Valentine’s Day

To my Valentine, my husband, my partner in crime. I love you! (I know this is a bit long for a blog post, but if you are married, or have been, you just might enjoy the ride :) )  

Valentine’s Day

I placed a hesitant hand on the smooth metal door handle of the Hallmark store and pulled it open to the sound of tinkling bells. Ruby hearts hanging from the door jamb brushed the top of my head as I stepped inside and headed for the Valentine section, an explosion of pinks and reds.  Crowded with last minute lovers like myself, we had to jockey for position as we searched for the perfect card.  Studying people’s expressions with secretive sideways glances, I longed to hear the running commentary inside their heads. I have always been a last minute Valentine shopper because I dread it.  I can only bring myself to buy something simple that says “I love you’.  All of the other cards in the store are stupid.  With every card I read, I have to add one more sarcastic sentence in my mind.  Or at the very least, a clarifier. I can’t leave it alone.  It’s very stressful. After a quarter of a century of marriage few of them ring true.  Can we all please admit that many of these sentiments are, at the very least, stretching the imagination? I have long considered designing a line of Valentine cards the are grouped according to the number of years you have been married. I long for little ditties like this: Loving each other has been a long, hard road, but I still think you are cute. Or: Can’t wait to celebrate our love at Donovan’s Steak house because we got a $150.00 coupon from your client. Or: Let’s stay up past 9:00 PM and make out for eight minutes straight. Love is damn tricky.  An enigma.  So much has been written about it that I dare not add to the rubble.  But if I had to, if Cupid put a gun to my head, I wouldn’t waste time composing an essay as it would never capture the layers, the nuances. I would take a thousand noble words and nestle them in pairs with their less than noble opposites. Then I would shake them in my cupped hands like dice and toss the whole collection off of Juliet’s balcony and watch them scatter and bounce on the cobblestone streets of Verona until they landed in a mish-mash mural of the language of love. Maybe I would even take a photo of it and sell it to Hallmark for next year’s selection. “Excuse me,” I said to a young woman with a sparkly diamond ring. She smelled of lavender and caressed a card like it held the whereabouts of the Holy Grail.  “Just reaching for this one.” I grabbed one depicting a romantic table set for two. It unearthed a memory. My husband and I became engaged at Papa Pirozki’s in Atlanta on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor.  Who chooses to propose to his bride in a Russian restaurant on December 7^th?  Looking back, I think he had a subconscious yearning to personalize the Cold War, to plant it as a seed in our relationship.  Though the rest of the world was evolving beyond such ideology, it was apparent that he was some sort of fan. I hadn’t expected it to be a night unlike all other nights as we were rekindling a relationship that had been on a long hiatus. Neither of us expected the marriage proposal to play out the way it did.  But maybe that was a good thing.  Perhaps it’s the couples who do everything according to the Prince and Princess Handbook who don’t survive when the magic wears thin.  In retrospect, I think it was better to start this union with our gloves on, in a boxer’s stance. One needs to understand strategy and battle maneuvers. It is vital to appreciate humor and build camaraderie in the unexpected foxhole. These are the necessary skills that keep a marriage alive.  Flowers and chocolate are useless. I remember sitting alone enjoying the candlelight and crystal that adorned our table for two as I held a thumb-sized glass of fruited vodka, icy and thick with raspberries. I loved the way the color matched my fingernails, the stark contrast of them against the white linens reminded me of the raspberry and cream popsicles I ate as a child. Feeling relaxed and elegant I took tiny sips as I gazed around, nodding to other couples nearby who were beginning to notice that my date had disappeared.  I wondered what was taking him so long as he had excused himself to go chat up the chef, whom he said was an acquaintance. A black door to the kitchen swung open and Tim burst back into the room, all smiles.  At 6’8” he wasn’t known for quiet entrances. “Ivan’s going to send out a few freebies.  Said he’d take care of us.” Tim plopped into his chair and smoothed his blonde hair into place.  He downed his fruity vodka like it was Kool-aide and motioned for the waiter to bring us another round of drinks. “Great,” I said picturing all sorts of exotic Russian delights appearing on plates that were once served to the Romanovs.  “So how do you know this guy?” “Met him at a radio event.  He’s from uhm,” Tim snapped his long fingers as he recalled the information, “Moscow.  Yea, that’s it.  Moscow.” “What was the event?” “Does it matter?” “No.” “So what’s with all the questions?” “It was only one question. Why are you getting agitated?” “I’m not agitated.” He picked up the second fruity vodka and downed it. “Would you finish your first drink already?” “Fine.”  I threw it back like a pro.  Then I picked up the second one and saluted him.  “Let’s just relax and enjoy this. We only have two days before I fly back. I missed you.”  He took a deep breath and exhaled through flared nostrils.  I put my hand over his drumming fingers.  Something was up. “Are you okay?” I asked. A young waiter with Ricky Riccardo hair swooped over, handed us menus and then gave a run-down of the night’s specials.  We each chose an entrée and Tim asked for another round of drinks. “Tim. Maybe we should slow down on the drinks.” “No.” “Fine.”  What was wrong with him ?  It seemed as if he had left his usual joking demeanor in the kitchen with Ivan. I threw back my second drink in one gulp and choked daintily into my napkin.  We could take a cab home. “So how are things at the airline?” Tim asked as he took a piece of bread from a silver bowl.  Thrilled to have some normal conversation, I started into an elaborate story about a new dad who tried to change his baby’s diaper on a fold down, jump seat. As I got to the part where the dad laid the baby on her back while he held the jump seat down with his knee, Ricky Riccardo came back and placed a small salad in front of me. “Zees is from Ivan,” he announced as he stood back from the table. I nodded to him and smiled.  “Thank you.” “No problem.”  He beamed as he retreated to the water station. It was ugliest, driest looking salad I had ever seen so I pushed it to the side as I continued my story.  Tim stared at the salad and then back at me.  “That’s your salad,” he said. “There’s no dressing. And what is this stuff?  It’s not even lettuce.  It’s cabbage or who knows what?” “Have some salad.”  His voice held an edge. “I don’t want the salad.”  I calmly stated, the words evenly spaced and heavy on my tongue. “Eat the salad,” he whispered through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. I gave him my most powerful defiant stare. “Eat - the - damned - salad.” “Fine.” I pulled the salad over and started to pick at it with my fork suddenly feeling other people’s eyes upon me.  I looked around and noticed them, whispering in hushed tones. “What is up with you?” I could barely conceal by growing rage. “I thought we were going to have fun.”  Blood was pumping through my veins, banging in my ears.  I took a bite of one of the bitter greens and held up my fork as I chewed it. “This is disgusting. I thought Ivan was your friend.” Then I saw it.  A velvet box of midnight blue half hidden under shreds of carrot and radicchio.  Panic gripped me like a giant hand and squeezed tight. No, no, no.  I did not want this to happen here. This was not what I had choreographed in my ten-year-old heart as I picked at my chenille bedspread on sleepless nights.  I could see our waiter going from table to table alerting the others to our impending moment. “Honey,”   Tim leaned on his elbows and bore into me with blinking eyes, "Stop blinking your eyes like that. Take the box out of the salad." “I don’t want to.” “Open the box, Susan.” “People are staring.”  I attempted another defiant stare but it was difficult to pull off with tears plopping onto the table. “Open - the - damn - box.” Though I don’t remember willing them to do so, my shaking fingers pushed away the vegetables and picked up the small velvet cube.  All eyes in the restaurant were on us.  I opened the box and a diamond solitaire caught the candlelight.  I looked up at Tim and stared as his lips moved without sound.  I glanced at the staring eyes to the left and then I glanced at the staring eyes to the right, distorted faces like funhouse mirrors. “Well?” Tim asked with a face so vulnerable and earnest that I suddenly couldn’t imagine a life without him. “Will you marry me?” “Yes.” The room ruptured into cheers as Tim handed me a third vodka and held up his.  And we burst into laughter, toasted each other and cheered along with them. The whole experience did not play out the way either of us had imagined.  It was not the traditional down on one knee sort of proposal on the beach at sunset, nor was the ring magically unveiled on a covered silver dish as he had hoped.  It was clumsy, unexpected, and filled with nervous emotion on both sides. It was real and heartfelt and awkwardly expressed the way marriage often looks on a daily basis. In retrospect it was the perfect engagement. “Must be a funny card,” Ms. I Smell Like Lavender commented as I giggled to myself. “Just brought back some memories,” I sighed as I put the card back in its place, “But it’s not the one I’m going to buy.” “I think I’m going to get this one,” she confided as she held up a photo of a sunrise on which was printed ‘Every sunrise means another day of loving you’. I forced myself not to add a sardonic comment and ruin her choice. She opened the card and pointed to a wall of poetry five inches long. “This poem says it all for me.” “How many years?” “One.  Well almost,” she said with a shy smile.  “You?” “Twenty-four.” “Wow.  So, what’s the secret?  What have you learned?” I plucked a simple white card with a simple red heart and opened it for her to see. “This is the card I get for him every year.  Because after awhile, you learn that these are the only three words that matter.”

Moments in Montclair: The Street

In this election year, who can restore this?

  Click here for the latest post about "Moments in Montclair"  The Street

Peace is a Group Effort

Kindergarten Can Be a Tough Place

Grove St. School

There are plenty of folks who claim that their first memories reach all the way back to the womb or at the very least, toddlerhood.  I am not one of them. Squeezing my eyes shut and searching my inner filing cabinet, I thumb through the folders and land squarely in Mrs. Kreager’s kindergarten class at Grove Street School. There are three memories to be exact, and I find it interesting that they were seared into the hippocampus of my brain by the driving emotions of anger, fear, and power. It all started with my white jewelry box. Adorned with pink roses and a golden latch, it set a tulle dressed ballerina a-twirl every time I opened it.  She danced in a circle on her satin toe shoes before an oval mirror and guarded the rings and necklaces that lay perfectly arranged below her. It was my most precious possession and I had brought it in for Show-and-Tell. Dutifully, I placed it on the Special Shelf reserved for Show-and-Tell treasures that was off-limits to the class. Mid-morning, as I carefully inserted a half-circle shaped block inside a larger one to complete a block tower of architectural excellence, I heard the familiar tinkling of a music box. I turned my head and saw two boys, Tommy and Robert, trying on two of my rings. As I charged toward them, Tommy slammed the top shut and they both ducked into the corner playhouse.  Incensed, I gently opened the box to make sure all was okay, and to my horror, my lovely ballerina laid sideways, limp and broken at her slender ankles. I carried it, sobbing, to Mrs. Kreager who decided, in the end, that there simply was not enough evidence to convict Tommy and Robert of wrongdoing. The weight of injustice and the accompanying anger covered me like my electric blanket when I turned the control dial-up to number ten. Tommy and Robert, however, were not happy that I would have the gall to tell on them. So during lunch hour they cornered me by the jungle gym and proceeded to scream in my face and push me to the ground. I curled into a ball and protected my head as I imagined my own legs bent sideways forever like the ballerina’s. To make matters worse, they followed me as I walked home pushing me into pricker bushes and threatening death if I told anyone.  In 1964 we didn't know about bullying, I didn't have words for what was happening. Petrified, I endured these attacks for a week until Mrs. Powers, our neighbor, drove by one afternoon and witnessed it.  A few phone calls later, Tommy and Robert were doomed. Suspiciously, they went missing from class for a few days so I was able to regain my composure.  When they returned, Mrs. Kreager reseated them on the opposite side of the patchwork gathering carpet that everyone knew was just a bunch of samples from the rug store across the street. I saw them whispering throughout the morning and I felt that familiar panic rise though me as we lined up for recess. As we streamed out the door onto the black top, I ran for a swing thinking I could kick one in the face if I pumped hard enough. Then, the most curious thing happened.  To this day I wonder about the dynamic of it all as it surprised me as much as anyone else. How easy it was to indoctrinate a mild-mannered five-year-old girl into a life of crime.  Tommy and Robert grabbed my arm and then stood on either side of me creating an uncomfortable bully sandwich.  Instead of pummeling me, Tommy said, “We’re sorry.  To make it up to you, we will beat up anyone you want us to.” “Yeah,” added Robert, his fists pumping, “just point ‘em out.”  Now, I was not the aggressive type and had no other enemies that I knew of. The last thing I wanted to do was beat anyone up. “No, that’s okay,” I said, shaking my head. “I said point ‘em out,” Robert repeated through gritted teeth. “Come on,” said Tommy,”recess is only ten minutes.” They started to squeeze against my ribs and visions of the broken ballerina began to swirl around me.  The memory of pricker bushes and the taste of raw fear bubbled into the back of my throat. This was survival of the fittest. “If you don’t pick someone we’ll do it for ya,” said Robert. "We might even pick you again." And then I heard these words come out of my mouth, “That kid in the red jacket.” And off they ran.  Seconds later the kid in the red jacket, whom I had never seen before, had a mouth full of dirt. This scenario played itself out every day until it started to feel good.  It was like I was the queen of the playground. All I needed to do was point, and the girl who had taken the last snack that morning was shoved into a tree trunk, the boy who had hogged all of the Lincoln Logs was pressed against the chain link fence until diamond shapes imprinted on his cheek. I was suddenly drunk with power. I felt like a player, a somebody, a contender.  I had no idea I had become a bully myself until Tommy and Robert were apprehended once again and sang like canaries in the principal’s office. Then the three of us disappeared for a few days to learn a few lessons about kindness and how to control base human behavior. Upon our return, the patchwork gathering carpet had been divided into three sections and each of us sat at a different one. Looking back on this I realize the power of human emotion to override what we innately know to be harmful to others.  Powerful, instinctual emotions can rise up, like flood waters, and carry us to a place we never wanted to end up.  Anger, fear, and power rule our decisions and our world in many ways.  It takes patient and loving guidance from parents, teachers and friends to help us understand ourselves and develop empathy for others. Our schools have come a long way in educating us and our children in the arena of bullying, but I dare to say that as a nation, we have a ways to go.      

More Moments in Montclair

 

More Moments in Montclair

My older brother, Todd, wrote a book one year and gave it to the family for Christmas.  It is a treasure.  A small, unassuming book titled Moments in Montclair, it lists various memories of our childhood in random order. I can’t read it without laughing myself to tears or crying myself into a fit of giggles. I don’t assume that our childhood was any better or more magical than anyone else’s but I do know that the mere fact that I grew up with five brothers and no sisters provided much entertainment, physical activity, and subterfuge. In honor of my family, whom I continue to adore beyond words, I am feeling pulled to those years more than ever.  Perhaps it is because my own children are now off on their own, or perhaps I am feeling that summertime nostalgia that hits me this time of year. And part of me would like to do put my reminiscing down on paper so that when I am moved into a nursing home, hopefully some time far in the future, I can whip it out and read it to the kindly nurses and candy stripers who feign interest or, in the dim light of evening they can read it to me. My childhood spanned the 1960’s and 1970’s.  Our family of eight shared a modest four bedroom house in Montclair, NJ. It was pre-computer, pre-cell phone, pre-everything digital.  Looking back, I would argue that this “Pre Era” had a power all its own. A magic that surpassed anything one can purchase at Best Buy or the Apple Store.  It was an era that demanded creativity and initiative, when kids had to work issues out on their own and parents rarely stormed the principal’s office except to agree that their kid was a schmuck. As an experiment I am going to write a short memory every other Monday. Please feel free to share this backward journey with me as it just may stir up wonderful memories of your own. Comments and personal sharing are encouraged and welcomed!  Let the trip begin~

Our House Looked Like a Yellow Version of This

Let me introduce you to my family: My dad’s name is Harry. Back then, we referred to him amongst ourselves as H-Bomb since he was a force to be reckoned with.  The quintessential Wonder Years Dad, he left every morning in a slate grey suit carrying a briefcase and drove to a place called Kearfott.  We had no idea where that was or what happened there, but it was important.  He returned precisely at 6:00 PM.  The air in the house changed when he walked through the door. Our steps became lighter, our words more carefully chosen. Six PM was the time to straighten up, set the table, and get washed up for dinner. He’s the one who taught us all to “have a little class for God’s sakes.” Lois, our mother, won a Shirley Temple contest when she was five years old for two reasons: she looked like Shirly Temple and she sang Red Sails in the Sunset on the radio. None of us could get over this.  Who else had a mother who sang on the radio?  In our eyes she had experience with fame. She also was voted Homecoming Queen in High School and went on to become a nurse in a white hat.  Luckily none of this went to her head. First and foremost she was our MOM.  A whirling dervish of cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping, nursing, and confidant when we needed one.  For one half hour a day she sat and read The Star Ledger with an open-faced PB&J. No one was allowed to to talk to her during that time unless there was blood involved. David was the oldest.  The only one of us too cool to have a nickname, unless you regard  ‘Dave’ as a nickname.  He was the Greg Brady of the family only more mysterious. He wore his hair down over his eyes to the horror of my father, had his own pool cue in a narrow faux leather protective case that zipped, and dated an older women who had a driver’s license.  My parents cleaned out the attic so he could have his own space. I can still feel the delight of parting the hippie beads that hung in the doorway to enter his groovy pad. A bit of an artist, he hammered numerous nails into the paneled wall and created a mural of string art that remains to this day. Timothy, Timmy, Timbo, Tim was the opposite of Dave. He was the all-American kid who loved sports and girls. He played football, hockey, and baseball during various seasons but boxed and wrestled with David all year long.  Sometimes my dad would order them into the backyard to “figure things out”. Once I had to disturb my mother during her half-hour break because blood was involved.  I think this all had something to do with David getting his own space. Todd, Toddio, Toddio Potatio, Odd Todd Half Turtle and Half Frog, was a year older than me.  He was our Eddie Haskell with wiry blond hair and an innocent face. If there was something amiss, if we could smell smoke, hear firecrackers, or hear a friendly game ending in an explosion of “not fair’s!” Todd was usually involved.  After he got in trouble he would always invite us into his bedroom to tell us about it and then laugh as hard as he could. Susan, Susan Boosan, Sue, is me.  I was the only girl and thus the only one with my own room.  No one thought this was fair except for me. The only thing that I thought was NOT fair was that I was not allowed to put a lock on the door. My parents assured us that we needed to learn to respect other’s property and privacy by exercising self control.  That never happened.  I was the perfect follower.  When you are surrounded by brothers who are ready at any moment to give you red ears, a dead arm, a charlie horse, an indian rub, a purple nurple, or pin you down so they can drip saliva over your face, you learn to do what you are told and not to tattle under any circumstances.  The only place I could exert any power was during board games when the rules were written on plain white paper so no one could take over by making up his/her own rules on the spot.  We went through three Trouble games one year because we wore out the pop-o-matic dice popper. Eventually we had to move to Hand’s Down. Kevin, Kev, Kevvy Baby, Devon, Devonport Chesterfield, was two years behind me. He was the brother who always (and still does) make us all laugh.  He was emotional, funny, and the constant brunt of Todd’s mischief. He had the misfortune of being born with a huge freckle on his cheek that we all claimed was a beauty mark. The teasing was relentless and that premature dead front tooth the color of a stormy sky didn’t help matters for him. Joseph, Joe, Hobart, Hoey, Hoey Joey Come and Mow My Lawn, was born when I was seven.  Cute and docile, he was our real life doll that we loved and stuffed into various costumes.  He was especially useful at Christmas that first year when we put on a play about the Nativity in our basement.  For the first five years of his life he probably thought he had two mothers.  He was the first one I was able to boss around. But I did it with love.  With five older siblings, Joe grew to be good natured, creative and wise beyond his years with the diplomatic savvy of the leader of the UN. Outside of Todd and Kevin’s salamanders,  geckos,  gerbils, guinea pigs, fish and rabbits, we had two dogs and cat at various times... but we’ll get to them later.

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 Mother of the Year

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“Yes?”

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“What about shut up?”

“Shut up Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription,  is awful!  An insult to the person you are talking to.  Never, ever say shut up.”  I saw him pondering my words, his blue eyes shifting left and right as he thought about what I was saying.  It felt so good being able to impart manners and social skills to my little guy.  Mother of the Year, that’s who I was. Buy no prescription Lorazepam online, “What about jerk?”

My jaw dropped with another dramatic expression of horror as I looked back at him again. “That could be one of the worst words of all time.”

“Hmmm.”

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“They’re all bad, real brand Lorazepam online. Where can i cheapest Lorazepam online, They hurt people’s feelings, and  we don’t use them in this family.” I turned off the music for the remainder of the trip so my motherly wisdom could sink in.  Finally, Lorazepam overnight, Canada, mexico, india, he was listening to me.  I hadn’t connected with him on such a level in days.  We were forming his conscience together.  He would grow to be a fine man, where to buy Lorazepam. A priest, or the president, Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Lorazepam long term, We pulled into the Safeway parking lot and he climbed into the cart without incident, an event so rare it made me grab the handle with sure hands and whistle while I pushed him up and down the aisles, low dose Lorazepam. Lorazepam treatment, I even took my time for a change, scanning the shelves for new products and the usual staples, Lorazepam australia, uk, us, usa. Lorazepam samples, When I rolled the cart down the cereal aisle, I could sense a mood shift, Lorazepam without prescription. Lorazepam from canadian pharmacy, “Can we get Captain Crunch?”

“You know the doctor said no sugar cereals.”

His hands tightened around the cart’s handle until his knuckles and fingernails turned white.  “I want Captain Crunch.”

“We’re getting Crispix.”

His heels pounded a slow, tribal rhythm against the cart, online buying Lorazepam hcl. Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription, “I-hate-Crispix.”

“You love Crispix.”

His kicking picked up speed and the sound of the vibrating metal turned heads toward us. Lorazepam pharmacy, Our empty aisle was now crowded with carts. Where did these other shoppers come from, is Lorazepam safe.

“I want Captain Crunch!  Captain Crunch. CAPTAIN CRUNCH!”

“WE’RE GETTING CRISPIX.”

“I WAANNT CAPTAINNN CRUUNNCH!”

Like a freeze frame in an action movie, time stood still as I looked up and down the aisle. Staring eyes to the left.  Staring eyes to the right.  Everyone was unabashedly waiting to see how Mother of the Year was going to handle this.

I took a deep breath to regroup, flashed my best fake smile to my growing audience, and dropped my voice to a gravelly whisper, “With that attitude we are not getting Captain Crunch or anything else today, Mister.  We are going home right now.”

Matthew looked me straight in the eye, and at the top of his little lungs he screamed with the utmost confidence, “SHUT UP, YOU STUPID JERK!”

My mouth dropped in unison with all of the other mothers in the aisle.  Shocked that he would string together all of the worst words he knew against me, I pulled his rigid, screaming body from the cart, and carried him over my shoulder, like a writhing sack of potatoes, toward the door.

Humiliated that all of the other mothers saw me as a failure, I gave them a final glance.  Imagine my relief when I saw them clapping with looks of sympathy and understanding as Matthew screamed unintelligible sounds and pounded his fists into my back.

“Go Mom!” were the last two words I heard as I stepped outside, thankful that my cheering section wasn’t coming with me to witness the upcoming wrestling match at the car seat.

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Then off it would flutter, its magic along with it, Ambien class, Ambien online cod, though the moment would live on though rudimentary etchings of crayon on white printer paper and countless remember whens before bedtime. Buy Ambien Without Prescription, I miss sharing those moments of innocence.  My heart still calls out to my two babies when these everyday delights are revealed to me at odd hours. I have a feeling it always will, purchase Ambien. Order Ambien no prescription, It catches me off guard, this new stillness, after Ambien. Where can i cheapest Ambien online, This empty house of mine, the now quiet car rides, get Ambien, Ambien wiki, the lazy almost reckless way I can saunter through the market.   I am realizing that emptiness is not always solitary, where can i buy Ambien online. I am startled to discover that these quiet spaces are inhabited by ghosts, Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Ambien results, This strange new phenomenon is putting me on edge. I am being visited by my children at their various ages.  They haunt me, purchase Ambien for sale, Buy Ambien online no prescription, these younger versions, like they are trapped in time and I am separated from them by a clear glass wall.  A blond head with a coloring book at church, order Ambien from United States pharmacy, Ambien forum, a giggle of silliness that erupts from a toddler at the mall, tanned skin and baggy swim trunks digging a hole to China at the water’s edge, and a pre-teen with gleaming braces and a long pony tail.  Katie and Matthew’s faces are everywhere, their voices fill my head.

I know I am grieving the end of an era. Grief always involves mysteries of one sort or another. Buy Ambien Without Prescription, Our two children have grown up.  And these little sightings I can handle, explain away as the musings of a mom who’s moving on.  But there is a presence of two other beings that I can’t explain.  Two blurred faces who have recently begun to roam the halls of my house and sit on the edge of my bed.

After almost sixteen years, long past the days when I accepted that two of our babies had not made it to term, I am wondering, once again, who they would have been. How their lives would have blessed us and the world.  They would be in high school with boyfriends and girlfriends and displays of acne that would curse their days.

This shocks me.  To tell you the truth, I never would have guessed it.  Miscarriages happen all the time.  A natural process, the doctor had assured me, making perfect sense. Of course it was a disappointment, but I was young.  I’d have more babies, she promised.

But she was wrong, Buy Ambien Without Prescription. We didn’t.  Years passed and we didn’t have a number three; no number four.  I cried my tears and then, one balmy Spring day, I surrendered.  We accepted and stopped trying. That was that, or so I had thought.

It can’t be coincidence that the door has sprung open to these memories at the same time I am grieving the empty nest.  There are four spirits wandering in this house, not two.  How can it be that I am just now considering that?  Of course it impacts a universe when a pregnancy ends in miscarriage.  There are souls involved, and the souls of children claim their mothers with a bond stronger than time or distance. This thought comforts me, two little ones who will always remain.

I dry my hands on a kitchen towel and fold it just so, knowing that it will not end up in a heap on the floor or secretly used to wipe peanut butter crumbs off the corners of a teen aged mouth. The Monarch flutters past the window again, and then a second one joins it.  I study them as they hop from leaf to leaf, unaware of me and the two little noses pressed to the glass.

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The night of Christ’s birth holds every possible intrigue, no prescription Phentermine online. Where can i buy cheapest Phentermine online,  It is a storyteller’s delight. Year after year we tell and retell these themes of journeying, buy cheap Phentermine no rx, About Phentermine, wonder, mystery and promise, where can i find Phentermine online. Buy Phentermine online no prescription, We look into the bright eyes of our children, snuggled in new pajamas around the hearth, Phentermine long term, What is Phentermine, and whisper of cold mangers, wise shepherds, order Phentermine from mexican pharmacy, Phentermine from canadian pharmacy, angels and silent midnights that hold only peace. Phentermine For Sale, As an adult I have grown to treasure Advent’s grand reminder of  the nature of HOPE. That God does unimaginable work with unlikely beginnings and difficult situations, Phentermine gel, ointment, cream, pill, spray, continuous-release, extended-release. Phentermine reviews, His elaborate plan of salvation began with the creation of a family in precarious circumstances. A frightened young, Phentermine class, Phentermine dosage, pregnant girl with an entire village looking at her askance, an older husband who is not so sure about the whole thing (certainly not used to having angels tell him what to do while he is busy dreaming), ordering Phentermine online, Online buy Phentermine without a prescription, and a birthplace that was far from home and extraordinarily unsanitary.

I sometime imagine a chummy angel leaning over to Mary during one of her 3:00 AM feedings and whispering in her ear things like “…just a reminder that this IS the Son of God, Phentermine pictures, Phentermine steet value, don’t make any parenting mistakes as the salvation of the entire world is at stake (no pressure or anything). Oh, and the family business, Phentermine For Sale.  He won’t be taking that over, Phentermine wiki. Phentermine alternatives,  Your baby will become the greatest revolutionary of all times so don’t be surprised when the empire turns against you after you are forced to watch your sweet boy die the death of a common criminal.”

The holiest of families didn’t have it easy. Not by a long shot, Phentermine overnight. Phentermine natural, So why is it that we think we should. Phentermine For Sale,  Their hardships remind me that God does not live on Easy Street.  That is not where we will witness His great power, effects of Phentermine. Purchase Phentermine,  Rather, He lives on Damn This Is Hard Avenue, order Phentermine online c.o.d. Herbal Phentermine,  Difficulties push us from our safe havens to seek answers.  Pain calls us to wander down that unexplored, Phentermine dose, Phentermine used for, often scary, side of town knocking on doors we never would have chosen, Phentermine results.  How surprised we are when we find Him in the unlikeliest of places, Phentermine For Sale. Phentermine cost, He is tricky like that. A king disguised as a baby leads me to open myself to the thought that other miraculous contradictions await if we slow down to consider the nature of HOPE, Phentermine brand name.  If we embrace the notion that God offers possibility when there is no evidence present. To see that sometimes beginnings are disguised as endings. Phentermine For Sale, Advent reminds me to choose Hope as a way of life. To pull my family close and recognize our sanctity in good times and in bad times.  That God uses our joys to strengthen our love, and He uses our sorrows as teachable moments that draw us close to Him and to each other.

The life of a holy family is not always an easy one, but it is the Christmas Story, the one so many of us seek. May God bless us all as we tackle the challenges inherent to family life in this season and every season. As a mother with children off to college and life beyond, I look forward to December 24th, when, God willing, we will  sit as a family, perhaps visited by friends and sung to by angels, on a midnight that holds only peace.

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Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription, In honor of Mother's Day.  A gentle reminder to spend time with the people you love~

The Woman with All the Answers

As a child, I loved going to the movies and live theater with my mother.  Though neither happened often, the experiences captivated me.  The Sound of Music became an obsession, buy generic Bromazepam, Fiddler on the Roof almost did me in. I knew that ‘Sunrise, Buy Bromazepam from canada, Sunset‘ would be sung at my wedding the very first time I heard it.

I also learned other important things that have come in handy in life. Such as: there is nothing like a dame, a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down, purchase Bromazepam online, Gary, Indiana is the place where I belong, Where can i order Bromazepam without prescription, the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, Oklahoma is where the wind comes sweeping down the plain, when you’re Jet, you’re a Jet all the way, Bromazepam wiki, and the Phantom composes the music of the night.

I shock my family, sometimes, when I belt out a few stanzas from show tunes we might inadvertently hear on on the radio as we are searching for something more hip.  “How do you know that song?” Matt would implore as I channeled my inner Carol Channing, Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription.

Somewhere along the way, Bromazepam recreational, I stopped going to live theater, other than school plays.  I stopped seeking the magic of performance for no good reason other than it cost money, and I was too lazy to plan ahead. I stopped spending art filled afternoons with my mother because I was busy with important things like shopping at Walmart and Home Depot, Bromazepam samples.

Yet, any time I would fill out some silly questionnaire or worksheet that would ask for my hobbies and likes, Herbal Bromazepam, I would always include theater.  And every time I checked that box, I would smirk to myself, ‘Big Fat Liar. You used to, Bromazepam mg, but who are you now?’

When the theaters in town sent out their pre-season info this time, I made a conscious decision to put this experience back on my priority list. Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription, Why do we do that. Bromazepam online cod, Why do we stop doing the things we loved to do when we were growing up. I met my mother for coffee and we made an afternoon of it, poring over the glossy brochures deciding which performances we’d choose.  We decided to be sophisticated and choose three dramas we had never of, wrote out checks on the spot, is Bromazepam addictive, and sent them in before we could come up with reasons why it was an unnecessary extravagance.

We met on a Sunday at the Phoenix Art Museum where my mother had been a docent for many years and dined in their café.  An artful, Purchase Bromazepam for sale, fitting start  to our year of theater.  Afterwards we followed our map-quested directions further downtown to the Herberger Theater, a lovely venue in downtown Phoenix. We were seeing The Woman with All the Answers, a one woman play about Ann Landers, effects of Bromazepam. Okay, it wasn’t exactly Phantom of the Opera, but it was a start, Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription.

Once settled into our seats we looked around. The place was packed. Fast shipping Bromazepam, “I’m the only one younger than seventy,” I whispered.

“More proof,” she began with a knowing nod, where can i order Bromazepam without prescription, “that older people know how to enjoy life on a Sunday afternoon.”

I had a flashback of the two of us, thirty years earlier, Bromazepam overnight, side by side on plush red seats in a theater on Broadway, my patent leather shoes barely scraping the floor. Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription, “I feel like such a lady.  Don’t you?” she said as she smoothed her skirt and patted her hair into place.  Her eyes were gleaming. I did feel like a lady, dressed in my Sunday best, buy Bromazepam from mexico, hands folded, waiting for the curtain to rise once more and take me on a journey.  I loved this feeling of doing something with my day other than chores and ‘getting ready’ for the week. Bromazepam canada, mexico, india, Getting ready for what. Being busy. How many Sundays had I passed up the opportunity to feel like a lady. How many Sundays had passed in my life without taking advantage of quality time with my beautiful mother, Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription.

Suddenly, get Bromazepam, the lights dimmed and onto the stage waltzed Nancy Dussault, an award winning actress of stage, Buy Bromazepam online cod, film and TV, looking every bit like the photo of Ann Landers that graced the cover of the brochure.

We were transported to her living room, June 30, Bromazepam alternatives, 1975 as she was trying to pen her infamous column about the break-up of her thirty-six year marriage to her beloved husband, Julius.  Because she was utterly heartbroken she found all sorts of other topics to talk about rather than writing the column.  And through her humor and the reading of letters and conversation with the audience, Online Bromazepam without a prescription, we learned about Ann Landers, the woman.  Eppie Lederer, the sister of Pauline Lederer, the double-crossing identical twin who went on to become her adversary, kjøpe Bromazepam på nett, köpa Bromazepam online, Dear Abby.  A simple, yet complicated human story that reminded me that all of our lives hold opportunities for greatness and none of us escape sorrow. My Bromazepam experience, We learned of her rise to fame, how she won a contest to take over the column after the death of the original Ann Landers, and became a trusted advisor to the public for many decades. But though her life was full and exciting, Bromazepam mg, it also had its share of pain and betrayal. Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription, Though her words held great power in society at the time, she was powerless in situations that deeply plagued her.

There was one particularly moving scene in which she recalled speaking with President Johnson, Bromazepam dangers, personally begging him to end the Vietnam War.  To drive her point home, she traveled to the war torn country for three weeks, visiting the bedsides of wounded soldiers, a few thousand by the end of her stay.  She recalled the moments sitting by those bedsides, where can i cheapest Bromazepam online, holding the hand of one and touching the forehead of another, asking about their homes, Bromazepam gel, ointment, cream, pill, spray, continuous-release, extended-release, listening to their stories. Her mission was a powerful one, to stand in for the mother they desperately needed.

This was the moment in which I remembered why I loved the theater when I was young, Bromazepam brand name. It connected me to a life bigger than my own, broadened my understanding of the human experience, Cheap Bromazepam no rx, made me a better person. In the glow of the stage lights I could see tears glistening on the cheeks of many, cloth handkerchiefs lifted to eyes and noses; a powerful silence filled with a grief so real I could reach out and touch it, Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription. Like the whole place was afraid to exhale, afraid to unleash long buried terror.   This audience bore those memories in a deeply personal place, Bromazepam price, coupon, some of whom may have been in Vietnam themselves.

Finally Ann finished her sad letter to her fans, About Bromazepam, humbly admitting even she, the lady with all the answers, after all of her years of preaching against divorce, could not hold her own marriage together.  She asked, buy Bromazepam online no prescription, "How did it happen that something so good didn't last forever?”  I could see a thousand heads nodding with her in the darkness. Acknowledging that good things in our lives do end, Purchase Bromazepam online no prescription, and it hurts.  Living proof that memories do not stand all alone in the moonlight. Buy Bromazepam Without Prescription, When the curtain came down, I did not want to move. I wanted that feeling of human connection to last. I wanted to think about the reasons why we let things that are important to us slip away.  Why is it always a shock when the very things we stop paying attention to end.

“Maybe we should sign up for a few more of these, Bromazepam maximum dosage,” I said as we searched for our purses and waited for the majority of people to file out.

“I was thinking the same thing,” my mother said as she buttoned her jacket and adjusted her grey silk scarf.  “That was wonderful.  I didn’t want it to be over.”

“Me, neither.”
“Let’s make sure that these Sunday outings together continue.”

“Well, you’ve already convinced me that older people know how to have more fun on the weekend,” I began as I looped my arm through hers and walked slowly out of the theater.

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