. . . a lot.

. . . a lot.

I have to fight the birds to get the ripe mulberries.

This week Nathan decided that he wanted to join the electrician certification program at Palm Beach State College.  After seven years of college courses, earning his Associate’s degree and deciding to go on and graduate with a Bachelor’s in Accounting, he felt frustrated and aimless.  With his Asperger’s, he could only handle 2 to 3 classes per semester.  At that rate, it would have meant another 5 to 8 years in school—all those years sitting in a classroom and trying to stay awake . . .

He has a weird kind of savant understanding of Accounting.  Precepts that I had to practice over and over and over again, he was able to pick up and apply with relative ease—at least with more acuity than I possess.  I’m not upset with his decision.  In the short-run it means that I can drop Managerial Accounting and Macro Economics.  hurrah.  In the long-run it means that I will no longer be going to class and doing homework with him . . . AND . . . that in less than a year he will have a job.  My only prayer now is that he will be guided to places and people who will be kind and who will respect his values.

It also means that suddenly I have my life back and I feel aimless.  My most urgent daily tasks now are much less esoteric.  I am cleaning out the craft room (our “dumping grounds” for the last 10 years) and getting rid of boxes full of craft supplies:  professional acrylic paints, dozens of small squeeze bottles of craft paint, pounds of crayons (I still have a REALLY hard time not picking up a half dozen new boxes of Crayola crayons when Walmart offers them for 25 cents each every year right before school starts in August), a rainbow assortment of tubes of printing inks I have never  opened and piles of folded eighth-yard quilting-cotton fabric.  We need to re-carpet and re-paint that room.  Brent wants to put in new baseboards and I want to put up new curtains.  Nathan will get the room in trade for his old bedroom.  His present room is the smallest in the house and full to the brim of Lego planes and vehicles and figures he has amassed over the last 10 years.  

Gypsy (no one calls her that--she will come to "Kitty-Kitty-Kitty-Kitty" if said in a high-pitched voice.  Here she is on the cement patio floor of the lanai.

We have two rabbits left and two cats—one of whom we just shaved so she can stand the summer heat.  Her long black fur is just too much for her to keep up any more—and she loves the way she feels when most of her is “naked.”  She loves to be petted and held and to roll around on the cement floor of the lanai at midday.  I took Murphy (rabbit—rescued) outside yesterday afternoon and “de-fuzzed” him in the back on the lawn.  He is a long-haired, flop-eared rabbit with snowshoe feet.  Even though he lives in a 68 degree house 99.8% of the time, he sheds great floofs of downy under-fur twice a year.  The stuff is gossamer soft and sticks to EVERYTHING—especially him.  We are one of the only families that has actual “dust-bunnies” living in the corners of our rooms.  He gets kind of nervous outside, since (1.) I am holding him and (2.) he is outside.  I rub him all over and gently tug on the tufts of hair that have come loose.  Then I pick him up and hold his back against my stomach and rub his tummy (which he REALLY dislikes and vehemently objects to at first).  He no longer tries to escape and since we are trimming his claws regularly, no longer leaves long, infection-prone scratches down the lengths of my arms.  

Change of subject:  last night about 9 pm, I ate cold pizza (bacon with mushrooms) with my night meds and currently have a nasty case of heartburn.  I need to stick with fruit and rice cakes after 6pm—I feel better in the morning when I do.  

And, yes, I DO happen to LIKE rice cakes.  

Bananas!  Bananas!  Bananans!

Pears are coming into season and raspberries are going out.  Honey Crisp apples are almost always available in the stores—along with bananas. Speaking of which—we have new bananas on the banana trees in our side yard!!!  The trees are bent over with the weight of the rapidly ripening fruit.  Our only regret is that by the time the first banana ripens, all the rest rapidly follow . . . this means we have about 30 bananas to eat all at once.  I have tried freezing them, but they taste funny and have a weird consistency.  

Mulberries are out now—fuzzy long clusters of dark purple fruit—almost the length of my little finger—are sweet and rich.  I stand at the bush and eat them as I pick them.  It will be years before I can gather enough to make jam—we just have the one big bush.  Until that time, I will continue to love looking under each big, heart-shaped leaf for the juicy treasure hanging beneath—eating each as I pick it.  

Too hard to keep awake now—I got up when Brent and Nathan got in the car this morning to go serve their shift at the Fort Lauderdale Temple.  I miss them . . . a lot.

Me, teaching Sunday Nursery!  I have a really fun time with these children!!!

On Sunday mornings, I teach the youngest Primary students: 18 months to 3 years old.  Eight years ago, I held the same calling.  It was a time of experimenting with what helped very young children to learn and love being obedient 

I have three children:  Megan, Lauren and Nathan.  Megan was born in Utah, 13 months after we were married.  When Brent and I were first married, I signed us up for marriage classes and communication seminars.  

My mother was an educated woman.  She graduated with her Bachelor’s degree in Home Economics.  She had books about how to set a formal table, serve as a hostess in her home, how to measure and cut and sew a tailored suit (I drew her a picture of the wedding dress I wanted and she made it for me—something I always thought that every mother did for all of her own daughters—but which I did not—was too exhausted to—do for Meg and Lauren.) and what kinds of foods should be included in a balanced meal—even what colours they should be to achieve an attractive plate presentation.  She was amazing.

The other thing she did was to collect a few books about how to be a good parent.  There was one that I picked up when I was about 8 or 9 years old.  Each chapter contained several case studies—stories illustrating the concept being presented.  I didn’t read much of the regular prose at first—my attention was drawn to the italicized text.  I quickly discovered that this font was saved for the stories of the mothers, children, fathers and friends later examined by the author of the book.  I learned so much from this book and its examples of how to and how NOT to act in different situations.  This formed the basis of my own decisions about how I wanted my future home to be.

I love these stories.  They were my first taste of biographical writing.  Of course the “names were changed,” but the stories were real!  Some situations were completely foreign to me, but others were like a diary entry recorded straight from my own home.  

The stories were easy to remember—like history book stories about the Egyptian dynasties or the court of King Henry VIII.  When these stories were played out by my own mother, sisters and brothers—I was quick to point out to my (very patient) mother what she did wrong—and what she should have done.  I’m afraid my timing was probably always wrong, but mom remembered my comments for years after that.  She would tell friends and guests in our home about how “Carolyn always told me what I did wrong and how I could have done better.”

To this day I am not sure if it was a complaint or a compliment . . . or simply an explanation for my quirky behavior.

Usually my days are full up to the brim—but when I reflect on things that happened when I was growing up, I realize that I miss mom . . . a lot.