Theme Week #9

A cry came from the bathroom.  I rolled over and went back to sleep.  Footsteps on the stairs, someone was knocking on the door.  I lifted my head.  The bathroom light was on, I could see it from crack of the door not completely closed.  Another cry from the small room.  A mumbled question from outside the door.  I hear another sound from the bathroom.

"Michelle are you okay?"

"I think my water broke."

**

We drove too fast.  Jill, the neighbor from upstairs, was nervous about delivering a baby in the car.  The streetlights flashed by like a strobe from the clubs, I really didn't want to see what was happening in the back seat.  Michelle was making noises that scared me and worried Jill even more about the seatcovers.
Finally pulling up to the large ER doors, I could see lots of people wandering around, it looked like a full house.  I hoped they had an express line like at the grocery store.

**
"I'm sorry you will have to wait here."

"If she can't go in with me, then I will have this baby in the lobby"

Michelle wasn't someone to mess with when she was on a mission.  Today's mission?  Deliver a happy, healthy baby, with her best friend, roomate, and labor coach by her side (regardless that her friend was only 18 and looked about 12)  The nurse took another look at my nervous face and turned around to push the wheelchair.  I imagined kicking her in the butt, I hated when people looked down at me because I was young and looked even younger.  Just wait 20 years you ol' witch, I'll still look 20 and you'll look over 100.

**

"Push! Okay, stop, now breathe.  Now push again!"

Crying.  We were all crying. I was crying because I think all of the bones in my hand were broken.  Michelle was crying because her body had just done something that defied all laws and was a miracle at the same time.  The baby was crying - well he was crying because that's what babies do when they are born.  I looked at Michelle just when she looked over at me. 

"What did you decide on for a name?"  I wondered because she had changed her mind a dozen times.

She started laughing, tears still in her eyes, "I have no idea."

Week #8 Prompts

36. A city street--

Horns blare, tires screech - the city is awake even this early in the morning. Lights - green, red, yellow, white, blue - flicker, blink, and glare across the rain slicked streets. Cars rush by, racing to where they need to go. No one is wandering the street, absently thinking of what they want to do today, where they want to go. Everyone is moving with purpose, knowing just where they need to get to and getting there as efficiently as possible.

Sturdy business shoes clomp through the little puddles, high heels skirt the edges, and the rare galoshes ignore them completely. I look down at the puddle by my sneaker-clad feet, there is a leaf floating in it. Small and green, full of life, it floats in the little pool of water. Reminding me of the stream by my old house, where you could sit all day watching the leaves, branches, and flowers floating by. It was quiet there, not like the city with all the hustle and bustle, blinking and crashing, talking and yelling.

Quickly, before the next set of clomping shoes came by, I reached down and picked up the leaf. I put it in my pocket and headed up the street - looking up at the sky wondering if it was going to rain again.

35. Three of them sitting there in complete silence.

No one was talking. United in solidarity, the three of them sat in complete silence. Largest to smallest down the line, they awaited their sentence. They were a sorry group to look at, splattered with mud.

The first looked bored, sporting a long scratch down the side of his face. It just beginning to redden, dotted slightly with blood. His red hair stood up in random spikes on his head, ends colored dark, like a bad dye job. His clothes were mussed, grass stains evident on both knees of his dark wash jeans. The laces of his untied boots were just grey clumps beside his feet, looking like dead worms.

The next suspect sat motionless, as if any move would trigger a reaction, looking carefully to either side waiting for the danger to pass. Mud slowly oozed down his forehead, dangerously close to his eye. He twitched, not sure if it was safe enough to wipe it away, or just suffer the tickling itch as it moved closer and closer. His red tshirt sported a ragged gape which exposed his thin chest and his thrumming heart, erasing the mask of quiet and calm. He was missing a shoe, the remaining sock was grey with the same mud from his forehead. It didn't matter much, it didn't match his other sock anyway.

The smallest of the three fidgeted, as if to worm her way into the background and escape notice. Her look showed indecision, stand brave or give way to tears in some hope for sympathy and lienency. The glasses perched on her nose were smeared with the mud as well, nearly blocking her vision entirely. Her hair, long and blond, had escaped the elastic holding it away from her face. One long section dripped onto her shoulder, making a dark spot on the only clean section of her once-blue shirt. Her hands were red and chapped, mud and dirt beneath her nails could be clearly seen even through the bright polish. Her bare feet left prints on the floor, each contour of her foot outlined neatly in grey against the white tile in front of her.

I took a deep breath. All eyes snapped to mine, wary and expectant. Sentencing time had come.

33. "We are gathered here today to remember....."

No one understood. I watched as the people climbed out of their cars. Women's heels clicked on the pavement, men stood patiently by. Everyone walked in pairs or small groups, one man waited on the edge of the grass. He joined the pair that reached him first, he didn't want to walk up the small hill alone. I stood motionless near the parked cars. It was quiet here, the murmuring of condolences was drowned out by the wind through the trees lining the small road. I wanted to laugh, what a sorry picture this made and what crazy jokes would he have made about this whole production. He would have made me laugh, if he had been here.

Theme Week #8

He called to say he was going to be out of work a little late.  That's okay because she was late to start on dinner.  Escaping from coloring with her son she noticed the clock and realized she had exactly 20 minutes to make the "home cooked" meal she had promised that morning.  They had both agreed that it would be nice to have something that wasn't fresh out of a box with preprinted directions for dinner, and she had forgotten.  Groaning, she got up from the floor, promising her son, before he could start complaining, that he could watch Sesame Street until she came back.  Heading into the kitchen she mentally ran down the list of things that she could make with the defrosted chicken that could be considered "homemade" without a recipe. 

Struck with inspiration, she grabbed a pot, filled it with hot water, and placed it on the stove.  Taking the chicken out, she heard the echos of "Sunny Days" coming from the living room. Humming along she sliced the chicken, put it in a bowl and dumped some marinade on it.  Then she waited, watching the pot, waiting for it to boil.  She dumped the rice in as it began to bubble and got the skillet for the chicken, snagging a bag of veggies from the frezer along the way.  She glanced at the clock, he should be home any minute, but the rice will be at least 15.  Maybe he will hit traffic on the way.  She hated to be rushing around when he got home, when all she wanted to do was relax with him for a few minutes.  She heard the car, the rice was boiling along, the chicken was sizzling in the pan, and the veggies were waiting patiently for their turn.  Damn, so close to being done, just 5 more minutes. 

The cry from the living room distracted her, rushing in, she found no one murdered but that Sesame was over.  Turning back to the kitchen she saw the door open and he walked in.  Looking past him she could see the rice boiling over and the chicken starting to give off smoke.  She smiled at him and started to say how nice it was to see him as she headed toward the stove, but at that same moment he took an ungainly step towards her and kneeled down on one knee - and landed directly on her bare foot.  She screeched and jumped back, rescuing her toe from his workboots and glared down at him.  With a rather sheepish smile on his face, he held up a box to her, "Should I say I'm sorry or ask you to marry me first?"

Theme Week #7

He is all of the cliches - apple of his mommy's eye, a chip off the 'ol block, the spitting image of his dad, a cheerful roly poly kid, poke his tummy and hear him giggle like the Pilsbury doughboy - all of that.  But he is more than that - bigger, broader, deeper.  He is also a Label.  This Label is Autism.  The kind of Label that requires a Capital letter, to put that extra Oomph into it.

He walks into the room cheerful enough, humming to the tune that happens to pop into his head or reciting his inventory of tv commercial jingles and catch-phrases.  Not looking left or right, he goes to the computer.  He looks expectantly at the screen, it's turned off, just a square of black looks back at him - and all hell breaks loose.  Knocking over the chair, flopping on the floor, flailing his legs wildly - it's Autism.

Happily chattering away, he pushes the grocery cart down the aisles, steered descretely by Mom holding onto the edge of the handle.  Stopping now and then as he sees items that he remembers from the kitchen at home, he grabs a box and carelessly chucks it into the cart, regardless of the fragile eggs or bananas inside.  At the next stop Mom takes the box back out and places it on the nearest shelf - sorry Mr. Stockboy, it's Autism.

At the doctor's office there are great new toys to look at.  He doesn't play with them because the other kids in the office are over there playing with them, and he doesn't like to play with other kids.  He sits and bounces in his seat in the waiting room by his patient little sister.  She is reading him a book, he is not interested or paying any attention, but she is determined to keep him "occ-ah-pied" while they wait.  Mom reminds him that after they see the doctor they will stop for a juice at the store - doctor's first, then juice at the store.  He repeats it like a mantra, "doctor's First! then Juice! at the Store!"  The nurse comes out of the special door just for nurses, and calls out a name.  Not his name - not his turn - not happy.  He yells his disappointment, screams really, and recites (for everyone who wasn't paying attention) "Doctor's FIRST! Then JUICE! At The STORE!"  His sister looks at the startled faces of the other kids who stopped playing, and tells them "It's ok, he has Aud-a-tis-um."

Week #7 Prompts

30. Take a look at a photo of a person. What do you see?

As I sat flipping through old pictures, I wondered again if I could possibly get all of them organized. A small pile of photo boxes and new albums stood ready by my side should I attempt the impossible. Today I would settle for getting rid of this beaten up shoebox and putting the photos in something sturdier. I saw one last picture, way in the back, stuck in the seam of the box, perhaps trying to hide from me.

I pulled it out carefully so as not to tear the edge or bend the picture. Flipping it over, I saw three faces smiling up at me. I wasn't fooled by the two bland smiles in the background anymore.

The little face in the front with the smile framing two brand new teeth was innocent enough. Drool was just beginning to form at the corner of the upturned mouth. Sparkling blue eyes twinkled as the photographer danced and sang to get his attention. Small children have that gift, they don't have to like what they are looking at to make it look like they do. They are so entranced by anything new that it is wonderous to them. Certainly this face radiated life and promise enough to overshadow the faces behind it.

The other faces, his and hers, both wearing masks with a smile painted on, hovered above the smaller one. They were good masks, but time had made them transparent. The dark wavy hair of his head no longer seemed handsome and carefree - it was pretentious and calculated. The lock hanging over his eyes didn't lend that air of innocence it used to, now it was menacing. The shadow over his eyes almost made it possible to overlook the measuring glare that beamed from them.

Her mask was in place as well, but just as transparent as his. The brassy blond hair tried to look expensive and elegant, but it was just overcolored and overworked, not flattering to her too pale complection. The glint of her earrings didn't make her sparkle, but made her seem even more bland and drained. The wide eyes looked out to pay attention to everything that was going on, to everything that she was supposed to be doing or not doing. There was no smile in those eyes, just a timidness that makes you wonder what she was worried about. The too-red smile was too tense, stretched across her face in response to request, not any actual feeling.

The masks didn't come close to the cheerful caption of "Happy Holidays" across the bottom of the photo. There was no 'Happy' here, it was not a 'Holiday' by any means.

Holding the photo, I looked at the neat stack of pictures destined for the new photo box, where they would be safe and secure. Looking at it one more time, I reached out for the shoebox and carefully, so as not to tear the edge or bend the picture, I put it back where it was before - in the back, stuck in the crease of the worn out shoebox. I slowly placed the lid back on top, leaving the lying masks in the dark.

31. Who's the first person you remember?

I have a picture in my mind of a small girl, bouncing down the sidewalk. Her small hand reached up and was swallowed up by a much larger one. Looking up, and up, and up.. she smiled at her granfather's face.

That was me, me and my grampa. I can close my eyes and see a picture of that day, that moment - even though no such picture exists. His face is the first real memory that I can actually sit and remember. I can see the crinkles around his eyes as he smiled down at me. I can feel the leathery skin of his hand surrounding mine, the origin of my thought that warm's color was brown, like his hands. And his strong arms that stretched up and up and up, almost longer than I was tall at the time. He was the opposite to my ivory skin and smooth face - but I wanted to grow up to be just like him.

I'm still short, and I can't get a tan to save my life. But I can close my eyes, and deep down inside, I am still reaching up, holding his hand, wishing to grow up just like him.

34. Check out Carolyn See Locator of Lost Persons --those short, very evocative, mysterious, and poetic grafs. Try a few of those!  

(I kinda felt like doing something a little different, so thought I might give this a try - no promises!)

Michelle Peters
I wonder where you ended up? How two girls with nothing in common managed to be friends is one of life's mysteries. I thought of you the other day as I sighed - again - about my dead straight hair, and the fights we had about how I thought your unruly curls were much more preferrable. Did you ever really shave your head one frustrated morning?

Kathy Wysocki
Do you know the impression that you made on those young girls? Do you remember the tactful discussions about appropriate wardrobe choices for interviews? Do you remember the girl that wore the strech-pant leggings and t-shirt anyway, and still got the job? You said I was lucky they saw what I was made of on the inside. I remember that everyday, it has gotten me through a lot.

Edwin Hahn III
I kept a teddy bear to remind me of you for years after our friendship faded away. Time and circumstances would have made things turn out very different between the two of us, I think. I'll never forget that waterfall we all hiked to, did you ever go back to find your hat?

Week #6 Prompts

27. The safest place in the world....

It was a bad day. It was actually one of those days that my mom and I would talk about call a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" (one of my favorite children's books by Judith Viorst). But luckily, I was heading home and I knew that my day would be getting better. When I walked in the house, the stress headache pounding to the rhythm of my steps the kids all yelled "Mom's home." It was nice to get such a great reception by my headache kicked up another notch on the pain scale. I knew exactly what I needed to make this day go away. I headed into the kitchen. Hubby was standing by the stove nervously prodding the contents of the pan. I knew that he hated to cook something outside of the realm of boxes with directions printed on them, but he was gamely giving it a shot. He glanced at me as I walked in the room. The look on my face told the tale of my day, and I suppose that he knew what I was looking for, since he turned down the heat on the stove and walked toward me, arms open wide for me to step into.

The world ceased to exist once his arms closed around me. I felt their warmth through my jacket, soaking into my stress-knotted muscles of my back and shoulders. I leaned my cheek against his t-shirt covered chest, a warm cotton wall in front of my face. The only noise reaching my ears was the steady thump of his heart, a metronome to steady my own racing pulse. Standing here, in his arms, burying my head, there were no phones ringing, no crazy or reckless drivers to avoid, no arguements, bills, kids, worries, cares... just me and him. This was my favorite place, the place where it was just he and I, where the world could not touch us. Where the rhythm of our heartbeats were the only sound.

26. You haven't been there since you were little. Now you go back....

The tall grass swished against my legs as I walked. Past the barn and down the fenceline I went, to the swimming hole where I spent most of my childhood summer days. The trees leaned to the side right where I remembered and I slipped past the gnarled trunks as I had so many times long ago.

The edge of the stream was lined with smooth rocks still, the sun changing them from brown and black to bronze and gold. The water was still cool and dark though. A startled gasp escaped my lips as I dove in, cutting beneath the surface and popping up near the big old tree. The tree was smaller too, I could almost reach the branches that hung over the water. The branches that shaded the beach from the afternoon heat. Wasn't the beach bigger then? There was the depression in the rocks where we built our campfires, once we were old enough to convince our parents that we could stay out after dark. Maybe that was why I still loved grilled hotdogs, and yet couldn't stand the sight of a boiled one. It's amazing that we didn't give ourselves food poisoning, since anything we could stab with a stick was fair game for campfire dinner.

Jutting out into the stream, just as I remembered, was the long flat rock where we would lay after swimming. How many times has I sat there feeling the sun-warmed granite beneath me? It wasn't quite a big as it used to be, certainly not big enough for me to stretch out completely upon it. Looking upstream and downstream the familiar boughs of much larger trees arched over the stream like a curtain of green. The stream might not even exist past those boundaries, but it was still here, in the same place where I stumbled upon it so many years ago.

It was the one place where I had gone from my childhood that was exactly the same. This was a small bubble of my past, where nothing was new, shiny, or touched in any way by the dirty fingers of progress and modernization.

29. When you finally arrived, it was nothing like you imagined....

I didn't want to go to Germany. I didn't want to go because my ex-husband lived there. I didn't want to go because I was taking my oldest son with me to see my ex-husband, his biological father. I didn't want to go because I had not seen or heard from my ex in over 10 years until recently, and that was just fine with me. I didn't want to go because it was a million miles away from my family, my kids, my home. I didn't want to go because it was his home, his place, his territory.

I had heard all about how great it was, how old the buildings were. I had heard all about how nice the people were, since tourists were there all the time, and they didn't hate alll Americans on sight, mostly. I heard how great his house was, where we would be staying (what in the world was I thinking??), and much his wife was looking forward to meeting us.

I did some research, looked at books and websites to figure out a little about where I was going to be for a week. I saw pictures, and learned important phrases like "where is the bathroom" and "do you speak English?" I packed carefully for the weather, proposed to be chilly but without much snow, perfect weather for sight-seeing. I brought along every phone number that I could concievably need including the US Consulate, a couple of friends in Europe, and every country code within a hundred miles or so of Germany, just in case.

We landed just in time, just before I had completely decided to turn around and go back home. We collected our luggage and passed through multiple security and customs checkpoints, declaring again and again that we had nothing to declare. Finally escaping the maze of the international terminal of the airport, we walked out into the bleak cloudy day.

As we stepped outside, the sun peaked out from behind the clouds. The sun bounced off of the rough stone buildings, sparkling with ice. The passing train whooshed by, stirring up whirlwinds of dusty snow. The people chattered with a musical lilt as they passed us by. The open shops in the platz offered the aroma of delicious handmade baked goods and freshly ground coffee.

Looking around I spotted my ex standing near a petite blond woman. She stepped forward and offered her hand.

"I am so glad that you came."

This wasn't going to be at all like I thought.

Theme Week #6

As I opened the door, the fresh air enveloped me, welcoming me, pulling me out the door.  As I stepped outside, the concrete was cool and surprisingly pleasant beneath my feet.  Stretched before me was a vista of trees, plants, and wildlife - the porch I was standing on was the sideline to this playing field of squirrels and birds.  The white columns to either side of the small steps down framed the scene as perfectly as any photographer.  I walked quietly over to the end of the porch, navagating as smoothly as I could to avoid spilling my coffee.  I skirted around the dog sculpture sitting near the first chair.  Many a time had I tripped over the oddly shaped arms and legs, sticking out at strange and random angles.  Certainly that must have been its only purpose, since it really only appeared to be an ugly, odd-ball, colored stack of metal straps and pieces - with dog ears and a tail.  I moved valiantly onward, safely past the dog.

My favorite chair was sitting near the end of the porch.  In the morning light, I could see that a couple of leaves had blown onto the weathered cushion.  The fading floral print contrasted nicely with the bright orange and yellow leaves.  The chair itself was an old one.  No doubt a yard sale find, refurbished and repainted to be brought back to life, and perched here on the porch to invite someone, such as myself, to sit and enjoy a morning cup of coffee.  It was some neutral color - tan or beige or perhaps faded white - nothing bright or gaudy like the neighboring dog or the overstuffed cushion.  The wicker had broken loose in a few places and stuck out, ready to grab hold of a sleeve or strand of hair if the oppertunity presented itself.  You could tell that it was well loved regardless, the paint was worn thin on the wide arms to show the darker color of the original wicker beneath.  I brushed the leaves off of the seat, and looked carefully at the spider who was scurrying across the concrete floor near the legs of the chair.  It continued safely past the chair and off the side of the porch into the bushes, not showing any sign of coming back and crawling up my own leg.  The crinkling sound of the cushion and the creak of the wicker adjusting to my weight was lost in the chorus of birdcalls echoing across the yard. 

Sipping my coffee I spied two blue jays chattering to each other, and the world, over their birdfeeder breakfast.  A cardinal swooped in, rousing the jays to fly off to the nearby tree to finish their conversation.  Small brown birds, swallows perhaps, darted here and there through the branches of the trees.  Stopping for a moment at the feeder when the larger birds had flown away, then off to the bird bath for a drink, and then off again to another branch - all the while chirping and singing their own little song.  A brave squirrel raced across the fallen leaves, trying once again, to scurry up the pole to the feeder.  After an unsuccessful attempt or two, it relented and satisfied itself with the fallen seeds along the ground, then scurried back to the trees to chatter back at the birds.  The chorus of nature echoed around me - no cars zooming by, no people talking - just the breeze blowing through the leaves of the tress, creating the background to the small performers on their stage.

Theme Week #5

I woke up on Saturday morning, having enjoyed a little bit of sleeping in, thinking that it was going to be just a normal kind of day.  I got up to go start the life-sustaining coffee in the kitchen and noticed that the house was surprisingly quiet.  Quiet in my house on weekends is like the silence in the horror movies just before the monster jumps out and grabs you - it never means good things.  I went to investigate what was going on, maybe catching that monster before he could catch me.

I wandered through the living room, noting that no one was watching TV or playing on the Wii - usually favorites on Saturday morning while waiting for breakfast.  Strange.  I head upstairs, still searching for the source of the quiet.  As I push open the door to the older boys' room, I hear the TV going and know that I have found at least some of my children.  Looking in I see the three younger kids sitting on the floor in a half circle around the TV.  I hate the idea of a TV in the kids room, but I was a bit in awe of how quietly they were sitting (next to each other even!) and watching it.  As I said good morning, their heads all snapped around to look at me.  Suddenly a barrage of questions, comments, and complaints were aimed in my direction.

"Mooommmm, Branden changed the channel on my show before it was over.  Is it my turn now?"

"Mum!  Miranda won't let me watch my sports updates.  I need to know the score from last night!"

"I want pan-cakies, pleeeeze."  Leave it to Colby to be all about the food.

I turned my head to look over at my oldest son, waiting for his contribution.  He looked at me and rolled back over in bed, pulling the blankets up.  "Can you get them out of here?"

I turned back to the other three with a confused look.  Why were they up here anyway?  I know that Miranda in particular hated watching TV in the Boy Room. 

"Mom, can we get a big flat TV like Mimi and Grampy have for the living room when we go shopping?"

"I want pan-cakes!" 

Pancakes I could do, but wait, shopping?  Are we going shopping?  What was she talking about?  Miranda must have seen the confused look on my face and was kind enough to bail me out.

"Mom, the TV downstairs is broken.  When are we going up town to get a new one?"

I turned and headed downstairs.  As I stood in the living room I glared at the TV - hmph, traitor.  In a last ditch effort to save my Saturday, I pushed the button.  Nothing, well, nothing but a strange buzzing noise.  Not good.  I fiddled with the other buttons on the TV, then the cable box, all in vain - still nothing on the screen. 

I could hear Colby asking again about panckes and a grumbled response from my teenager.  The natives were getting restless up there.  It was time to get moving.

I headed into the kitchen to start the pancake batter and grab a cup of coffee for myself, and Hubby too.  He didn't usually drink coffee, but I figured that he was going to need it. 

Our Saturday plans had just been changed.

Week #5 Prompts

 

17. You’ve lost It! Where is It?

The sun was brighter, the sky was blue-er, and the birds were cheerful-er... well you know what I mean. The first day of our honeymoon looked to be just about perfect. Hubby and I decided that we wanted to go camping at this really great campground that we had been to before. It was by the lake and had boats and things to rent during the day, and at night we could sit by the campfire and play cards by lantern-light. Barring a small incident with a curious racoon in the middle of the night, things were going great, and that day promised to be exactly what we ordered so that we could go out on the lake for the day. It was lots of fun to paddle around the lake, stopping for a while to lay in the sun or swim to cool off. We managed to keep the paddleboat upright the whole time. After taking the boat back in we went up to change to go out to dinner. I heard hubby yelling as I came back from the showers.

"Where is it? Oh my GOD!! Where is it?"

My darling husband, newly wed for almost 48 whole hours, had managed to lose his wedding band. He swore that he didn't take it off, but that it must have fallen off in the cool water of the lake. I smiled at him, it was funny to see him freaking out. He looked at me like I was crazy, not understanding the smile at all. I was smiling first - he was my husband and there was a ring to lose at all, second - because he was so upset, it was a big deal to him that it was gone, third - because he had no idea how long I was going to be able to make him miserable about this, even after we went to the jewelery store for his new one the next day.

22 – A Stranger comes to town

A stranger comes to town. Ya, that's me, I'm the stranger here.

Stepping out of the airport into the 110 degree afternoon heat reassured me of the fact that I was indeed, the one out of place here. Having just spent the last 36 hours transporting myself by car, bus, and plane from Maine to Missouri, my brain was scrambled just about enough to sit and argue this fact.

How could I be a stranger here? I was born here, I grew up and started kindergarden here... Just because I moved away (against my will) in elementary school doesn't mean I am a stranger.

Of course I am a stranger. Wasn't I just getting the wierdest look for asking where I could get a soda instead of asking for a pop? Aren't I the only one for miles that appears to be melting into the pavement? Didn't I just have to describe what I was wearing to my cousin on the phone so she could recognize me to pick me up? I might as well just ask for the nearest lobster pound while I am at it.

I have no sense of humor when I am arguing with myself, so I didn't laugh at that. However, I did call a truce and leave it. There were things to do and places to be since I finally arrived - mainly get to see Grandpa. Grandpa was the reason that I had come out to Kansas City. He was sick, very sick, most likely dying - and I was there to see him before he was gone. Grandpa was my heart and soul, I had loved him dearly ever since I could remember. He was always there, in every memory I had of my early childhood.

My cousin did find me, and we cruised down the interstate towards the hospital. Blissfully the AC had a chance to kick in before we arrived and I was no longer quite melting like a forgotten ice cream cone. Walking down the hallway and into Grandpa's room, I was forcably reminded of the arguement I was having with myself earlier.

Who are these people? Do I know them? Am I in the right room? Or are they?

Of course you know them, you moron. Grandpa is right there in the bed. Do you think people wander hospitals and just walk in and hold hands with people they don't know? Don't you think the nurses pay attention to who goes in and out of the rooms?

I recognized Grandma (Grandpa's second wife) sitting off to the side and I went over to hug her. She was smaller that I remembered, and sad. I didn't hear what she mumbled in my ear, but that was ok. I stepped back and turned around, everyone else was looking at me. I could almost hear the conversations they were having in their heads, "Who is that stranger? Where did she come from? Is she related?" I ignored all of them for the time being (I would apologize later) and walked up to Grandpa's side.

I reached out my hand and laid it on top of his, looking weak and pale even against the white hospital sheets. I looked up into Grandpa's face, into his eyes, and smiled. He smiled back, "Hey stranger, what brings you here?"

20 – The battle begins

"The battle begins!" I whisper under my breath. It's 7:43pm on a cool, crisp Wednesday night. I mentally give myself 2 more minutes of peace before announcing bedtime, since I know what will happen once I do. My two minute reprieve goes all too fast, but I get up from the computer regardless and take a deep breath.

"Ok, guys. It's time!!"

Instantly I hear the whines, grumbles, and stomping that accompanies bedtime every night. Miranda gets to me first.

"But mooooommmmmm..." she begins. "This is a new show and I won't be able to see it again and it's only got a little bit more and I promise I will get up in time for school I'll even get up early and Branden is still watching his show and it's not fair that the boys have a TV in their room and I don't."

I don't know how she has the breath to say that all at once without stopping. It's a good thing that I don't have to bother listening to it all, since it's probably the same thing that she said last night, and the night before, and the night before... Regardless, I put on a smile. She knows that it's not the "ok you can stay up late" smile, it's the "Your excuses aren't working and you're going to bed" smile. She sees my face and stomps off to the bathroom, hopefully to brush her teeth and change. I'm optimistic like that.

Branden is next, stomping down the stairs. "Mum! I have homework!" as he swings his backpack onto the table with a thud. Homework is the magic word - worlds revolve around homework, time stops, and mountains move. Not this time.

"Bran, tomorrow is Thursday. You have a study hall first period. You can do your homework then instead of shooting hoops in the gym." I can see the attitude starting to boil under the surface of his pain expression. "I asked you if you had homework earlier, and you said 'no.' That was your chance, so you will have to miss hoops tomorrow."

The indecision is plain on his face: admit he lied, make up an excuse, or suck it up. Before he has a chance to pick one I add the killing blow, "You know if you don't have enough time after school for homework now, maybe we should take you out of Cross Country?" That did it, Mom-1 Branden-0. Branden sulks off and pounds on the bathroom door to hurry Miranda along.

It's too quiet, so I head upstairs to find Colby. As I come to the top of the stairs I hear, "Goodnight Mom" Colby is lying on his bed, covered up, patiently waiting for his goodnight song. What a good boy!!! "Hush-a-bye?" he asks. I sing his goodnight song, ingoring Miranda and Branden as they clomp up the stairs as loudly as possible in protest. I check in on both of them afterwards - making sure they are actually in bed, wish them goodnight, and then head back downstairs.

I begin switching off the lights, making a circuit around the rooms of the house, picking up cups and discarded socks along the way. My very own victory lap - peaceful, quiet victory.

Week #4 Prompts

15. You have a friend, lover, s.o., parent, whomever--and you have a magic potion. Once they take it they will tell you the absolute truth for one minute. Who do you give it to and what do they say?

There are times when I am talking to someone, or maybe asking them a question that I really wonder if they are giving me the real answer, or really what they are thinking. Sometimes that is a kindness, do I really want to know how everyone's day has been? Or how they are feeling today? Maybe not. There are exceptions to this rule of course, as there are to all generalities, and I think that for each person there must be at least one exception.

By definition, an exception is something special, out of the ordinary, and (straight from Merriam-Webster) a case to which the rule does not apply. Everyone lives by the rules of exception. I think that if you are really lucky you have someone in your life that is an "exception" to that rule. I consider myself one of those lucky few, to have an exception in my life. For me, my exception, my special rule-does-not-apply person, is my mom. She is the one person, that no matter what the situation, or question, I would want to hear exactly what she was thinking. So could I imagine one person that I would give a magic potion to? One that would cause them to tell you the absolute truth about everything? Yes, yes I could.

14. Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?

It's time. Time to get ready to go.

I go into the kitchen and get my drink, the box of special crakers that I hid from the kids, and head into my room where the computer is. Setting those things down, I realize I forgot the phone, and my cell phone. I wander through the house collecting these bits and pieces that I will need and approach the computer chair.

I figure that I should open the window (which is right next to my chair) but make sure that the curtain is fully closed so that the sun doesn't blind me as I look at the screen. I hit the button to turn on the computer, and make myself comfy in my chair while slipping off my shoes. The welcome screen pops up before me, then disappears while my programs load. I open the crackers and take a drink of my soda (no ice because it just melts after a while and makes it taste terrible).

I hit the internet explorer icon and again my computer charges forward, connecting me to the world wide web and all it has to offer, but narrowing itself to my blogger homepage for now. At the last minute I decide I need to go to the bathroom. I might as well go now so that I don't have to stop what I am doing later and risk losing my rhythm.

Ok, bathroom done? check. drink? check. snack? check. phone close by? check. window open and curtain closed? check.

Reading the instructions for the week a couple of times over lets my brain stretch and wrap around the words and ideas they convey. I sit and ponder a bit, warming up my brain, thinking about where I want to go. Having thought about it all, all warmed and stretched out, I mentally hear the starting gun and my fingers begin to type.

On your mark, get set, go.

13. What inanimate thing do you wish could talk?

Driving along in the car I play the what-if game. I do this all of the time since the radio is mostly just annoying to me while I drive. Usually it's "what if I won the lottery?" or "what if we moved to Tennessee?" - today it was "what if I was on Survivor? what would my one item be from home?" (prompted by my recent conversation with hubby about the some of the craziness on Survivor)

So tooling down the road, I mentally flip through my special, personal items that would remind me of home and my life. Not clothes, pictures? No. The one thing that I could think of was my coffee cup. Chuckling at what my poor cup would think of whatever craziness I would be drinking out of it on Survivor, certainly not my perfected brew of half-decaf coffee I make at home.

Playing along with the daydream, I wonder what my poor would say about its well-used, and much loved life in my hands? Would it chastize me for the time that I left it in Tennessee by mistake? It took a week of threats to my mom before she carefully wrapped it (in bubblewrap) and sent back. Would it complain about the permanent stain on the bottom, from years of stirring in the sugar each morning? As I glance down and look at my cup, sitting next to me with the last bit of this mornings coffee in it, I smile. Maybe I love it cause I can identify with it?

I'm not much of a Disney fan for the most part, but when I saw it in the store with Grumpy (looking rather hung-overish) on the front in a bathrobe and slippers, I had to have it. It looks much like I do sometimes I think, first thing in the morning, endlessly searching for the kids missing sneaker, or misplaced homework. Inside the rim, much like the post-it notes that I leave as reminders on the bathroom mirror it says "Wake up Grumpy." It makes me smile. How can a coffee cup be so much of me? How can I sit and talk about something like a coffee cup for so long anyway? I don't honestly know, but it's true. I wonder what it would have to say about me?

Week #3 Prompts

#9 - Try a conversation between you and yourself. Sometimes arguments are fun.

The soft glow of the lamp shines across the computer desk. All around, the house creaked and moaned, settling for the evening. The kids are showered and in bed, hubby is safely occupied with something out of earshot. I sit here wondering what I should do with myself. The Mom on my left shoulder and the Me on the right discuss the options.

"You really should go do the dishes from dinner" Mom says patiently. She knows where this discussion is going to go.

"Seriously? I just cleaned the kitchen, made dinner, and made dessert. I even took over homework duty and got the kids settled. I think that I am off duty for the rest of the night." Me huffs and turns away, presenting a cold shoulder to rebuff any further remarks.

Mom sighs, "Who is going to do them? The kids are in bed, and Hubby certainly won't be doing them tonight, if ever" she grumbles. Me tries one more shot.

"I deserve some quiet time too. I had class today, and homework, and.. ugh"

Mom reaches over and pats Me on the back, "There you go. There's your pat on the back. Do you feel better? Let's make a deal. Go and start the dishes, make some coffee, and when the coffee is done you can call it quits and leave the rest for tomorrow."

Me, knowing when to quit while still ahead, agrees. "Alright, but this time I really AM going to stop when the coffee is done, and leave the rest!"

Mom smiles, "Ok, if you say so." I leave the comfy computer chair and head to the kitchen, Mom, Me, and myself.

#11 - I said, she said conversation.

Listening to the ring on the other end of the line, I take a deep breath and remind myself that I need to be nice.

"Good morning, how can I help you?"

It's the familiar sound of the switchboard operator. I recognize her voice from the several other calls I have made this week (so far).

"Hello, I was hoping to speak with Kelly. Is she in today?" I add the extra question on the hopes of getting some information rather than the automatic transfer to Kelly's line.

"One moment please. "

No such luck. Whisked away through the maze of the office system, I mentally prepared what I am going to say to the voicemail yet again. This is the fourth call this week.

"You have reached Kelly's desk. I am away from my desk or on another line..." What a surprise. Even calling first thing in the morning doesn't help. I am pleasant, but a but firm on the voicemail. Rattling off my name, number, and serial number as requested, adding the little note that I have been calling since Monday morning and really need to speak with her today.

Frustrated I call back again.

"Good morning. How can I help you?"

"Hi, I have been trying to reach Kelly since Monday but have not heard from her. Is there someone else in the office I could speak with?"

"One moment."

It sounds like my friend the operator has heard this request a time or two.

An un-necessarily perky voice answers, "Good morning can I help you?"

I spell out the details again, explaining that I was trying to reach Kelly, and had left messages, but was really just needing some questions answered.

"Well, they are all in a meeting this morning so there isn't anyone else that could talk with you right now. Do you want me to transfer you to Kelly's voicemail?"

The well-meaning suggestion loosens my grip on my temper.

"I did just explain that I had left yet another message this morning. I don't think that leaving another one will help, do you?"

"Well, I am sure that she will call you back once she is out of the meeting."

This poor woman doesn't have a clue.

"I will call back later this morning to speak with the supervisor. Can you tell me her name?"

The magic word, supervisor, can sometimes cut through the confusion.

"Well, yes. Kelly is the supervisor for the office, so she is the one you would need to speak with anyway"

"Of course. Well thank you for your help," or lack thereof.

#10 - Go to a crowded public place and be a fly on the wall. Just listen. Can you pick out conversations? Write down a little of what you hear, maybe as dialog.

The sun bounced off the glass door as more people came into the store. Over the clang of the carts, and the squeeky wheels I can hear their voices come into focus:

"..just to pick up a couple things, then we can go home and start dinner for your folks" A pretty woman with a much taller man grumbles as they head toward the produce section.

"I didn't invite them, you know" He sounds defensive, and this is obviously not the start of this conversation, but perhaps a new chapter of it.

"You didn't invite them? Well who did? I sure didn't. Like I have enough time to do the whole domestic song and dance for your mom on a Tuesday night" The lady looks like she is ready for a quiet house with a glass of wine to me.

"I told you I didn't invite them, but they are coming over either way I guess. Hell, let's just order a pizza and call it good" Poor guy, he almost sounds hopeful. Does he know that is never going to fly?

The woman turns from the tomatoes and gives him a look full of daggers, "Seriously? So I can hear about it 'til Christmas about how I don't cook or do all of the things that I should be doing to make sure you don't wither away and die without living at home?"

She stomps away toward the rotisserie chickens, leaving him looking at the unsympathetic tomatoes.

"No, instead I get to hear about it 'til Christmas.." he mumbles, following behind her, fading from earshot.