careens.)

Much of the rest of that day is muddled in my memory. It might be that the pain clouded my clear thinking. Or it might be that this happened over twenty years ago. But what I do remember is that my brother and I were due to visit my father (my divorced parents lived in different states at that time) and there were timing issues with the visit, especially pertaining to my appointment with a toe doc, so my father picked us up in a private jet at a small-town airport.

Mafia undertone: How long, exactly, did my father think I'd buy the "I'm-an-innocent-plane-mechanic-who-makes-great-friends-with-the-pilots-and-therefore-cavorts-all-over-the-country-in-a-King-Air-with-politicians-and-celebrities-and-casino-owners" story? Well, I don't know how long he thought I'd buy it, but since I broke my toes at age 13 and am now 41, I guess the answer is 28 years! My naivete is no longer! I'm on to you, Dad! You must have been a hit man, because the bosses are usually fatter and smoke a lot. So kudos to you for being able to commit cold-blooded murder and then swoop out of the sky to pick up your pre-teen with her broken toes and get her to the doctor for a clunky shoe.

There you have it. Things are not always as they seem. Sometimes you think you have a simple childhood story, but if you take a closer look, POW!... drama fit for the big screen. Or if not the big screen, at least my blog.

Man, SO tempted to post a photo of me and boyfriend on my dad's sailboat with me in my cast. Or me in my broken-toe shoe posing in front of Dad's sailboat. But now I'm distracted wondering what he REALLY used the sailboat for...