My newest cookbook

Last week, I went with my sister to Dillards to shop for a "Welcome Home from the War" dress to wear when she gets to see her husband again - soon!!!

She found two great dresses, so she bought one for Christmas.  I bought nothing.  I am the epitome of restraint.

{Side note: my husband once attended an award ceremony and the blurb about why the person was receiving the award contained the word "epitome" which the reader pronounced as EP-i-TOME, with a long "o".  We now always pronounce it that way as a joke, so I don't use it in mixed company for fear I will say it wrong, and nobody will laugh, except at me.}

At the checkout, they had a cookbook: Southern Living Christmas Cookbook.  She bought one for herself and one for me, too.  I love Southern Living.  Their recipes are fabulous and go way beyond fried chicken and cheese grits.  The book is only $10, and the proceeds benefit the Ronald McDonald House.  We made our turkey using one of the recipes, and for dinner last night I made Holiday Shepherd's Pie (see below).

What I love best are the 14 menus which give you a "game plan" - what to do and when.  It tells you what you can make ahead, and what to do the day of the event - 4 hours ahead, 2 hours ahead, etc.  I think the hardest thing about hosting a party (or any meal) is having all the food done at the right time.  It's very helpful to have somebody tell you when to do certain things, especially when trying new recipes.  So if you're looking for a great cookbook to add to your collection, and one that will give you some great ideas for holiday menus, you might want to check this one out.

Their Holiday Shepherd's Pie specified cornbread and pre-made mashed potatoes.  This adaptation used Thanksgiving leftovers.

3 Tbsp. butter
3 cups chopped onion, pepper, and celery (I had no pepper and used green onions)
2 cups leftover stuffing
3 cups chopped cooked turkey
1 cup gravy
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
3 cups mashed potatoes (or whatever you have)
1 cup whole-berry cranberry sauce (or whatever you have)

1. Preheat oven to 375 deg.  Saute the chopped vegetables in the butter until soft (about 8 minutes).  In a large bowl, mix the vegetables, stuffing, turkey, gravy, salt and pepper.  Place in greased 11" x 7" dish.  Bake for 15-20 minutes until warm.
2. Warm mashed potatoes in microwave (or oven).  Spread cranberry sauce over warmed turkey.  Top with mashed potatoes.  Bake, uncovered, for 15 minutes until hot.

Post Thanksgiving Ruminations

My children have been permitted to use my computer this past week.  I gave up on even checking my email during the hours of 8 am to 8 pm.  They will be so sad to return to our normal "no TV or computers Monday-Friday" rule tomorrow. 

*******

I cleaned some of the garage yesterday and pulled the storage bin marked "Advent" out to an accessible location.  I was going to make this the first year EVER that I had the Advent wreath out and ready to go before the first Sunday of Advent.  As I lay in bed last night, I remembered, suddenly, that I did not get the wreath out after all.  I have high hopes that I won't be scrambling at dinnertime tonight.  But instead of getting it now, I'm blogging. 

Priorities.

*******

Sometimes I can really step in it.  As we adults were going around the Thanksgiving dinner table remarking on things for which we were grateful, I happily noted the presence of my two sisters who were not with me last year, and mentioned the absence of my brother and his family, whom we miss. 

Then my sister pointed out that I failed to mention her husband who is deployed in a war zone right now.

"Uh, but you are one!" I exclaimed.  Lame.

Happy 13th anniversary today to her and her Bill.

*******

Note for next year: if we're going to do them on the same day, best to do family pictures first and then go to confession.  I mean, it's like vacuuming the van before going to the beach if you do them the other way. 

*******

Do you compare penances after going to confession?  Fritz, Billy and I got three Our Fathers.  Bill was supposed to say something nice about someone else (I hate those kind of penances...too abstract).  Katie got four Hail Marys, which I think is comparable to three Our Fathers.  Then Jenny said she got five Hail Marys.

"Holy smokes, girl, what did you do?" I asked her.

This is the same young priest we went to last month.  Last month, I walked into the confessional and all I saw were black high-top Converse sneakers.  I wasn't surprised when I got a whole decade of the rosary to pray.  The younger they are, the longer the penance.  By the time they are a Monsignor, they tell you to think nice thoughts about people for a few minutes.

It's amazing that this same guy, a month later, was only doling out three Our Fathers.  But this time, we were in line before he got there, so he saw the whole family.  Since the kids went before me, maybe he took their confessions into consideration when assigning me mine.

Of course, Bill was last, and he only had to say something nice about someone else.  What does that say about my confession?

*******

I have six baskets of laundry that need folding.  Ugh.  Unfortunately, at this point, I think that chore falls into the necessary category.

Mass with a Difficult Child

I knew it was going to be a bad evening as soon as I saw them.  The mom and her 3 ~ 4 year old came up the aisle.  She moved to the right, but he decided he wanted to go left.  They went left.

We're in the parish hall, on folding chairs.  The small church is getting crowded, and the last remaining Mass there is the Saturday Vigil Mass.  Tonight and next weekend, it had been relocated to the parish hall as well - perhaps because of out-of-town holiday guests.

The mom and her son sat in the front row.  The procession started, and three altar servers (two were mine) and the priest came down the aisle and went up on the platform.  As the priest did the opening prayers, the little boy left his mother and crossed in front of the platform toward the right, teasing his mother: will you chase me, or won't you?  How far can I go?  The mom stayed put, not wanting to make a scene, not wanting to interrupt the priest.  The priest finished the prayer and then said, "Aiden, go back to mommy.  Now!"

I died of embarrassment for her.

I've seen her before, at the daily Mass.  I had started to go on Fridays in the spring, and through the summer.  I wanted to keep it up, but haven't been able to.  I think she has a younger child, and she likely attended Mass after dropping this one off at preschool.

Mom retrieved Aiden, and kept a firm grip on him for a bit.  But little children being little children, he was squirmy and heavy and restless and active.  She had her hands full.  At one point, he had to go to the bathroom.  The ladies' room is on the right side.  That's where I always sit, because I had to go there twice myself during Mass, with Mary.  Since she was on the left, and not wanting to cross during the readings, she went all the way down one side and up the other.  I've had to do that, too.  That's why I always sit on the right.  After the potty break, they had to retrace their steps.

I watched her take him out the side door at least once.  My heart ached.  I've been right there, too many times.  Mary was some trouble tonight during Mass - the biggest problem was that she desperately wanted to fall asleep, and that just doesn't work for us later on in the night.  She did some dancing in the side aisle, too.  And climbing on the folding chairs, and bumping the lady in front of us.  But it's so different now.  Now, I have perspective.  Now, I have two (mostly) well behaved boys on the altar serving Mass.  Now I have two (mostly) well behaved girls sitting nicely in the pews (folding chairs).  Now I have a 6 year old, who sometimes can be difficult, but who is still 6, and not 3.

Nothing compares to a three year old boy.  Nothing.

The last straw was when I heard the flapping of little feet running up the right side aisle.  I should have known it was him, but I was actually more focused on praying right then.  Had I been paying attention (to what I should not have been paying attention to), I could have looked back, seen him far outpacing his mother and stopped him when he got to me.  Instead, he streaked past me, rounded the corner and crossed in front of the altar, just as the priest said, "... fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become our spiritual drink." 

NOBODY did the response.  We were all so distracted by this little boy, who kept on running over to the left aisle and down, where a woman did stop him and engage him until his mother could get to him.  And she did exactly what most mothers would do at that point: she quit.  She scooped him up, got her purse and left. 

I almost chased after her.  Had I been on the left side for once.  Had I not had Mary and Peter to worry about.  I prayed so hard that she had only retreated, that she had gone to the back and that I would see her again during communion.  That I could give her a hug after Mass and tell her it was going to be OK, that she's a good mom, that he will mature, eventually.

But she was gone.

And so I tell you, whoever is reading this and needs to hear it.  Don't quit.  Retreat, yes.  Surrender, never.

I have spent countless hours in the backs of churches, in vestibules and hallways, even outside if the child was really noisy.  I have endured thousands of unkind looks, thoughtless words, and unhelpful suggestions.  I have had to leave Mass before it was even begun, and spend the entire time straining to hear what was gong on in an attempt to participate.  It is so easy to convince yourself that's it's not worth it.  What's the point of going?  I heard nothing, you think.  My only prayer was that God would prevent me from murdering my child.  I committed all sorts of sins against charity while dealing with this tyrant.  Better to just go home and go to bed.

But God doesn't expect miracles.  We are required to attend Mass and to participate to the best of our ability.  God knows what we can and cannot do.  God wants us to offer Him our obedience.  No prayer of ours, no matter how devoutly said, can equal an act of obedience, especially when that obedience requires supreme fortitude.

Don't get me wrong.  The goal is to participate fully in the Mass.  The goal is to not be distracted by the antics of your little guy - or anyone else's for that matter.  The goal is to have antic-free children.  We call them mature adults.  And don't think I look down on families who choose to leave little ones in the nursery or at home instead of suffering through Mass.  I'm not demanding all mothers be super-heroic every Sunday.  But no matter what arrangements you have, at some point, you will be stuck with a difficult child during Mass.  And what will you do then?

I remember those days, sitting on the cold, hard floor of a vestibule, unable to hear what was going on, lamenting my situation, wanting just to leave, thinking it was not worth anything for me to be sitting there, pinning down my naughty little tot, getting angrier by the minute.  And there was one thought I clung to: I will not let this child deprive me of the Eucharist!  I needed those graces, more than anyone else in that church, I promise you.  And so I stayed.  I hunkered down, I waited for the communion hymn, I stole peeks through the door to see when the line was winding down, and I made my (often) grand entrance, rushing quickly down the aisle before my kid could even realize what was going on and start screaming about it.

Don't give up.  It does get easier, generally by the time they're 10.  God wants you, as you are.  Go to Him.  Receive the Eucharist.

And realize that there are probably many mothers right there who feel your pain and wish they could take it away, even just for that once.

Running for Pizza

Because we are middle-aged (and it's so much fun), Bill has found that he needs to count his daily fiber consumption.  He was going to do it by hand, but I already had a program - Lose It! - on my iTouch, which is for counting calories, but also happens to do nutritional information like fiber.  Much easier than keeping a paper trail.

So I set it up for him, putting in his gender and age and current weight.  I asked him his goal weight, and he gave me a number about 10 pounds less than his current weight.  I told the program that he would like to lose 1 pound per week, a very modest goal.  The program set his daily caloric intake at around 1000 calories a day.  Bill argued that this was way too low for an adult male.  I pointed out that he was the one who told me a goal weight less than his current weight, and if he didn't want to count calories to just ignore that part.

Of course, it's hard to ignore the bar graph that shows your excess calories in bright red every day for the week.  And it's hard to look at what the program is telling you is the calorie count for a slice of pizza, especially when you ate 3 for dinner.  This is why counting calories is such a great method of weight control/loss.  When those numbers add up, you feel guilty, and you make different choices.

I'd like to point out that the app has been unused for months - not because I think my weight is fabulous, but because I hated being reminded of how many calories I had eaten.  Best to ignore it...ignorance is bliss...I like bliss.

The other night, Bill was entering his meals for the day as we lay in bed.  He showed me how poorly he was keeping to the 1000 calories, especially that day with pizza, and I pointed out that the program gives you more calories when you exercise...had he done anything that day?  No.  His job is sedentary, and he had not made the time to do anything else.

"We could have sex tonight..." he suggested.  Foreplay for the middle-aged.

"Does it give calories burned in ten minute increments?"

Laughter is also good exercise.

He checked the program and found sexual activity.  "Sorry.  It only does 30 minutes increments."

"How many calories?"

"Eleven." 

"That's it?"  

"Wait.  You can change it to 'vigorous sexual activity'.  That's nineteen."

"I think I'd rather go to sleep.  Hardly seems worth it." I teased, but it was after 10 pm.

"Vacuuming is 95 calories for a half hour,"  he mentioned, flipping through the list.


"Vacuuming burns more calories than sex?  Hmm."  Housework was suddenly very appealing, but not as appealing as sleep.

"Sleep is not listed," my husband pointed out.  Oh, well.  The mattress was too comfortable and the hour too late to care.  "Can you get me up in the morning when you go running?"

Yes.  That I would do.  Just so his bar graph would look nicer.

Boy Scout Laundry

a poem not written by Lewis Carroll

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the laundry pile, my son!

The crusted shirts, the smells that haunt!

Beware the backpack filled with clothes

From last week’s camping jaunt!”

He put the rubber gloves on hands,

Long time a fail-proof plan he sought -

So rested he by the Soap-Soap machine,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

He high upon the shelf did spy,

An answer to his mournful prayer:

An air mask there did lie.

Lickety-split he climbed, the boon to fetch.

He donned the mask deliberately.

Then set he to the task at hand,

And cleaned triumphantly.

“And hast thou done the wash, my son?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

Oh frabjous day!  Callooh! Callay!”

She chortled in her joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

a stuff and nonsense poem, especially the part about my son doing laundry

Slim Pickings

Bill overheard a conversation between Katie and a non-homeschooled friend.

"Who is the cutest boy in your class?" the friend asked.

Now, I was born boy-crazy (I think my first "marriage" was when I was 5 or 6 to a boy named Scotty, and my handwriting notebook was covered with the names of two boys, Patrick and Joseph, whom I adored in 2nd and 3rd grade), so this aspect of the conversation doesn't bother me.  It does, however, make me thankful that I, as a parent, have been mainly spared, so far, all this love/crush-drama.  We don't have cute or not-so-cute boys to distract from our studies, just the constant din of an active household, which is quite bad enough.

I did, later and without referencing Katie's overheard conversation, ask Katie if her friend knew she was homeschooled...I mean, really knew what that meant.  She knows, but I think she doesn't really know.  Sometimes it's hard to visualize a completely foreign lifestyle.

Bill lingered to hear how Katie would respond.  Would it be Fritz, the oldest whose jaw is starting to pop out in a masculine way?  Would it be Peter, the imp, who has a mischievous spark in his eye and cheeks that you just want to squeeze?  Surely it wouldn't be Billy, who is so close in age that they tend to be rivals more than friends.

After some pondering, Katie answered, "Well, my dad, I guess."

Good girl!  Good answer!  All is right with the world if Daddy is the cutest "boy" in your life.

And I'm partial to him myself.

Mind-Reading and Other Parental Tricks

Bill doesn't usually make it home in time for dinner, but he did last night.  It was the typical chaos along the lengths of each side of the table, with he and I at the ends, sitting and just looking at each other.

"Why are you staring at each other?" asked one child, momentarily distracted from the banter.

"Your dad and I can talk, just by looking at each other," I explained.  "See, I'll show you.  Bill: I'm thinking of a number between 1 and 100.  What is it?"

Bill pressed his hands to his head, closed his eyes and said, "Sixty-two."

"YES!" I said.  The kids were impressed.  "Now you try it."

"I'm thinking of an animal," he said.

I thought for a moment, melding our minds.  "A giraffe!"

"YES!" he agreed.  And we laughed.

Oh, but one clever child is now old and wise.  "What number am I thinking of?" he demanded of his younger brother.

Billy guessed, "Twenty-five?"

"YES!" he responded.  "AMAZING!"  And he laughed, too.

"One is too smart for us," I told my husband.

"Yes," he agreed.  "But just one."

Army Christmas Stockings

Thank you to those who "liked" my new etsy shop on Facebook.  With my one product.  Most of my stockings are sold because of word of mouth. 

It's that time of year again.  People start doing searches for "Army Christmas stocking" or" ACU Christmas stocking" and my post from 2006 comes up, eventually.  And people send me emails asking if I'm still making them.

Yes.  As a matter of fact, I am. 

And I took some newer photos, which I will now post.

I have two sizes.  The smaller ones are about 6" x 11.5" and the larger ones are about 7" x 13".

The small ones are an old style, but the fabric was already cut out.  When it's gone, it's gone.  They are $15 each.  The larger ones are $23 each if you contact me via email.  They are more via etsy.  It's the cost of business.

The loop is 550 cord.  The loop will hold 550 lbs.  My stitches will not.  I do quadruple stitch the loop in place, but I wouldn't bet on the tensile strength.  The 550 cord is a cool touch.  You won't find other ACU Army Christmas stockings with 550 cord loops.  Just mine.  I do think the quadruple stitching will hold most stockings stuffers, though.

I can make the stockings hang to the right or to the left, although the small ones are already stitched, so you have to accept my limited supplies.  I'm stitching the larger ones this month, and I do not think I will order more fabric this season, so if you have a strong preference, order soon or pray that I have want you want.

There are two pieces of velcro on the stockings.  One is perfect for the name tape and the other is the right size for unit patches.  I do not include name tapes and patches, unless you want REITEMEYER on your stocking.  If you are sending this to a soldier overseas and do not have access to name tapes and unit patches, don't fret.  Soldiers usually have extras, or they go and get their name in Pashtu to decorate their Army Christmas stocking.

Leave a comment or email me if you are interested.

Reverse Junk Mail

Today in the mail, I received a request for donations to an organization for whose destruction I pray every day.  As tempting as it was to rip it in half and toss in the the recycling bucket, I opened it instead and found a postage paid return envelope.

I am a bit gleeful.

You see, if that envelope is used, they have to pay for the postage.  It's a reduced bulk rate, but it's money nonetheless.  Now, if I sent in a donation, that gift would easily cover the cost.

But if I return it empty...or better yet, filled with prayer cards...it costs them a tiny bit.  But if you do it, too, it costs a bit more.  So watch that junk mail carefully, folks.  Let your least favorite "non-profits" know how you feel about them.

Operation Special Delivery

For anyone who doesn't have a sister who is willing to leave her husband for a month and fly across the country to be with her during a time of need, there is Operation Special Delivery:

Operation Special Delivery (or OSD), provides trained volunteer doulas for pregnant women whose husbands or partners have been severely injured or who have lost their lives due to the current war on terror, or who will be deployed , or unable to attend the birth due to military reasons. The doulas that are volunteering are doing so at a pro bono (free) rate, and are doing so by their own discretion.

Words can not convey how awesome I think this service is.

My New Backpack

Speaking of stuff, my kids were in complete shock this past spring when I bought a small purse from the local thrift store.  You see, I already had a purse, so why would I need another one?

I'm sure most women reading this would not need an explanation, but in case there is any confusion, my purse is a very colorful pattern, and it just didn't go with several outfits.  Practical Me, for years, has always stuck with plain materials for my pocketbooks, but in recent years I have thrown caution to the wind and added some pizzazz.

Of course, I tend to wear solid shirts and pants, so a loud purse wasn't a big deal.  Then, Impractical Me started adding pattern dresses and shirts into my repertoire.  I know, crazy.  Symptomatic of a mid-life crisis.

Plus, my regular purse was large, and sometimes I only wanted to carry a few things.  It seems silly to carry a big purse when inside is a wallet, some lip balm, keys and a cell phone.

Then my sister and I went down to St. Augustine and I lugged my camera everywhere.  My camera is not light.  It does fit in my purse, but when traveling I tend to carry around more than a wallet and lip balm, so it was pretty full.  I decided that what I really needed was a backpack.  We shopped.  I looked.  I concluded that backpacks for women come in two types: inexpensive but ugly or attractive but way more than I was willing to spend.

Keep in mind that the last purse I bought myself was found at a thrift store.

Then I found this backpack pattern online.  For free.  All it cost me was time.  Well, not exactly true.  I had to buy super-stiff interfacing and batting.  But I bought no fabric or thread for this project, and I had a coupon for the other supplies.  Sewing did take up the better part of the weekend, but I love the results.  It was my first real quilting project.  And it uses a recycled uniform.

The flag hides where I stitched velcro to hold the flap closed.  I may change that to a magnetic clasp at some point.  No rush.  The velcro came off a uniform pant pocket.

The straps are made from the collars of two uniform blouses.  They were the perfect length.

I was especially excited to use velcro closure pockets from the legs of the pants for the lining.  The big ones on the front and back are designed to hold knee pads (in the uniform - not my backpack).  One side pocket is the perfect size to hold sunglasses (in my backpack - and on the uniform).

I used the back panel of the pants to make the flap.  I included the back pocket which has a button closure.  It's a typical back pants pocket so it's a good size.  I think the top of the backpack is the perfect place to store keys and a cell phone.  This flap was probably the second most tedious job to do.  I had to pull the pocket aside to do the quilting, then make a slit in the backing to tuck the pocket under the quilting so the pocket wasn't quilted shut.  Then I added some faux-quilting to the top part of the pocket.  The stitches aren't perfectly aligned, but it wasn't an easy job to do!  I'm satisfied, and I know that 85% of the world will never notice.  And the other 15% who do will know that it's not perfect because I made it myself.

The last detail is this extra fabric, unaligned-to-anything stitch running in an arc on the side.  What is it doing there?  Well, that's the way the pants are made.  That fabric is where the seat of the pants begins to curve around (this would have been the right back pocket).  My husband asked me if I was going to remove the fabric.  I could have, but then it wouldn't have this quirky extra-fabric-unaligned-stitching-unique-to-my-bag-because-it's-made-from-a- real-uniform look.

It's art, I told him.  I also told him if I hadn't wanted that stitch there I could have just used the ACU fabric I bought in a bolt that's still lying around my house.

As I sewed this weekend, I vaguely paid attention to the hours it took me and I decided that if I were to make this for someone else I wouldn't do it for less than $80.  It just took that much time.  I'd do it for me; I'd do simpler patterns for my kids (the most tedious job was the inch wide stripes that I had to sew and iron flat...if I did wider stripes, it would be easier and less work).  But I won't be cranking these out for general sale.

But I like the results so well that I really think I'll search the online patterns before I ever buy another purse again.

What do you think?

How much more stuff do we need?

I'm pondering this column on Stuff today as I think hard about Christmas shopping.  I'm also thinking hard about moving, since we should be doing that soon...very soon...although I don't know where or exactly when.  I am tempted to do a partial do-it-yourself move where I would box everything and get somebody else to load it up, truck it, and unload it.  If you have to wrap and box everything, you think long and hard about how badly you want it.

But then I couldn't blame the movers for the missing kid things.

Really, though, I don't see having the time to do all that work, so I'll have to purge beforehand as much as possible and then finish it at the other end.

In the meantime, my Christmas wish list is mostly to replace old or broken or not-quite-right things I already have, and the items on my gift list for others are being scrutinized for necessity or usefulness.

Except for books.  There is never a restriction on books...

Morning Cuppa

Husband: Peter!  Coffee!

Peter comes running.

Me: Did you just tell the 6 year old that the coffee is ready?

He stands there, silent, pondering pithy responses, and coming up short.

Peter grins.  And then he searches for the flavored creamer in the fridge, which is, alas, all gone.

Earlier this morning, Fritz requested that I buy some French vanilla flavored beans.  This is not normal.

For the record, we serve the java heavy on the latte. 

Occupy Savannah

The nation-wide 40 Days for Life Campaign, a prayerful vigil outside abortion clinics, is wrapping up this week.  The day my church was scheduled to support the vigil was weeks ago, and they had plenty of volunteers for that day.  I decided to go "some other day" later in the campaign, but week after week went by.  Things kept coming up.  I had other priorities.

Last week, the woman responsible for coordinating time slots called me, and I promised her a day and time - yesterday from 2 to 3 pm.  I figured if it was definitely on my calendar, I would not be "overcome by events."

This is Savannah's first year participating in the campaign, and they only tried for 7 am to 7 pm, instead of the 24 hour vigils encouraged elsewhere.  Despite more than 90 churches in the area and the reduced hours, the campaign could not get the 960 people needed (12 hours x 2 people per hour x 40 days), and many hours meant no prayerful presence at the clinic.  I, and I'm sure many others, were praying at all hours of the day and night as we went about our busy schedules.  But still, a physical presence means more. 

Sadly, I think we fight apathy more than anything.  I don't think many people are really in favor of abortion.  I think the vast majority of people just don't care about the issue - they don't think it applies to them.  I don't get that.  Ho, hum, thousands of babies dying every day in America...not my problem.  I'm too old to have babies.  I'm happily married.  I'm a man.

And we criticize China for ignoring one 2 year old who was hit by a car and left on the street.  Not my kid...not my problem.

*********

So, yesterday, school is in session and I'm trying to get reluctant students to get some work done, and I'm trying to get the kitchen cleaned up before we go, and I'm refusing to get discouraged, and I'm letting go of the idea that I will be remotely successful in these endeavors.  My priority is getting to the abortion clinic by 2 pm, as promised.  Nothing else matters.

I get the kids fed lunch; I have them fill their water bottles and pack up some books; I tell them to saddle up.  I get myself a cup of water and head out to the car.  Everybody is loaded and buckled.  I put the key in the ignition and hear a click.

No.way.

I try again, not because I expect a different response, but because I can not believe that I got that response in the first place.  Click click click.

"Stay put," I tell the kids and head inside to call AAA.  But first I have to call the vigil coordinator to tell her I won't be there.  As her phone rings, my disappointment, frustration and shock all reach a boiling point, so the message I left on her machine went something like this:

"Blubber blubber blubber...my car won't start...blubber blubber blubber...can't believe it...blubber blubber blubber...will try to get there as soon as possible..blubber blubber blubber...I know it's silly to cry...blubber blubber blubber...."

Then I took a deep breath and made a very calm phone call to AAA.  Fifteen minutes later, the coordinator called me back.

"Are you ok?!?!?"  {sigh}  Yes.  I've cleaned up all the puddles.

*********

AAA came.  My battery was so dead that it took 10 minutes of charging to get it to run by itself, and the nice guy followed me to the local car supply place to make sure I got there ok.  They have a device that checks your battery for you.  It also checks the starter and alternator to see if they are draining the battery.

Everything was fine.

 I just wasn't supposed to be at that clinic at that hour.

*********

Better late than never, my small band of protestors showed up and occupied the tiny patch of grass between the sidewalk and the street.  I tried to pray, but had to deal with a constant barrage of questions from "Why would someone want to kill their baby?" to "Why can't we storm the building and make them stop?"

Mary is, apparently, a natural-born protestor.  "They kill babies here, Mom?" she asked.  When I said yes, she picked up a sign, held it over her head and waved it at anybody who might be passing by.  There was nobody passing by, but that did not matter.  It was so cute I had to take a picture.

She doesn't know what the sign says, but that doesn't really matter.  Billy, meanwhile, is contemplating the fall of Jericho and wondering if we march around the abortion clinic for 7 days and blow trumpets, if it won't just fall down.  I suggested that since no Angel of the Lord had appeared to him, the chance of success of in that was slim.

We made it 45 minutes before Mary had to go to the bathroom.  She actually suggested that the little patch of grass was fine for her, but since I support laws against public urination, unlike other protest movements, I decided that our occupation of Savannah was over.

Halloween Festivities

"I know you're really busy tomorrow..." he said.  It was a guess, of course.  A good, accurate guess, but a guess nonetheless.

"What do you need, honey?" I asked.  It was just Mass, and school, and the usual stuff on my calendar.

"Can you post pictures of the costumes?  Please?"

And so, I interrupt my "I'm too busy to blog" life, by special request, to post Halloween pictures.  I don't know if the children will ever forgive me for ignoring their schoolwork for a bit. 

The kids had a piano recital last week, in costume.  Therefore, the weekend before was all consumed with sewing, cutting, gluing, painting, etc.  But some of the children did not perform, and some of the accessories were not required, therefore, this past weekend was also all consumed with more of the same.

I am very happy that Halloween is over.  Life can resume.

First of all, the disaster that was my house for over a week:

Working on hard tile does nothing good for your back.

flotsam and jetsam

everywhere

crucial bike pump

debris...everywhere

work in progress

kitchen table, where are you?

Then there was Jenny.  When the lady at the fabric store saw my selection, she said, "Dorothy?"  I just sighed.  I did not have a pattern; I just winged it.  A pattern would have been better.  But patterns are expensive, and I was feeling cheap.

It was too bright to face me

 

Her hair was cute.

She used birthday money to buy her own Toto and ruby red shoes.

Dorothy

I wish my children were into themes, but we couldn't get anybody to agree to be a Tin Man or Scarecrow or Lion.  I finally convinced Mary to be Glinda the Good Witch.

Glinda the Good Witch

Of course, everybody thought she was dressed as a princess.  Everybody except for one woman a few doors down who knew exactly who she was.  The Wizard of Oz is her favorite movie, she said.  This was another costume without a pattern.  I should have used a pattern, but I could not find my princess dress pattern.  I think I need to organize my supplies.

Katie wanted to be Black Cat Girl from 1960's era Spiderman.  Her father killed Peter Parker's uncle.  Google some images and, um, well, if you don't have a filter, then don't do that while children are present.  Here is one appropriate pic:

All other online pictures are rated R.  I used a black velour warm up suit found at Target and just added some white fluff.

I told her lipstick wasn't necessary.

Black Cat Girl

While the girls' costumes required mostly my labor, the boys' were in their father's line.  It's too bad there is no money to be made in this business.  Bill has quite a talent.

Billy was a samurai warrior.

Nothing we could do about the blue eyes.

Peter wanted to be a Roman soldier.  He is on a Roman soldier kick.  Loves all things...as long as they are Roman soldiers.

He had so many people remark how cute he was.  Cute?  Does this kid look cute?  Fierce.  Determined.  Deadly.  Not cute.

Fritz was a Ranger from the Ranger's Apprentice series.  We forgot to put on his oak leaf insignia.  I made the cape - very nice cape, if I do say so myself.  Bill (and Fritz) did all the accessories: bow, quiver and arrows, various knives and scabbards.

I used the same pattern and made a black cape for my nephew.  I had the good fortune of finding two flat queen size sheets in black at the thrift store for $3.  Thrift stores are a gold mine for fabric.

Action shots (my nephew is merely an armed thug):

My niece was a skeleton kitty.

Group shot of the girls:

Samurai vs. European-esque warrior:

Dorothy defends Toto against the marauding Goths:

East and West united against the barbarian:

We had a great time last night, although Mary got halfway through the neighborhood and declared she had enough candy and that it was time to go home.  She was asleep before 8 pm.