The only homeless person I know personally chose to be homeless. He reveled in his freedom, slept in parks, joined the carnival, showered occasionally when he came to visit. This has colored my perception of homeless people. Perhaps I was less sympathetic than I ought to have been.

When I was a teenager, a couple of my friends and I used to go to the local Rescue Mission to sing. I don’t think the Tacoma Rescue Mission does this, but back in the day, that Rescue Mission insisted that the guests sit through a church service before they were fed. My girlfriends and I provided the music while the unkempt men stared. I was grateful to be sitting on the piano bench, hands on the keyboard, face to the wall. Those homeless men scared me.

Today, I went with my husband to a luncheon presented by the Tacoma Rescue Mission. Various politicians stood as we applauded. A local radio host gave a keynote address. (Mercifully short, not that it wasn’t interesting, but I find listening to speakers rather agonizing. I am a squirmer.)

Then, the director of the mission introduced a woman who read her story from a prepared piece of paper. I noticed her long blue fingernails. She described a life lived on the fringes, of twenty years of drug addiction, of a murder conviction and a 56-month sentence in the women’s prison at Purdy. She told of her phone call to the Rescue Mission, of how her life and the lives of her children were turned around. She spoke of her job at the Mission, of her promotion.

Tears sprung to my eyes.

Last year, the Mission provided shelter and services to families. But they could only help one of out every four that asked. Tonight, eighty children are sleeping at the Rescue Mission. Tragically, the majority of homeless people in this county are children.

The great news is that the Mission will soon begin building a Family Shelter which will allow them to meet the needs of so many more families. The sad news is that so many families need their assistance.

The good news is that we can do even small things to help. Here is what we can do locally. What can you do?

I found this sentence I wrote a few years back:

“Taking a toddler anywhere is like plopping a live grenade in your purse and hoping no one jostles you.”

Oh, so funny!  I am hilarious, if I do say so myself!

Fahrenheit 9/11

Last week, 5-year old Grace came rushing into the house from the back yard, clutching a stick. She thrust it into my face and asked, “Mommy! What is this?”

Clinging to the end of the stick was a small slug.

“That’s a slug,” I said.

“Oh! I love it! I’m going to keep it for a pet! Can I have a container?”

She kept the slug for approximately seven minutes, then shook it out of the Tupperware and said, “Mom. When can I get a hamster?”

Now, don’t tell her, but I have always had a soft spot for hamsters in my heart. When I was a schoolgirl, my friends all seemed to have hamsters in clear plastic Habitrail cages. I, too, wanted a fluffy hamster to play with and watch as it crawled through the tunnels of its hamster-playground.

I asked my mother and to my great shock, she acquired not one hamster, but two. The problem was that instead of a trendy plastic Habitrail, my hamsters came in a giant sturdy, homemade wooden box with a wire front. The box was divided into two sections because my hamsters–mother and son–hated one another.

The bigger problem was that the seafoam-green box was stinky and difficult to clean. Hamster urine soaked into the unfinished wood. (What were those grown-ups thinking?) Cleaning it was my job, of course, but I was just a child, probably eight or nine years old, and I couldn’t manage it.

I never did bond with my two hamsters. They were a source of anxiety to me and a distressing disappointment. My mother never quite understood my desires. Once, I asked for roller skates–my friends and I liked to go to the roller rink on weekends and skate. And my friend had her own skates. My mother gave me skates for Christmas, but my new skates did not have rubber wheels, but steel ones. They were just wrong, all wrong.

One fall, I needed a new winter coat. At a garage sale, my mother handed me a dark brown corduroy coat. The sleeves were too short and it was hideous. I refused it and felt my mother’s anger. She was probably not angry with me, but angry at a life that forced her to buy winter coats for her children at garage sales. (I am a bargain-shopper, myself, but I like the thrill of finding a good deal.) Still, I felt the sting of her fury.

These things I remember have no file in my mother’s memory. She can’t even remember the puppy, Midnight, that was given to me as a Christmas gift one year. Although we lived in the same home, we lived lives that only barely intersected from time to time. She’s can’t remember most of my childhood.

I hope that jotting things down here will help me remember not only my own life, but the slugs that make an occasional appearance in our home. My life as a middle-aged woman is about grasping the small moments, examining them and imprinting them on my memory. Later, I will say, “Yes! I remember that day with the slug!” and we will exult in our shared memories.

(What I will not save for later is the memory of my teenage son who is intent on driving me crazy with his lazy insolence. And he was so cute when he was little.)

I am so tired. I used to say that so much in college that I was mocked by my friends. I have learned to not express aloud every thought that floats through my head, so I don’t say it all the time. (I also stopped habitually saying, “Well. . . ” when my friend Lisa started following that up with, “Well, hell, Mel,” although I do find the rhymes satisfying.)

But today? Really, I am so tired. Yesterday I woke up early to walk, then did not go back to bed, but instead did my morning transcription work, supervised the 5-year olds, badgered my teenagers to do their school work, worked online from three to five and then eight to midnight . . . and then, looky here! A new day dawns.

You know what cures this, right? A long trip to Tahiti, no Moorea. (Click here and check out the what we’d see if we were there right this second.) Barring that, Diet Coke. Guess which I get today?

Fahrenheit 9/11 dvdrip

Last night was my 9-year old’s football banquet, also known as two hours of chaos and a plate full of cold spaghetti.  The most curious moment of the night happened after I had been distracted from the introduction of each football player.  I regained my focus and turned back to the makeshift stage.  At that very moment, a mother in front of me turned around and said, “HEY, WE CLAPPED FOR YOUR KIDS!  NOW CLAP FOR OURS!”

I obediently put my hands together and resumed my mindless clapping for kids I didn’t know.  Noise already filled the room to capacity and I can’t believe the elimination of my clapping made any difference to that mother, but it did.

Her assertiveness, however weird and misplaced, reminded me of the movie theater last weekend.  I went to see “Gone Baby Gone” (good movie, but not quite as good as the hype), and one seat away from me sat a talkative couple.  They chatted through previews and I hoped that they’d stop during the movie.  She swiveled in her seat and thrust her high-heeled feet across his lap, a clear indication that they were on a date, if you ask me.  I wouldn’t dream of putting my feet across my husband’s lap at a movie theater.

They continued to murmur and talk during the movie.  I kept turning to glare at him, but he apparently had no peripheral vision.  I seriously considered tossing popcorn at them, but then remembered I am not eleven years old.  Finally, to my great relief, a woman on the other side of the Talkative Couple stood up, marched audibly over to them and said in an indignant voice, “Will you please stop talking?  It is hard to watch a movie while you’re making so much noise!”

And, what do you know, the Talkative Couple shut up.

I was able to eat all my popcorn and not waste a single kernel by pelting the inconsiderate idiots who should rent a DVD if they cannot watch a movie in silence.

My husband is leaving Thursday morning for a three day business trip.  The very thought of his absence feels like someone has swallowed the key, locking me in here forever.  The reality of being home with my kids (and random neighborhood kids) through the weekend is not horrible.  I can sort of sleep in on Saturday (minus the twenty-minute check-ins from my daughter–it’s like the warden is legally obligated to make sure I’m still alive).  I can drive in my mini-van wherever I want, as long as I have it full of underage passengers.  I can cook whatever suits my fancy.
But I cannot be alone.  And being alone is what I crave, even more than Diet Coke with Lime.

Furthermore, I am faced with a stretch of days with no solitude in sight, for when Saturday ends, the hustle-bustle of another week begins . . . and the following Saturday I have a social obligation . . . and the following Saturday, I have another social obligation.  Then it will be December.

I am in uncharted territory, this vast land of childhood where sippy cups are no longer required and children can buckle and unbuckle their seatbelts with no help from me.  My youngest child refuses to hold my hand in parking lots, reminding me, “I am a big girl now.”  I peer ahead and see signs:  “Driving Permits Here” and “College Applications Here” and the very idea offers simultaneous hope and terror.

Evan Almighty movie

I wonder if my parents were as freaked out by the uncertain future as I am?  Did they worry?  Or did they focus all their worry on my other siblings since I was so responsible?

I’d ponder more, but my son needs help with algebra now and I hear the distinct sound of trouble in their room.

I woke up this morning to the murky light of morning. I knew in an instant that I had overslept–for the first time I inadvertently stood up my walking buddy. (Only last week I purposely turned off the alarm and went back to sleep.) Last night, I double-checked my alarm clock to make sure it was still set for 6:15 a.m. It was. Then I neglected to flick the “on” button.

So, I stayed snuggled under the covers until 8:00 a.m.

The Magic Roundabout hd The end of Daylight Savings time has little effect on our family now. No one naps and the 5-year old takes our word for it when we tell her it’s bedtime. She slept a little later than usual today, which was odd. I remember the days when we had babies on schedules, though, and how much I detested the time change.

This afternoon, the children played in the back yard even after darkness fell (between 4:30 and 5:00). They didn’t question the early darkness.

I kind of like the dark evenings. The house feels cozy with its little pools of lamplight here and there.

I’m constantly having to ask myself what month it is. Sometimes I am so disoriented that I can’t quite remember what season it is. The circling of seasons reminds me of that water-park ride where you slide down from pool to pool on an inner-tube, around and around until you drop down the rushing water to the next whirpool. Around and around we go, the seasons coming at us faster and faster until, with a whoosh, we’re circling downstream.

At least that’s how it seems to me.

Last night, I took five teenage boys to the Franklin Graham Festival at the Tacoma Dome.  They appeared to have a great time.  When the band, “Starfield” invited the young and young at heart to come down and stand on the floor in front of the stage, three of the five boys hurried down.

I watched from my plastic seat, ever so grateful for the lyrics that appeared on three screens above the stage.

That is how I knew that I am old.  I did not jump.  I did not dance.  Instead, I was just thrilled that I could understand the words, thanks to the visual cues.

Afterwards, I allowed three teenage boys to spend the night at my house.

That is why I deserve a tiara and a sash.  And, perhaps, a new Volkswagen Beetle.

If I kept a to-do list, here’s what yesterday’s list would include:

1. Walk 3.5 miles at 6:30 a.m.

2. Type 20 minutes’ worth of medical dictation (I think that took an hour and a half).

3. Carve three jack-o-lanterns. (I hate carving pumpkins.)

4. Pick up boys from P.E.

5. Stop by craft store for cardboard cake box.

6. Bake four dozen cupcakes. Frost and sprinkle each one with loving care.

7. Wash several loads of laundry.

8. Cook dinner in Crockpot (rice and bean dish).

9. Work from 3 – 5 p.m. online.

10. Escort children trick-or-treating.

11. Work from 9 p.m. until midnight online.

12. Die from exhaustion.

* * *

My 9-year old wanted to trick-or-treat with his best friend, so we waited almost an hour for said friend to arrive. (His mother was running very late.) My 5-year old and 9-year old spent the hour verbalizing their agony and passing out candy to trick-or-treaters who rang our doorbell.

My 14-year olds went trick-or-treating with their friends (and their friend’s dad). I originally discouraged them from going–I really don’t like seeing uncostumed teenagers begging for candy–but my husband (aka The Voice of Reason) said, “You know, they want to go because even though they aren’t little kids anymore, they want to have fun and be little kids again.”

So, I insisted that my boys wear costumes, at the very least, and stay with a parent. (They borrowed costumes from their friend.) We passed them a few houses down, trick-or-treating with a group of kids (and a dad!) and I was glad I relented. Sometimes I can be so unreasonable.

My daughter ran to each house and punched the doorbell before the boys (I had three 9-year olds with me) even reached the porch. Her cheery, “Trick or treat!” rang out loud enough for me to hear by the road. Once, she received her treat and was halfway down the sidewalk when she remembered that she’d forgotten to say “thank you.” She whirled around and marched right back to the front door to say, “THANK YOU!”

In past Halloweens, I have sewn beautiful costumes. When my twins were three years old, one was Winnie-the-Pooh and one was Tigger. When they were four, they wanted to be pumpkins, so I sewed darling pumpkin costumes. When they were five, I created a horse out of a cardboard box so my son had a “horse” to go with his cowboy costume. (His twin was an Indian in a handsewn costume.) When they were six, I painted costumes made to look like GameBoys.

Then . . . they started asking for those cheap-looking costumes you can buy at Target. They were Power Rangers and Darth Vader and . . . well, nothing memorable. My younger son has come up with his own creations . . . guys named Flame (with yellow and red hair) and Zeke and, oh, nothing memorable, but always including colored hair gel. And usually, a cape.

Last night, my younger son wanted to be Zeke, a “guy with black hair and a sword.” He wore the old Flame cape over his all-black clothing. We sprayed his hair with black stripes which ended up just making his blond hair look brunette. He brandished a long plastic pirate sword. My seamstress’s soul died a little looking at him, even though I did create that cape several years back.

My daughter chose to be a butterfly. We bought glittery butterfly wings at a garage sale for fifty cents last summer and, while I suggested that she pair them with this plush caterpillar costume we’ve had for years–that no one has ever worn for Halloween–she decided, instead, to wear a short leotard over a long leotard. She looked a little bit crazy, but she felt beautiful. So be it. (No pictures today because my camera refuses to speak to my computer. Apparently they are embroiled in a private feud.)

* * *

A note to Spirit 105.3, the local Christian radio station:

STOP IT! I do NOT want to hear Christmas music on Halloween. In fact, I don’t want to hear Christmas music before Thanksgiving.

Thank you for your attention to this matter. Don’t make me have to switch the station to talk radio.

Today’s drama was brought to us by a handful of dirt flung into the air.  Said dirt landed squarely in the 9-year old’s eye.  I heard keening, the type of sound that drills into a mother’s ears with unmistakable urgency.  I ran into the back yard and found my boy with his hands over his face, his body bowing to the ground.  I pulled his hands from his face, expecting blood and perhaps a handful of broken teeth, but I found an eye full of dirt.

I hurried him to the kitchen sink, directed the cold spray onto his face, yelled at him to OPEN YOUR EYE, and tried not to freak out.

After a lot of water, a moderate amount of yelling (“you HAVE to open your eye–pretend you’re at the pool!” . . . “but at the pool I wear goggles”!) , and some terror, we succeeded in removing all the dirt from his eyeball.

I’d rather have boredom that that sort of excitement.

My daughter, the culprit, was duly chastened and tearful when I gave her a stern lecture.  She threw the dirt with joy, not malice.  All the same, dirt in the eyeball hurts and scares a mother half to death.