Very Expensive Knick Knacks

Being the good mother that I am, and wanting the best for my children, I’m always on the lookout for wholesome opportunities that will help me grow strong, healthy children. In addition to watching their diet, keeping them safe, and loving them beyond words, I realize that it’s important to provide them with opportunities to exercise their growing muscles. . .

Therefore, please explain to me why my children spend most of their time glued to their computers, or reading books, or working on arts and crafts? I’ll tell you what, it’s time for an intervention, that’s what that is!

A reality check moment occurred the other day. Googie was whining to me about how I never let him do any exercise, and how much he loved to run, and how I never let him go out for a run. When he was done with his exposition, and after I was done laughing uncontrollably (kids say the darndest things), I calmed down enough to ask him if he would like to join a cross country team. His brother was on a high school cross country team that also had a grade school team. It seemed to be a great solution to this problem.

He was so excited that he jumped up and down, hugged the guts out of me, and proclaimed me the best mother in the world. After I collected my guts and put them back in my body, we went to the cross country information meeting. He liked what he heard, so off we went to get a pair of real running shoes (real=expensive) and a couple of running outfits. All the bases were covered. No chance for an epic fail.

Eager to begin his first day of practice, Googie was dressed and ready to go. Running shoes. Check. Running clothes. Check. Giant water bottle filled with ice-cold water. Check. And out the door we went. We showed up to practice about thirty minutes early so we relaxed under a tree. The team started to show up. The coaches showed up. Practice began.

Googie had a lot of fun meeting the other kids on the team and taking part in the ice-breaker activities where everyone introduced themselves. Then just like that, the coach told everyone to run around the field to warm up, and a herd of runners took off. After the dust settled, I looked and saw Googie standing in the middle of the field, all alone, crying. 

I ran up to where he was. “What’s wrong?”

“Everyone is faster than I am”

“That’s okay, they have been running for a while. You’re a beginner. It’s okay.”

“I’m going to die!” he cries.

“No, you’re fine. Let’s just walk back.”

“I hate running! Why did you make me run? You think this is fun?”

“Yes, running is fun. You just went out too fast. You’ll be fine.”

“No! I will never run again! I don’t like cross country. I don’t like running on the grass. Why did you make me join cross country? I want to play soccer”

Thinking (or not thinking), I quickly point out, “Sweetie, soccer is running on grass after a ball.” This rational, statement flipped his switch. Did I say rational? Everyone knows that rational and children don't go well together. If Googie was upset before I said that, then he was completely unhinged at that point.

“You just don’t want me to do anything! You don’t want me to exercise! You don’t want me to have fun! You like to see me suffer! I never want to do this again!”  He was hysterical. I would also like to point out that there are not enough exclamation points in this world to express how that child sounded at that moment.

He was upset. I was upset. After I spent a fortune on cross country gear, he just quits on the first day of practice. Although I’m a firm believer that a person should finish what they start, I’m also a firm believer in peace and quiet. I think that twenty-plus years of practice as a mother have taught me this, at the least. And ten years of practice with this particular son have taught me that the probability of a good outcome if I insist he stay on the team and attend practices, would be zero. Weighing my options, I decided that he could quit.

Today, Googie is perfectly happy reading his books about Chemistry, building Rube Goldberg machines, and making a mess in our living room— while his running shoes sit nearby. His running shoes, very expensive knick-knacks, go really well with the décor in that room right now. Trés Chic!

Boys and Bugs and Spit and Blood

Being the only female in a house overrun by testosterone is rather exhausting. Males are noisy, smelly, and messy. A male’s idea of clean and hygienic is rather different than a female’s. For example, males are staunch believers in the ten-second rule; when something edible falls to the ground, they have ten seconds to pick it up and eat it. That’s just ridiculous. Any self-respecting female, or at least any rational person (I’m being redundant, sorry), knows that you only have three seconds to pick food off the ground before it becomes inedible. Then there’s the whole thing about manners. Boys and girls have different ideas of what constitutes polite, social behavior, especially at the dinner table.

According to Emily Post, etiquette expert, there is a correct way to behave at the dinner table, and she has a list of the Top TenTable Manners that are very basic and should be easy to remember. They include chewing with your mouth closed; not making any gross noises at the table, such as, blowing your nose or slurping; not sticking your hand in your mouth (or other orifices, gross!); using your napkin, keeping your elbows off the table; you get the idea. These are just a few of the ten, very basic and easy-to-remember rules, or at least I used to think they were easy to remember. I can’t keep track of how many times I have found myself teaching these rules, or reminding my table-mates of these rules, or how many times the rules get broken around here.

But with all the etiquette rules and whatnot that are out there, I have to say that I’m sure that no other family in the entire world has "The Two Basic Rules of Dinnertime Conversation" that we have at our home. These two rules are always followed around here, and it’s a rare day when both of them are forgotten at dinnertime. We could be talking about politics, religion, current events, or any controversial, non-controversial, or just plain lame topic. These two rules are always followed:

1)    Always bring up a bug of some type in conversation.

2)    Always mention a bodily fluid of some type at the dinner table.

Let me give you a few examples. You would think that the Bible would be a safe topic at the dinner table, but at this house the conversation would somehow turn to Moses, and someone (one of the male youngsters in this house) would most definitely bring up every bug in the ten plagues, as well as how the water was turned into blood. Or how about talking about the beautiful, flowering pear trees, or the sweet-smelling blooms on our linden trees; you would think that was safe, right? But then we would end up talking about bees, flower nectar, and the process that bees go through to make honey (FYI, it involves bodily fluids). Okay, you say, the weather is a safe topic, right? Wrong! We would end up talking about flies in the spring, and how they regurgitate what they eat every time they land on something. Or we would end up talking about mosquitoes in the summer, and how they suck your blood. Babies are cute and safe, you say. Umm, let’s not go there. You get the picture, I hope.

So, if you live in a male-dominated household and are looking for a way to spice up things at your dinner table, or if you want to lose a few pounds, why not consider adopting "The Two Basic Rules of Dinnertime Conversation." You too could be blessed by boys and bugs and spit and blood.

Mama in Pajamas

http://www.mycutegraphics.com

Sitting around the kitchen table, doing school work together as a family, beginning the day at whatever hour works best, wearing pajamas and fuzzy slippers, a typical homeschooling family starts its day. I remember back when I was researching homeschooling this was one of the scenes that was repeatedly painted by homeschooling experts.

I never quite understood the appeal of sitting around past breakfast time still in pajamas. Pajamas are for sleeping and nothing else, that is, unless you're sick or you have a newborn. The thought of going past breakfast still wearing my pajamas is depressing. I can't walk to the mailbox in my pajamas. I'm not sure why, but all I know is that if I have to open the front door for any reason, I will at least put on some real pants.

Apparently, I'm strange (surprised?). It seems that wearing pajamas in public is the thing for the PTO crowd to do, particularly while dropping children off at school. It's like a scene straight out of People of Walmart. I almost feel overdressed in the morning dropping my children off while wearing jeans, a Target crewneck, and gym shoes. That's right, I didn't get the memo. I can almost hear the other moms thinking, "Who does she think she is? Wearing real clothes here like that."

So, in tribute to these moms, and dedicated to their traumatized children, I present to you, my highly-regarded, award-winning, five-star poem entitled "Mama in Pajamas."

Mama in Pajamas
by http://mamarantingnow.blogspot.com/

she drives the kids to school

with rollers in her hair

she looks like such a fool

you wish she wasn't there

she walks out of the car

with slippers on her feet

why does she walk so far

why can't she be discreet

you hope your friends can't see

maybe they're all asleep

oh, Lord please have mercy

or else you just might weep

mama in pajamas

morning, noon and bedtime

tell your shrink your traumas

of mama drama school time

NaNoWriMo: Day ARGH!

No, I didn't just go all pirate on you. That's the sound of stress, but not stress caused by writing my quota of words for my NaNoWriMo novel. No, it's the sound of the stress caused by my attempt at trying to manage the stress in my life. When I embarked on this great, non-pirate filled journey, I envisioned long nights spent trying to come up with the words to fill a 50,000 word novel written in just one month. It does sound stressful, right? What I wasn't expecting was that coming up with the words wasn't the problem, the problem was that my life really is pretty stressful, and no amount of denial will cancel that out.

While I'm working on the novel, the words just seem to flow. Granted, I can't vouch for the quality of said words, which may end up being as good as a banshee screaming or me singing out loud (which actually sound like the same thing). Yes, while writing the novel I actually get lost in the story; I become the protagonist in my made-up world, and experience things that I have never done or will ever do as long as I retain my sanity (the jury is still out on that one). It's been an exiting, lucky, thirteen days of non-stop action.

My real life, on the other hand, has gone on as it usually does. With things needing to be done around the house, and me doing these things around the house. Then, today, I had an epiphany. Why don't I ask the other members of this household to help around the house a bit, especially now that I've taken up this temporary, new task of attempting to write a novel in one month. Some support here people, please? So I pick easy jobs like, "Someone, anyone, could someone please let the dog out?" I wait, repeat myself, no response, repeat myself again, then I hear "ARGH!" coming from the other room. Apparently, letting the dog out is a stressful job. So now I have myself under stress from all that needs to get done, and another family member that is stressed out beyond belief because of my bright idea to ask for help around here.

Then, I have an epiphany (great day for those, I hear). I will reduce my stress by not asking for help around here. Hear those crickets chirping? That's the sound of peace and quiet. The sound of stress reduction. The absence of ARGH!

Where Are My Six Hours?

You would think that homeschooling two special needs children is very time consuming, you know, with the having to be responsible for all aspects of their schooling, their mothering, and the getting them to their various appointments, and you would be correct, it is time consuming. It's not just time consuming, it completely consumes you. It can consume you to the point that you forget you even exist.

Don't get me wrong, I loved homeschooling my children. By being with them all day long for so many years, I've come to know them and understand their challenges in a way I would have never gotten to know had they been in school for six hours every day. But I digress. The point I wanted to make was that now that my children are in a "brick and mortar school," I seem to have even less time. I'm busier than I ever was before.

What happened to the extra six hours a day I was supposed to gain by placing my children in a school outside the home? It seems that I spend all my time in the car, driving two children in two separate directions, driving them to two different schools,  getting them to their schools on time, taking them to separate doctors' appointments, taking them to all their various therapies, and picking them up from school on time, just so we can hurry back home, eat dinner, and spend more time driving around to their after school activities. And this is with just two children.

So, yes, although it defies all logic, I seem to have even less time now that my children are in school.

Fighting Over OIAJ

Would you believe that there was once a day when I didn't know what OIAJ was?  Yes, I remember that day. Of course, at the time, I didn't know that it was one of the most amazing inventions in the food world. I was at the gym that day, running on the treadmill, when two of my running friends were talking about how much they liked Oatmeal in a Jar.  They were going on, and on, and on about this thing until I finally said, "Okay, what in the world is Oatmeal in a Jar?"  They looked at me like I was crazy.  They couldn't believe that I didn't know what it was.

They explained that they heard about it from Kath Eats Real Food and that it was an amazing and easy way to eat oatmeal.  All you do is take an almost empty jar of nut or seed butter, add some oatmeal and other goodies, shake it up, and put the full jar in the fridge overnight.  Then, when you wake up in the morning, you just take the jar out and eat the now ready oatmeal. No need to cook it.  No kidding!

I seriously thought they were crazy.  Really? Because eating uncooked oatmeal did not sound yummy to me.  Time went on, as it usually does, and lo-and behold what do I have in my hands?  An almost empty jar of peanut butter, and, of course, like the rational person that I am, I immediately think of Oatmeal in a Jar.

So there I was, holding an almost empty jar of peanut butter, having the urge to make OIAJ, but there was one problem.  I had no idea how to make OIAJ.  Sure, I knew that it involved putting oatmeal in a jar, silly, but it couldn't be that simple, right?  There had to be a recipe or a special technique or something.

So I Google it.  I go back to Kath Eats Real Food. I Google it again and decide, "What the heck.  I'll just make up a recipe with things that I have laying around the kitchen."  So in the almost empty jar of peanut butter, I added:

• 1/2 cup of old fashioned whole oats
• 3/4 cup rice milk
• 1 tablespoon of raisins
• 1 tablespoon of sliced almonds.  

I shook the jar up, and put it in the fridge.

The next morning, I added some sweetener to the jar, stirred it up, and ate it. It was really yummy. It was so yummy that everyone else in the house that was listening to me going on, and on, and on about how yummy it was, wanted one too.  Well, it's not like we have a whole lot of almost empty jars of nut or seed butters laying around in the refrigerator. So I had to promise that we would take turns eating OIAJ each time we had an empty jar of nut butter.

Everything goes fine with the next two jars, but only if you consider fighting over OIAJ as everything going fine.  Googie gets one. Bubba gets the next one. Then, the third jar. Not to be left out, Hubby wanted his own OIAJ.  So I made one for him with dried cranberries, milk, and crushed pecans.

Next morning comes along and as the kids and I are leaving the house, Googie is frantically pointing and yelling, "Mom, Mom, Mom look what Dad is doing. Look now. Look!"  So I look and see Hubby emptying the OIAJ contents into a microwave bowl.  "He just doesn't get it, does he, Mom?"

"Honey, it's called Oatmeal in a Jar not Oatmeal That Was in a Jar Then Dumped Into a Glass Container, Microwaved, and Eaten Out of a Bowl.  You just don't get it! Yikes, I could have just made "normal" oatmeal for you and given the OIAJ to someone that really appreciated it."

So, now, we are back to fighting over the next OIAJ. I'm not sure who will get the next one, but I'm certain I know who won't be getting OIAJ for quite some time...

Summer Break, Broke, Broken

With wonderful plans for my summer break, with not many of those things accomplished, and with the summer break almost to the end, I would like to know where the summer break has gone. And even with not making much of a dent on my list of things to do this summer, I have been busier this summer than any other summer before. I've even been busier this summer than I have been during the school year when we spend our days homeschooling while also getting all the other regular life things done.

Why is it that I've been busier during this summer than during the school year, and I have nothing to show for it? I wonder where the time has gone.  Sure, I've been extremely busy finishing up the homeschool year, organizing, decluttering, training for a marathon, and driving the kids all over town for their various summer camps.  Oh wait, that's right, I think it's the driving all over the place that has taken up my time this summer, and my money; have you seen the price of gas lately?

So, instead of resigning myself to a broken and broke summer break, I think that I will be spending what's left of this summer not driving my kids all over town.  I'll be on a  hammock in the backyard, reading a book, with a cold beverage in hand, trying to enjoy what's left of the summer break. But first, I will write that one down on my to-do list.

The Circular Package Beckons Me

I used to be a soccer mom, you know, the type of mother that lives in her minivan while driving her children around town from soccer game to soccer game.  After years of being a soccer mom, I gave it all up to be, instead, a taekwondo mom.  Now, instead of driving around from soccer game to soccer game, I get to spend my days at the taekwondo training hall. 

Most of the time I like to wait inside the building talking with the other parents, reading a book, and watching the children train.  It sure is boring waiting in the parking lot alone in a minivan during a thunderstorm, wondering if I should wait it out in the van or run for refuge inside the air-conditioned training hall and get soaked.   But that’s just where I found myself the other day.

Stuck in the minivan during a violent thunderstorm, waiting for my son’s taekwondo class to end, unable to open the doors or roll down the windows of the van for fear of ruining the interior by allowing a burst of torrential rain into the van, fearing the gas tank nearly empty and the battery dead, suffocating in the stale heavy air in the van, the allure of a circular pack of mints with the name Ice Breakers® was too strong.

Ice sure would be amazing. Wonder how it would feel in this stifling air to have just one of the tiny mints inside the package actually be made of ice: a tiny ice chip to cool me, to settle the unsettled, to quench the thirst, to help me forget the lack of a breeze in this self-inflicted prison cell inside my van. 

Popping the lid of the package open, I find a dozen tiny ice chips.  I violently and quickly throw one into my mouth.  The coolness was immediate.  The thirst is gone. The rain slows down long enough for me to open the door and feel a strong cool blast of a thunderstorm breeze blow on my face, or so it seemed.

Yes, I’ve gone certifiably insane, I decide.  It’s time for me to either make a dash for the building, go to the gas station to fill the tank, drive around town for awhile to make sure that the battery is charged, or continue to suffer in the van, being taunted by a package of mints.

Guess which one I chose.

 
 

I Can't Even Hear Myself Think

With Goggie all tucked into bed, with my computer finally working, with Bubba and Hubby at a Boy Scout meeting, it was actually quiet around here for a few minutes, long enough, I thought, for me to sit down and write the most amazing blog post imaginable.  My brain was full of amazing ideas: wonderfully witty words to entertain everyone.  The Great American Blog Post.

Then Bubba and Hubby walk in the door, and the quiet walks out the door.  To make a short story short, the world will have to wait for that great post, that is, if I can hear myself think long enough.

Forty Days & Forty Nights of Rain



Source: www.wunderground.com


Well, actually it's been more like forty-two days of rain. How do I know?  Well, since I haven't been able to go outside and work in my garden, I have used my time to check the rainfall we've gotten since March.  I even crosschecked our statistics against the most notoriously, rainy city in the United States: Seattle, WA; and what I found out wasn't pretty.  We actually have gotten more rainfall between March and today than Seattle, WA has gotten during the same time period.

As a gardener, I can appreciate the importance of getting enough rain to help the plants in the garden grow; however, as a gardener I also would like a few nice, non-rainy days in which to work the soil and do some planting.  The last frost date in our area is officially here; but where-o-where is the last drenching-rainfall date?

This past weekend, I spent a day shopping for my vegetable and herb plants in anticipation of the last frost date.  I brought home a nice little collection of baby plants that were excited to arrive at their new home, but they've been spending their time still in their little pots, waiting to put down roots.

Aren't they cute?

They want to be in the garden

Last week, on a rare, non-rainy day, I was able to check things out in the garden and found some growing activity.

Lettuce

Radishes

Carrots

I even found that some of the herbs from last year had made it through the winter.

Tarragon

Oregano

Chives

Additionally, the onions I planted last month seem to be doing well, and I'm sure that after all the rain we've gotten, the potatoes are probably doing well too, but I won't know for sure until I can get out there to check.

Onions

Hopefully the rain will stop soon.  On the bright side, I planted some grass seeds in a few bare muddy spots in our yard, and with all the rain we've gotten, the grass seedlings will be growing rather nicely, I'm sure.

Counting Down to the Marathon

That time has arrived.  The marathon is only six days away, and it’s all I can think about, it's all I can talk about, it's all I can dream about.  If any conversation starts, if any topic is brought up, if anyone tries to talk to me about anything other than running, then he better be ready to hear me talk about running because that’s what we’ll be conversing about.  No other topic will do.

Do I really want to hear my husband talk about work or politics?  Do I want to hear my friends talk about the royal wedding or American Idol?  Do I really want to argue with my children about whether our sun is a yellow dwarf or a yellow giant?  I think not!  If it’s not related to running, I know nothing, I see nothing.

Look on the bright side, this also means that in six days, this will all be over.  That's right, because after six days I won't be talking about running, right?

Six Mile Run, Not!

Today, for our last Saturday training run before the marathon, we were scheduled to run six miles.  Figuring that running six miles was not a big deal, expecting a lot of rain during our run, and certain that the run would be over quickly, I came prepared for a quick, easy six-mile run wearing my old, beat-up shoes, the ones that died during the twenty-mile run two weeks ago (Note to self: when a pair of running shoes dies, don’t ever wear them to run again).

Hello! Coach announced the route to us. “What? That’s over eight miles,” I exclaimed.

“Oh, it’s not over eight, you can do it,” replied our coach with a smirk.

But I had my Garmin GPS watch, and I remembered running that route on a day when we were supposed to run eight miles, and I remembered that the route was actually longer than that.

Not only was the route longer than six miles, it was longer than eight miles—by one and a half miles (thank you very much).  And if that wasn’t enough, we had to run a loop with super, steep hills, and there was no water or Gatorade at the water stop, and we didn’t come prepared for a long run, and none of us brought our gel packs for the run. (Yes, I can hear the world's smallest violin playing the world's saddest song.)

When we got back, I considered dumping Gatorade on our wickedly insane coach for psyching us out like that, but I didn’t.  He’s lucky that I’m so nice.

By the way, the run was actually 9.45 miles. Does that sound like six miles to you?

It's Good Friday Already?

www.auroraclipart.com.

Easter is sneaky. It just sneaks up on you.  Of course I actually knew Easter was coming; I have a calendar (duh!), and I’ve been observing Lent.  Spiritually, I’ve been preparing for Easter, but I forgot about the Easter baskets (the materialistic part of the whole thing).

Funny, for Christmas it seems to go the other way: shopping, parties, eating, baking, gifts, and forgetting the spiritual aspect; however, Easter is more focused for me, maybe that’s why I like it so much more, but guess how I spent most of my Holy Thursday, that’s right, shopping for Easter basket stuff. And, yes, I did end up getting sidetracked and bought a pair of sandals for myself, then I realized that Goggie needs a haircut, and what about Easter dinner? 

Now it’s Good Friday, and I will need to (oh, no!) go shopping some more.  And fasting, I’m such a spaz, not only did I spend most of Holy Thursday shopping for Easter stuff, I also spent it eating like it was Mardi Gras.  

This fasting today will be hard because of the marathon training.  Maybe this Good Friday fasting doesn’t apply to someone if they are in the middle of training for a marathon. Ha! I just have to keep telling myself that if I can give up tortilla chips, I can fast on Good Friday.  I’m just glad that the run tomorrow is only six miles: no need to carbo-load.

Oh, and have a Happy Easter!

It’s 1:00 p.m., Time to Start School

When someone asks me what a normal homeschool day is like for us, I answer, “I wish I knew.” Today, for instance, I wake up early before anyone else in the house is stirring.  I make my way into the kitchen and put the tea kettle on the stove. Waiting for the tea water to heat up, I revel in the quiet that surrounds me while the dog, curled in bed, is giving me a look that says, “You have to be kidding, I’m not moving.”

I have great hopes for this day, a day with no appointments, no long lists of things-to-do, a normal day. I sit down at the kitchen table not realizing that it would be the last time I would be sitting down for quite some time, pick up my copy of My Daily Catholic Bible, read today’s reading, check e-mail, and log into Facebook as the eight-year old pads into the kitchen and demands breakfast.  Not liking what I have to offer him for breakfast, wanting something else to eat, the eight-year old is crying, stomping, and thrashing about.  I send him back to his room, as the dog deciding to take part in the action, gets up from bed and starts to bark, demanding attention.  I coax the dog outside, the eight-year old to his room, and the whole while the teenager is still in bed blissfully unaware that morning has come.  A minute hasn’t passed before the dog is scratching at the patio door.  I let the dog back into the house just so he can follow me to the teenager’s room to help me do the impossible; wake up a teenage boy.  “Wake up, Bubba. It’s morning,” I calmly say.  

“Yes, I’m up,” he says while still in bed, under the covers, with his eyes closed.  The dog, knowing that this will not work, jumps up on the side of the bed, short, front legs up on the edge of the bed, long body stretched, hind legs still on the floor as if on tiptoe, his face reaching to lick the boy’s face.  The boy laughs and gets out of bed to pet the dog.  With his mission accomplished, the dog, tired and hungry, herds the teenager to the kitchen.  I feed the dog.  The teenager feeds himself.  The eight-year old, deciding that he’s hungry enough to eat the sugar-coated bits of sugar-bits that we actually have and not the peanut-butter-flavored bits of sugar-bits that we don’t have, sneaks back into the kitchen and politely asks for breakfast.  I help him with his breakfast.

The phone rings.  It’s the college-age son whining that he’s starving, has nothing to eat, can’t finish his homework, and has a class later in the day, in other words, I have to drive him to the grocery store.  I quickly shower, throw some clothes on, clean out the back of the minivan to make room for the groceries, and drive to his apartment. “Hi, Junior, ready to go?” I ask.

“Huh? Uh?” he answers as he follows me out to the minivan.  Groggy, slow-moving, shuffling his feet while dragging a shopping cart behind him, he slowly makes his way through the store.  Trying to be patient, I calmly follow him through the store offering useful tid-bits like, “No, you don’t have to buy 10 of those items to get the 10 for $10 price,” and “yes, half of $5.00 is $2.50.”  

Having been in the store for over one hour, my patience wearing thin, I proclaim, “Son, are we done yet?”  Did I actually just say that?  And I wonder where the kids get these witty remarks.  He gives me this look that says You talkin’ to me?  and slowly continues to pull his cart through the aisles.  Finally, after what seems like two hours, he stops with a lost look on his face and proclaims (ta da!) that he’s done.

Not having gone on a run this morning and full of energy, I make a beeline to checkout lane 21 where there is no waiting, unless you count waiting for Junior to slowly drag his grocery cart over to the lane.  He gets to the lane and watches me, uninterested, as I start to unload his groceries.  The cashier is bagging the groceries, the cart is empty, and he just stands there.  “Push the cart over here to the front so we can load the bags into the cart,” I say.

“Huh?” is his reply.  I grab the cart, pull it over to the front, and load his bagged groceries back into the cart.  I pay.  We leave the store with the newly purchased groceries and go back to his apartment, where we grab the grocery bags (thanks goodness for bags with handles), open the door to the apartment building with our feet since our hands are loaded with bags of groceries, and in one trip up the stairs we get all those groceries in the apartment.  Mission accomplished.

Back at home I realize that it’s lunch time.  We eat lunch. We pray our morning rosary and afterwards I announce, "Kids, it's 1:00 p.m., time to start school today!"

It's now 4:15 p.m. and we're diligently working on our homeschool. The phone rings.  It's Junior.  "Now what?" I think hoping for the best, but expecting the worst. Apparently, he's finally awake.  He just wanted to thank me for having taken him to the store today.

It's Day 23, How is Lent Going?

This Lent I thought that I would give up something meaningful, so I gave up tortilla chips.  As a normal person, you may think that giving up tortilla chips is a crazy thing to do.  Who gives up tortilla chips?  Yes, I know that most normal people give up things like candy, chocolate, soda pop, T.V. or Facebook, but I’m not normal so I gave up tortilla chips because I was eating them all the time. I would eat them with my meals, I would eat them between meals, I would eat them in a house, I would eat them with a mouse, I would eat them here or there, I would eat them everywhere. And, I couldn’t figure out why I was never hungry.  I just thought that I had a small stomach, but apparently I hadn’t realized how many tortilla chips I was eating.

The first week without tortilla chips was really hard.  I stopped eating them, and all of a sudden I was always hungry.  It was an unbearable hunger that I couldn’t figure out what to do about. What was I going to eat now that I wasn’t eating tortilla chips?  It wasn’t until the second week of Lent that I realized that I probably should eat something else instead of continuing to obsess over how I couldn’t eat tortilla chips. I tried eating apples (yum), and carrots (yum!), and pears (yum! Yum!), and even grapefruit—I never thought that I would see the day that, instead of eating tortilla chips, I would be eating a grapefruit and like it.  Last Sunday I decided to eat a few tortilla chips, since Sundays are not officially part of the 40 days of Lent, but the chips just didn’t taste as good as I remembered them tasting.

Now it’s day 23 of Lent and I’m beginning to think that I wasn’t hard enough on myself.  Maybe I should give up something else; on the other hand, getting over the obsession I was having with tortilla chips by fasting from them has given me more time to focus on the other aspects of Lent, such as prayer and almsgiving.  For me, giving up tortilla chips has been actually good for the soul.

Now, how is Lent going for you? 

Give Me This Day My Daily Tortilla Chips

Of all the crazy things I’ve done in my life, giving up tortilla chips for Lent has been the craziest thing I’ve done.  Running a marathon, homeschooling my children these are nothing compared to giving up tortilla chips for Lent.  I thought I would stretch myself, force myself to focus on sacrifice, be a good Catholic and give something meaningful up for Lent.  For me, that would be tortilla chips.  The bargaining has already begun and it’s only Day Three.

“Fritos are not tortilla chips, right?”

“Crunchy crackers are not tortilla chips.”

“I know! I can eat Pringles, pretzels or Sun Chips.”

“What if I put cheese on top of the tortilla chips? They would then be nachos.  Nachos are not tortilla chips.”

This is not going very well at all.  I’m hungry all the time. Exactly how many tortilla chips was I eating?  Seriously, I’m eating the same amount of food.  How could I be so hungry? I also realized that giving up tortilla chips means that I can’t walk into a Mexican restaurant with their endless baskets of tortilla chips.  It will probably take me some time to figure out something else to fill the void created by the tortilla chips, something healthy, such as, celery sticks, but all I can think about is tortilla chips.  Obviously, this is a serious addiction.  Right now I’m wondering, if I should continue with the idea of giving up tortilla chips or think of something else.  How is constantly thinking about tortilla chips helping me to focus on my relationship with Jesus?  I’m working on this. Never would I have thought that something this simple could be so hard.