My Crusade to Save our Seas: Chapter 2

OK, Ladies. Here's another plea to sign another petition to save our seas from yet another group of greedy heartless bastards.

The Gulf Council met in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi (!) and set forth a plan to issue permits for off-shore fishing, also called open-ocean aquaculture. (Please pay special attention to the Environmental Impact section.) Essentially what this means is netting a large area of water more than 3 miles off of the coast and breeding and raising certain species of commercially desirable fish, salmon and tilapia are the most common.

I have no illusions that I can stop this practice. What I want to do is to make sure that Congress has the regulatory power instead of the Gulf Council that doesn't have to answer to voters.

Please click the Ocean Conservancy logo on my main page to sign the petition. Thanks -

Makeover

As you can see, I'm sporting a new look. And a makeover may be just what the doctor ordered for this girl.

As I'm sure you can guess, it's all thanks to Rocket.

She was struck by my ridiculous self-loathing pity party about my Mississippi upbringing. So she emailed us and asked for pictures of my kids' hands, palm up. What she sent back is my new header. There was the sweetest note with it that said something like, "Now nobody is 'white' or 'black'. They're all green martians!"

Is she the best or what?

As if all of that isn't enough, she also spit out that fabulous thing right over there. See it? The Pinkness? Yeah, Baby!

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Since I'm Struggling for Inspiration

I'll just tell you funny things that my kids say and do.

We have a book called Quiet Loud by Leslie Patricelli. It is a simple board book with one sentence on each page. "Birds are Quiet. Airplanes are Loud." (Clearly the author has not met my Tranny Cockatiels Opie and Lou.) Faith was reading/has the book memorized and was reciting the book in a whisper in the car yesterday. She turned the page and paused. I looked over to see which word had stumped her. "Sniffles." I waited while she thought about it. Finally she said, "Boogers are Quiet. Sneezes are Loud."



Faith walked through the kitchen carrying the fish food. I asked her what she was going to do. (I understand that it should have been clear to me what she was going to do. Right? With my kids it's better to ask. The odds that she said, "I'm going to feed the fish" were as good as the odds that she said something like, "I'm making a collage. I need little yellow flakes to represent the sand.") On this day, though she said, "I'm going to feed the betas." One of the betas is William's fish William. So when William heard her say that, he jumped up, put his hands on his hips, arched his back and buried his blue eyes in a furrowed brow that would make Churchill proud and said, "Nonsense! Only I can feed William!"




Last night, when William asked for dessert I handed him what was left of an Organic White Chocolate bar (YUM!) He took a bite, handed it back to me and said, "I not like it. Let's sell it on eBay."


Storm. Storm. As I noted in an earlier post, Storm is my most loving and most ridiculously difficult child. He has spent most of this week in his room because he refuses to write 20 words a day in cursive. Refuses. Flat out will not do it. He has missed a lunch outing, a trip to Fort Pickens for bike riding, and an episode of The Penguins of Madagascar. Trust me, that's a heartbreaker. This morning he was up to 100 words because he hasn't done it for 5 days. He and Dawn renegotiated. 20 words, 20 math facts, 20 pages of reading from a book of her choice, 20 spelling words to be found in a word search, and 20 something else. She numbered the paper 1 - 20 for the cursive writing. Storm sat down and not 5 minutes later brought me the work. Totally done. In 5 minutes. The words he chose, you ask? That little shit wrote One, Two, Three, Four, Five etc.


Baby Ray came running down the hallway in a total panic. Totally naked. With a massive erection that he was pointing to. He said, "Uh Oh! Uh Oh! Uh Oh!"

Thanks for everyone's sweet words over the past few days. I love you guys.

Thursday's Treasures - If it weren't for you . . .

It's a strange day to be making a list of things that make me feel rich. I'd like to make a deeply philosophical observation about just how apropos that is, but I'm too tired.

1. Maureen - you said, No! Not on Refocksa's watch!

And I love you.

2. Propane - you said, You're covered.

And I love you.

3. Michelle - you said, I don't have a word of wisdom. That sucks. It really sucks.

And I love you.

4. Ms. Moon - you email me and tell me that I'm full of shit and you send me to Michelle for guidance. And you're in Cozumel being beautiful and happy and fabulous.

And I love you.

5. And Margo. Margo. Regardless of what happens I will always be the richest of the richest for being able to stand beside you everyday.

And I adore you.


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Puppy Love

While we were "camping" the 3 little kids played this crazy game in which they pretended to be puppies waiting to be adopted. It involved a lot of high-pitched yelping and pawing at our shins for attention. They also "learned" tricks. When the yelping wasn't cranium-piercing, it was pretty cute.

What I find most hilarious is what they named themselves. Faith's dog name is Sparkles. Ray's is Fireworks. And William's? Flat Hair.

How funny is that?

Quiet Time

My twins, Faith and William are playing in the toy room for Quiet Time right now. They weren't grown in the same belly and they don't have the same blood and they don't have the same birthday. But my twins they are, nonetheless. She is brown-skinned and bossy to his lily-white passiveness. They adore each other.

They are playing a make-believe game that involves a vacation. The destination? Mississippi. I am waiting with trepidation for the day that they realize that one of them is "black" and the other is "white" and that this is only part of the reason that we don't go there to visit my old family who doesn't acknowledge half of my True Family (Again, see how I show respect with capital letters) and so doesn't actually SEE the half that they do acknowledge because "their" half is so in love with the "others." Poor stupid bastards.




Mississippi. What a disaster. I have had such mixed feelings about the place of my origination. Not my birth. I wasn't born (became full of life) until Dawn saw me. Before that I was just a hollow body being magnetically or chemically drawn from stop to stop, like the beginning of the old Oregon Trail game where you go from the general store to the farm to the cart-makers shed until you had all the supplies/experiences that would get me to Fort Rucker, Alabama where she was waiting.

Mississippi. I have no idea what to tell my children, especially my brown children. Will the white-guilt that I was brought up with show on my face and in my words when I am faced with the darkest eyes I've ever seen asking me about the N word or about Ole Miss or about Medgar Evers or God Forbid It!, about myself? How can I possibly explain how I managed to pull myself from the mucky sludgey hypocrisy that is modern Misissippi?

Will I tell them that their little faces sealed the deal? That they are why I will never go back?

Will they look at me differently? Will they look at my mother differently? Is that the day that they will finally be able to pinpoint what her fucking problem is? Oh, God, will they look at their brothers differently and hold them guilty by bloodline?

All this is Ms. Moon's fault. She wrote about that little red-haired baby being so adoptable because he's "white" and "cute." The truth of that pissed me off and made me ashamed again to be who I was and from whom I was from. Shame is such a haunting emotion. It periodically raises its ugly head and stirs my scarred but newly sensible soul into a mid-season tornado of regret, anger and cheap wine. Shit.

Mississippi - My Muddy Monster.

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Damn it!

My mother asked me if I'm pregnant!

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Finning

I've given you warm and fuzzy for the last several days. I hope you enjoyed it. Warm and Fuzzy is over, though. Steel yourself.

I spent my childhood and much of my young adulthood petrified of sharks. I saw JAWS too young. I had a pool in my backyard where my older sister insisted on playing Sharks and Minnows. I hated it.

When I was 9, my mother and I went to St. Croix with her new husband and my new step-sisters. We paddled on a raft out past the surf and the sandbars to look for conch shells for which the Virgin Islands are famous. My mother and her demon swam away from me and Brooke who was one year older, leaving us with the raft and responsible for kicking/riding into shore. It's the first memory I have of being quite sure that I was going to die. I was going to be attacked and eaten. I was sure of it, and I hyperventilated and prayed and kicked to make Michael Phelps proud. We made it. But I never really trusted my mother again.

I didn't realize until I got married that I was in the grasps of full-blown phobia. Jack would come home and have to empty the tub because I would plug it, turn the water on, take the bath but be terrified to reach in and pull the chain to let the water out because I had hallucinations of sharks swimming up the drain and into the tub.

I had debilitating anxiety about rainy days and the possibility of having to walk through puddles.

I had bowel problems from hovering over the toilet and pushing too hard and too fast because I was so scared to get my ass too close to the water which was surely teeming with sharks.

I understand now that this is ridiculous. But it was very, very real to me for a very long time.

What I did to try and heal myself was educate myself. I read every non-fiction book, saw every documentary, researched, searched again and again.

I learned that sharks are perfect. They have been on this planet with very little change for 400 million years. There are over 300 species and only 12 have been known to bite humans.

Humans kill sharks at a staggering rate. Up to 73 million a year. Every Year. That's more than double the 6 million Jews slaughtered in the Holocaust, 15 Million Native Americans massacred in the assault on their land, 1 million systematically murdered in Rwanda, half a million to date raped, assaulted and killed in Darfur, and the quarter million killed in Bosnia. Every Year.

What these perfect creatures are killed for is their fins. The fins are used to make Shark Fin Soup, a delicacy in Chinese cultures. The irony is that the soup causes health problems when eaten in abundance. Sterility in men, most notably.

The sharks are caught on longlines. They are hauled on board. Their fins are cut from their bodies which are then thrown back into the water. The sharks are still alive but unable to swim. They sink and drown.

It is a most barbaric practice.

There is a documentary called Sharkwater that I highly recommend to anyone who is interested in this.

Go here to sign a petition and send a letter to your senator encouraging them to vote yes on S. 850, the Shark Conservation Act of 2009 which will outlaw finning in US waters.

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We think we'll keep them

The mysterious/wonderful strangers/new family members took us out on their boat yesterday. All 6 of us. We left the dock at about 10. Ray, who is now Papa Ray, took Storm under his wing. He patiently answered all of his questions and taught him how to read the instruments and the GPS. Storm was in heaven.

The little kids took turns sitting with Kraon at the front. Baby Ray took the longest turn. He likes her A LOT.

The ride was about an hour long. The weather and seas were PERFECT. Papa Ray brought us here, Sand Island. We dinghy-ed in. The kids thought that was really cool. Harrison set up camp while the kids discovered that the water was no deeper than their knees for about 50 yards. There were hermit crabs EVERYWHERE. That's a good thing.

Kraon should petition the Olympic Committee to make Shell Collecting an official sport. She loves it and is really good/lucky at it. Harrison was quite pleased with himself for finding her a big beautiful unbroken and he thought, uninhabited shell. She loved it. It walked away a few hours later. Ray yelled for Harrison to come and get it and rush it to the water. "Don't kill that little creature" he said. Don't you just love him?

Baby Ray got in on the shell collecting, too. I swear he showed Dawn and Kraon every hermit crab out there. He also was quite pleased with himself.

Dawn instituted a search for a Megalodon tooth. I love her. The kids took turns with the mask and snorkel in the shallows. After much sifting and lots of reapplied sunscreen, no tooth. Maybe next time.

We started packing up a little after 3. The kids were still going strong, but would surely pass out soon. I somehow got talked into swimming back to the boat with Faith and Storm. What a fiasco! Little William was so sad. He wanted to go so badly. He got over it when he realized he was going to get to ride in the dinghy with Papa Ray, Kraon and Harrison without the big kids hogging the attention.

Once we got back, we all headed over to Atlas Oyster House for half price sushi and oysters on the half shell. Faith, of course, was the star of that show. No one can believe how that baby girl can take down oysters. It IS pretty amazing.

After lots of hugs and kisses and promises to keep in touch and to come back and for us to go to their "Big ol' House" in Birmingham, we pulled away. Dawn and I talked about them the entire way home. Their generousity, their acceptance, their easy, go-with-the-flow approach to life, their love for our children. ALL of our children.

What really gets me right in the heart is that Papa Ray is so similar to my father on paper. They are only 2 years apart in age. They were both the big super-star quarterback in high school. They both grew up in and have lived their whole lives in the Deep South. They are both charismatic. But my, oh, my are they different! When Papa Ray speaks to us, well, he speaks to US, both of us. We BOTH exist. He asks about the children, not about "the boys." He doesn't give a rat's ass about mine and Dawn's relationship except that we're happy and are raising happy and healthy and well-adjusted children. Together. "Yours, Mine and Ours" he said.

So we think we'll keep them. I hope they keep us. There will be more than 4 broken hearts if they don't.

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Just when I thought my life couldn't get any weirder . . .

We met Ray and Kraon (pronounced Crayon).

Dawn and I were just minding our own business when (isn't that how all the best stories start? Well except for the ones that start, "I couldn't believe it! It was just layin' there!" Oh! And, of course, the one that starts, "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.") a lady in a bright yellow swimsuit came over to us at our favorite beachside restaurant dive. She asked about Faith - if she was adopted.

We get this a lot. You wouldn't believe the confusion and total lack of dignity that can be caused by the sight of 2 white women walking around adoring a little brown child. Dawn is really very funny about it usually. She has a wealth of one-liners that she pulls out depending on just how red-necky or offensive or old or stupid the asker is. This time, though, for some reason, she just answered, "No. She's ours." The lady then did her best to convince us that she is not a bigot and didn't mean any offense and would never want to make us feel uncomfortable and blah, blah, blah. Again, we get this a lot. What we don't get a lot is what happened next.

She cried. She cried alone in her chair for a few minutes and then got it together and then verbally threw-up all over Dawn. She confessed that she had adopted a little girl that looked exactly like Faith 28 years ago. She had raised her as her own and dearly loved her like any good mother would love a baby. 3 years ago, her little girl who had grown up to be a beautiful woman died, inexplicably. She was a mess, of course.

Over the next few hours, we got to know Kraon and her husband Ray and their son Harrison. Here's where the weirdness really takes a turn. You all know how I change everyone's name, right? So it may be confusing both for you and me to keep this straight. Be patient. Deal?

OK. Baby Ray's name in real life is the same name that Harrison had when they adopted him. And Ray's name, well is Ray, the name that I've given my Baby Boy in this blog. Weird, right?



Faith totally took to Kraon who doted on her endlessly. They fished from the pier with a cane pole and raw shrimp that Kraon flirted out of a bartender. And by fishing, I mean that they got the bait a few inches from the surface of the water and managed to hook the fish jumping for it by its scales. Faith says that they caught, "What's the number after 8? 9? Yeah, we caught 9 fish!"

Ray, Kraon and Harrison are sweet souls and strangers no more. We've exchanged numbers and email addresses and made plans for boat rides.

My kids can always use another grandmother. Especially one who loves both of their mothers. And most especially one who fishes:)




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Didn't I just do this?

But Hell, Everyone else is doing it . . .

1. What is your occupation right now? Mommy, Junk artist

2. What color are your socks right now? No socks. Ever. They make me sweat.

3. What are you listening to right now? Dawn is talking to me about the voicemails. Oh, no. She's talking about some guy at the post office that cracked up when she said, "Sweat keeps you cool."

4. What was the last thing that you ate? *Sigh* Pizza. 2 pieces. Now I have to walk again today.

5. Can you drive a stick shift? No. Shut up, Propane. The really bad thing about this is that we own one.

6. Last person you spoke to on the phone? Dawn

7. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Who sent this to me?

8. How old are you today? 30

9. What is your favorite sport to watch on TV? Football. Unless the Winter Olympics are on. Then I like to get drunk and yell at the Curlers.

10. What is your favorite drink? Chilly Cold Beer from someone else's cooler.

12. Favorite food? Warm tomatoes with homemade basil mayonnaise and salt and pepper. Yummy!

13. What is the last movie you watched? Little Miss Sunshine. Laughed my bootsie off!

14. Favorite day of the year? Christmas Eve

15. How do you vent anger? Bitch and Moan and Stomp Around saying obnoxious things like, "And, then . . .!"

16.. What was your favorite toy as a child? Barbies. Shut up. Everyone.

17. What is your favorite season? Spring

18. Cherries or Blueberries? Strawberries

19. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? Duh.

20. Who is the most likely to respond? Who's left? Solo? Les? Do it!

21. Who is least likely to respond? Dawg, I agree.

22. Living arrangements? OK. Here we go. Dawn, 4 kids, 1 dog, 4 cats, 2 birds, 2 part-time mice, 2 part-time turtles, 1 part-time Mimi, 5 tanks worth of fish. Seamus is my favorite.

23. When was the last time you cried? About 20 minutes ago. Les is so sweet!

24. What is on the floor of your closet? My dresser. Our bedroom is little.

25. Who is the friend you have had the longest? Randi's sweet husband, Chetford Esquire.

26. What did you do last night? Went to an Art Festival and didn't sell a single thing. This economy sucks for anyone who makes anything less useful than toilet paper. I did drink a nice amount of cool crisp wine, though.

27. What are you most afraid of? Losing a child.

28. Plain, cheese, or spicy hamburgers? Can I have a grilled portobello instead?

29. Favorite dog breed? You know how I love my Gabby (Chow/Lab)! I do have a certain affinity for German Shorthairs, though.

30. Favorite day of the week? Sunday - it's family day.

31. How many states have you lived in? 3

32. Diamonds or pearls? Diamonds. Unless you're offering, in which case, will you pay my mortgage instead?

33. What are your favorite flowers? Spider Lilies.


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Enormous Acts

Dawn: It seems like the world just kind of came together for you this afternoon.

Me: (Big Smiles) Yeah.

Dawn: In Norma Sax.

Me: (Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Furrowing my brow.) What?

Dawn: Norma Sax. The lady who helped you.

Me: (Big Smiles) I thought you said Enormous Acts.

Dawn: I guess in a way, I did.

Me: How cool is that?

These are available at Fairy Wings and Things. Pretty Cool, right?

So what had happened was . . . I spent most of yesterday on the phone and the internet, trying my damnedest to get the impossible accomplished from the clear other corner of the good ol' U S of A. I finally found a courier service willing to help me. I spoke to every Halloween Outlet, costume store, hippie hangout and head shop that Portland, Oregon has to offer. What I thought would be the easiest part turned out to be the thing that brought my illustrious plan crashing to the floor. Les wouldn't come off her address. She finally unwillingly and with much trepidation gave Propane a P.O. Box address. Damn it! I CANNOT have Wings delivered to a P.O. Box.

So I gave up for a while. And stewed and stirred. And thought and thought.

Then, Ta Da!, I found the actual website for the actual Hippie Fest that she will be attending. I called and left a message on the office's voicemail. They probably weren't busy at all yesterday, the day before a 3 day festival. So I also sent an email. A stodgy gentleman called back and said that he didn't understand my request at all. His best advice was for me to come to the festival myself. Great. Thank you.

Then I got an email from the office, from a Ms. Norma Sax, also encouraging me to attend the festival. I wrote right back to her :

I live in Florida. I won't be at the festival. I was hoping to call one of the vendors tonight, pay them and have my friend go by the booth and pick them up. You see, she's just recently had a terrible break-up and move-out couple of days. She told me she was going to your festival and wished that she had wings to wear. I was hoping to put a smile on her tear-stained face.

Please, could you give me the name/number/website of a likely vendor? Thank you.

About an hour later, the phone rang. Oregon. BINGO! The caller identified herself as Norma Sax, the office manger for the Oregon Country Fair. She said that she was standing at the festival with a vendor named Carol who had the most beautiful wings that she had ever seen. At this point, I was expecting problems, so I wasn't surprised when she said "The only problem is that she doesn't accept credit cards over the phone." I was too close to be deterred. "What do you suggest?" I said.

And then, my friends, the sky opened, the clouds parted, the migratory paths of the North American birds may have been altered as the planets aligned in this perfect moment in which this angel of a human being said, "I was so touched by your story that I have written Carol a check for you. You can just send one to the Country Fair Office to pay me back." An Enormous Act of kindness and trust and goodness and faith.

Woooooo Hoooooo! Mission Completed!

So then I emailed Les.

So about that Hippie Fest. . . I am InSanEly jealous! Like, the Green-Eyed Monster Jealous! Since I can't be there with you, do something for me - Will you? Go see Carol at booth number 402. Tell her your name is (sorry, you'll have to wait for Les to reveal this). She has something for you. Then give her a hug. And have a fabulous day. Chin up, Angel! FLY! With much love and great hope - Becca

So now I'm waiting. Impatiently.

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New Kicks

Yes, I think that is a fat roll on my ankles. And yes, that is definitely a faux-wood parquet floor. And yes, you're seeing correctly, the previous owner wasn't big on right angles.

While I wasn't looking, I got fat. I know how it happened; I just don't know when it happened. Recently will suffice as a timeline.

I weighed exactly 118 smokin' hot lbs when I got married 8 years ago. I know because I weighed myself on that morning which will live in infamy. Because it was the single hottest day of the Mississippi summer and I was easily wearing 6 lbs of tulle, I probably only weighed 116 by the end of the day. But I digress.

2 pregnancies, 1 divorce and 3 estranged parents later, I weigh 130 lbs. I know because when I was at a friend's house for our group yard sale, I got on her scale. It seemed a little hesitant to tell me the truth. The red lights chased each other around the digital track until they could run no more. And then, after elbowing each other and hissing secretive obscenities, 1, 3 and 0 were elected to break the news to me.

I wasn't surprised. I was, if possible, somewhat elated. I expected it to be much worse.

Some of you will curse me. Go ahead. In the grand scheme of American female weight troubles, I don't get to complain. I know. I've worn a size 6 since I was in high school. I can still get into my junior year prom dress, but it's not cute. In the words of my mother, "Just because you can zip it, doesn't mean you can wear it." Tru Dat.

Did anyone else see the series of Oprah episodes where she had women from like 27 different countries on to talk about all things womanly in their respective countries? After the series was done, she had a reunion show with ALL of the women on together. She asked them, "What do women around the world think of American Women? They were all in agreement when the (I think) Kuwaiti woman sheepishly said, "They are all fat?" Again, Tru Dat.

I am floored whenever I am forced to cross over the Mississippi state line. It's usually for deaths. I can think of few living reasons to go back there. The point is that prior to my recent (perceived) weight gain, I had counted myself as a wholly mutant Mississippian. Gay and skinny. 1 for 2 just isn't working for me.

So I bought some shoes. As some of you know, I am a loyal Crocs consumer and recycler. In the last 3 years, I have only worn something other than Crocs on 2 days - my sons' Christenings. Crocs, however, doesn't make an athletic shoe, so I was forced to shop. On eBay. (I can't abandon all my values.)

I was reminded, thankfully, of my previous favorite shoe. The Asics Tiger. I'll kick any of you in the shin if you laugh at this next part. Propane, Les and Jude need to be especially careful because I'll have an affordable opportunity here soon. You see, I was a cheerleader. I was the co-captain of the Middle School Cheerleading Squad. The St. Andrew's Saints. The Blue and White. The overly educated and poorly socialized Episcopalians and friends of Episcopalians of Suburbian Jackson, Mississippi.

These shoes may be the most practical thing that I came away from that school with. We'll see. If I didn't have 4 children and 1 sleeping wife I would already be beating the streets in these babies. But alas, I work out my fingers instead. My new ipod shuffle (also from eBay) should be here tomorrow, so I can walk/sprint/walk/sprint/walk while Stephen King or James Patterson or Michael Connelly tells me a bloody tale worth running from.

So come October 1, (yes, Judey Jude, we're coming a day early. I simply cannot miss grocery shopping in a Whole Foods or some comparably Hippie-ish establishment. ) I fully expect to only be tipping the scales to 122. That's my goal. 8 lbs in 85 days. Think I can do it?


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Pan

All of our children share a room, the master bedroom, in fact. When my aunt Mimi came to live with us, we had to switch things around to make room in our little house. So she took the little boys' room, Dawn and I moved into the big kids' room and all the kids into the master. I took to calling it the nursery. Storm DID NOT think that was cool. It's been really good for them, though.

They've learned patience and teamwork. They've learned each other and bonded in ways that can only happen when 2, 3 or 4 children are openly defying their parents together. After midnight. With flashlights. And candy. They have had late night conversations that I only dare to imagine. They have slept in every combination in every bed in the room. They have switched pajamas. They have switched pillows and blankets. They have rearranged wall hangings. All of it TOGETHER. And even when I have been ready to pull my hair straight from its weary roots, I have reveled in their adoration for each other.

Dawn and I always said that we thought we would just know when it was time for Storm or Faith to move into his/her own room. And that day has come. Tonight will be Storm's first night in his own room, which means that he has spent his last night in the nursery. And I am sad.

He is my first little boy. My greatest challenge. The sweetest and most difficult of my children. The most easily hurt. The most sensitive and the most senseless. My eight-year old enigma.

The age difference between Storm and Faith (3 years) has finally become more of a distraction than a strength. Faith finally has more in common with William and Ray than with Storm. Storm is interested in big boy things, the itty bitty legos that hurt like hell when you step on them, chapter books, Erector sets. He wants to watch shows that have kids as the main characters instead of farm animals. He wants to watch Dirty Jobs and Mythbusters instead of The Backyardigans and The Wonder Pets.

So now I suppose he's also my first big boy. And I have yet another room rearranging day ahead of me. Tonight I'll tuck him in and remind him to turn off his lamp. I'll check on him later and take the book out of his hand. I'll close his door and briefly pause before heading into the much quieter nursery. And for just a second, I bet that I will miss the chaos. The pirates and the indians, my lost boys, my Pan.

Don't It Make My Blue Eyes Green

Sorry about the darkness. This is the best version I found on YouTube. Our friend Randi introduced us to this song this weekend. I LOVE IT! It doesn't hurt my love of it that Dawn and I have an ongoing debate about whether her eyes are blue or green. I maintain that she doesn't really get a vote because she's colorblind. She insists that there is no way that everyone has been lying to her her entire life. To which I reply that no one knows her truths like I do. So Shut Up - They're GREEN!

Gina's Debut

This is our friend Gina. Bless her heart, she's an Italian New Yorker who has been dropped on her ass in Florida. She's still not sure how it happened.

She's a riot. Especially about this.

My Friend Propane

So what had happened was . . . I commented on Propane's post about her 4th. I asked her how hot it is up there. A few minutes later my phone rang. The Caller ID said "Cell Phone MN." I expected it to be our friend Hannah. When I answered a robotic voice said, "You have a text to land line message. Press 1 to hear your message." I got a little panicky. I had mental images of Hannah trapped under something heavy, unable to breathe or speak, her thumbs her only chance of survival. What I heard instead was the same robotic voice saying something like,

"Contrary to popular belief, it does get pretty hot up here. Up to 85 in the day and only down to 65 at night so walking around town last night was really nice." There was more but I was laughing so hard by this point that I didn't hear anything else until the she-robot, in perfect monotone said, "Laughing out loud."

I was still hysterical when Propane called just a few seconds later also laughing hysterically. She had no idea that I had given her my home number.

By the way, anyone who hasn't had the pleasure of hearing her sweet voice should pass your digits along.

Can't wait to talk to you again, Amy. AND I really can't wait to see you!

24 Hours & 48 Minutes Late

for Thursday's Treasures. Today it's easy.

1. Propane Amy - While we got off the pot, you shat. And that's cool.

2. Randi - She can sing. And she's going to sing this song at MY wedding. When Florida gets its shit together. Wanna come?



3. Stem cells. They, with a capital "T" AND those that fall in the lowercase category, thought I was insane when I insisted on shelling out the bucks for the banking of my son's stem cells.

4. I can read. And write. Turn on PBS or NPR. It'll only take a few minutes for those of you with a vagina to realize just how fortunate you are. (Honestly, do ANY men read this?)

5. That lamp. The one over there. I bought it for my new house, this house. My mother hates it and keeps sending me replacements. But I LOVE it. And it's mine.

Lumbar Gladdle

Faith and Dawn are laying on the couch having the early morning tickle. The kids say, "Gladdle!" and then Dawn tickles, tickles, tickles until they say, "Gladdle!" again. So Faith was pushing Dawn's shirt up. Dawn said, "What are you doing?" Faith said, "I'm trying to give you a vertebrate." As they struggled for the shirttail (Remember that cartoon when we were kids? The Shirt-tails. That was weird.) and both laughed hysterically, Dawn managed to choke out, "A what?" "A Vertebrate!" Faith screamed.

A Zorbit. She's talking about a zorbit. (For those non-Huxstable watchers out there, that's the little spitting raspberry thing that you do on baby bellies.) She's 5 and correctly pronounces vertebrate. And knows what it is. I adore her.

Refocksa Shops and Grows and What Else?!

T-Shirts? Were you guys being serious? Shane and I talked a very tiny bit about it. She is willing to allow me to operate a small on-line shop, just for us to have T-shirts, Sweatshirts, stickers, mugs, thongs, whatever we decide on with our beloved Refocksa logo.

What do you guys think? Tell me what items you would be interested in having and I'll do some research and pricing around.

If it goes well, we could have a different design every quarter, maybe. Like AJ's/Jude's "How Many More Signs Do We Have To Make?" or Softball shirts with our Blog names on the back and the logo on the front.

Ideas! Ideas!

An image, an avatar, a t-shirt may be just the beginning. I really feel strangely strongly passionate about this energy that we have here. Like maybe we can really do something big together.

Am I the only one who feels like Refocksa is taking on a life of its own? Like its actually bigger than all of us who wandered into it and finally after aging most gracefully for millenia has been named by the lucky few to find her? And we are now entrusted to do the greatest good through her? Am I a total whack-job or just the first to say it outloud, so to speak. Or write, as the case turns out to be.