"Listen. Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?" The Beatles

As a rule, I don't believe in keeping secrets. I get a sick feeling in my gut when I think about keeping secrets, perhaps because child abusers often tell their victims that it is their little secret, and threaten them if they tell. Some secrets are dangerous to keep.  Some secrets are too hard to hear. 

Some beliefs, although not secret, are held close to the heart, in a place so private it is hard to enter. That is how it should be.  There are things you do not want to know about me, and there are things about you that I am pretty sure I don't want to know.

I am sometimes afraid to express my beliefs because they have the potential to cause other people pain. Other times, I am afraid to express my beliefs because I know that others, who disagree, will become confrontational, and we will both be injured. There are some subjects not meant to be discussed in polite company.  

This morning, someone I have never even met in person, hijacked a thread on my Face Book wall because I don't believe in abortion, and she does. 

People, who know me well, know that I do not believe in abortion. This is not a secret. It is something I don't like to talk about. I did, however, make the mistake of posting a link to a news story regarding legislation advanced in my home state of Kentucky that protects breastfeeding mothers from harassment, protects whistle blowers, and requires mothers having an abortion to undergo ultrasound before consenting to the procedure.

These are all subjects about which I care. I shared the link because I knew of several people reading my page that would be interested in following at least one, if not all of these subjects. I have since removed the thread.

Abortion is one of many delicate subjects likely to cause internal as well as external conflict.  If you have had an abortion, and you regret your decision and need to talk about it, we can talk about it. I listen with compassion. 

If you have had an abortion and want to come down on me because I don't believe in abortion, and then criticize me for being judgmental, please don't. 

If you think I want to make you feel guilty, rest assured I don't. My beliefs are based on my own personal and spiritual experiences, and have nothing to do with you.

Sometimes, when people find out I don't believe in abortion, they begin to act like bullies, and try to make me justify my belief system. I think that is what happened to me this morning. I have seen this happen to other people in public forums as well. I don't try to make them explain their beliefs.  Why do they think it appropriate to challenge mine? 

People who do not know me well assume that I am pro-Choice because I am liberal on most social issues. The reason I am a liberal is because I believe in society working to take care of all people, including the unborn and the women who carry them. I am always shocked and disturbed when a woman I barely know tells me about her abortion. I can hardly have this conversation with women I deeply love. I certainly don't want to discuss this with someone I hardly know.

I don't spend my weekends going to pro-Life rallies. I do not think anyone is justified in going into an abortion clinic and shooting the place up. Neither is there any justification for shooting up a church.

I have seen a bumper sticker that says, "Against Abortion? Then don't have one." When I see that on a car, or in someone's signature line on an internet posting, I want to shake that person, slap them in the face, and rage at them. How dare anyone take something as serious as abortion and reduce it to a slogan on a bumper sticker? How dare they trivialize abortion and invite me to join their pro-Choice Facebook group? What makes people think this is acceptable social behavior?

I know and love many women who have had abortions. I do not condemn them. When I think of their situations, I try to hold compassion and love in my heart. Some of these women had illegal abortions in the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Others chose selective reduction after undergoing assisted reproduction procedures, something that is hard for me to wrap my mind around.  One friend lost her unborn baby's father on 9/11 and made her decision while experiencing shock, severe trauma and grief.  Her situation is tragic.  Every abortion, in my opinion, is tragic.

Please don't presume you know where a woman stands on this issue. If you believe in a woman's right to choose, don't talk down to me as if I am too stupid to have an opinion. Don't talk to me of chromosomal disorders and having to choose between your own life and that of your unborn child. I had to make that decision while signing consent forms for a blood transfusion and trying to get someone on the phone to take care of my toddlers. I have strong feelings on the subject, and you don't want to hear them.

If you are going to reveal something to me, and you don't want me to judge you, then don't tell me. I have a hard enough time taking care of my feelings about my own reproductive health.  I would rather not worry about hurting yours.

There are some things I don't want to know.

"I'm so glad that you finally made it here. You thought nobody cared, but I did. I could tell. This is your year, and it always starts here, and oh, you're aging well." Dar Williams

My husband’s birthday is this week. I feel guilty, because I have not yet planned a special celebration for him. I also feel guilty because he is aging so well, and I am not. Feel free to leave me lots of comments at the end of this post telling me I look really good (for a woman my age). Try to reassure me. The truth is, he is aging well, and I am not. In photos from the early 1980s, he looks almost exactly the same as he does now, even with the substantial increase in forehead. When people see these pictures, they exclaim, “Wow! Is that you? When was that taken?”
I do not look like I once did. Dennis looks like he always has. He hasn't packed on the pounds. He doesn't cover any grey. He says not to worry about it, that I look fine. Then he asks if I’ve seen his glasses anywhere.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror recently, as I was nearing the end of a bottle of face cream and reevaluating the need for a replacement. Did I really need to spend twenty bucks on Regenerist? “Nah,” I thought, “I'm aging pretty well.”

Just when you have a thought like that, the universe jumps up and bites you in the ass, or in my case, the eyelid. No sooner than that thought crossed my mind, it happened. I picked up The Glass of Cruelty - the mirror that 5x on the side I had been using, and 10,000x on the side I flipped over while wiping it down. You know the mirror, the one that makes my skin look like a pancake that is ready to flip, or a close up photo of the moon's crust, ashen, dry, and covered with craters. I had been blissfully using the kinder, more gentle side of the mirror. Ignorance being bliss was no longer an option, because I saw It.

I shudder at the memory.
Suddenly, where there had only been eyelashes, It as there.
It was vile. I could not wipe It away.
Suddenly, there was a pink fleshy mole in my lash line. It was awful.
It appeared from nowhere, like a giant pink finger pointing at my reflection. With an evil laugh It said, "Oh, really? You think you are aging well? Then you haven't met ME!" I think I was smote, as It was a harsh blow that came down upon me.

I asked my husband if he had seen It, and he said no, It was barely noticeable, and really no big deal. He looked at it closely, in the light, and suggested that if it bothered me, I should talk with the doctor. The Doctor? Which doctor? Dermatologist? Plastic surgeon? Psychiatrist?

Within a week, a second little mole appeared near It. I call them The Pointer Sisters, as when I look in the mirror they rudely point at me, mocking me and chanting, “Now you are now a woman of a certain age! Soon our cousins will appear on your neck! You cannot stop us! Our troops are gathering in your basal cells and soon to your epidermis we shall arise!”

Over the coming days, I light candles and set up an altar to Saint Stratum Corneum on my vanity. I offer Her the finest sable brushes, and consecrate to Her unguents and pots of colorful creams. I determine that as I invoke Her, if I apply brown eyeliner exactly right into the lash line, and I dab it carefully onto The Pointer Sisters, I can camouflage them as a clump of mascara.

This is tricky to do, and not without risks. First, I must wash my hands in The Holy Water of Sink. Then I must use my left thumb at the outer corner of my eye to pull the skin above my cheekbone toward my ear. While using my index finger to haul up and hold that flap of eyelid that was once under covered my brow bone, but now droops over my eye in one flabby fold.

I pray as I steady my right elbow on the vanity and firmly grasp the thin eyeliner brush in my shaky hand. I lean in close to The Glass of Cruelty and the ritual dabbing begins. If my prayers have been heard, and the Saints are pleased, my hand is guided by forces from the Heavens, and I do not poke myself in the eye. “Holy Mother of Mascara”, I mutter, “Don’t fail me now.”

Thus each morning begins. When I light my candles now, I say a new novena, one for my mid-forties.  It is my husband’s birthday this week, and when he blows out his candles, he will not be the only one making wishes.
I wish I could be more like my husband.
I wish I could age without being judged, or imposing judgments upon myself.
I wish I could see my crow’s feet as pretty birds singing the harmony lines in the song of my life.
I wish I could be like the woman with the bundle of sticks in Dar Williams’ song - that I could beat back the voices in my head, and hear only the ones that say, “Aren’t you aging well…” Her song is beautiful. You can listen to it here. I have to go now and touch up my makeup.

"Boy of mine...as you sort among the stories you've been told, if some pieces of the picture are hard to find and the answers to your questions are hard to hold, take good care of your mother..." Jackson Browne

It's like Where's Waldo, or maybe a crime scene.
It's like Jackson sings, "some pieces of the picture are hard to find."
In this case, the piece that is hard to find is the rest of the boy.
This is how I found my boy, sleeping in my bed, his body all the way across it. I knew he was in there somewhere, buried under comforter and covers and pillows Then I found it, a piece of my little boy.

These days, when I find a piece of little boy, it is delightful. He is not so little anymore. His world is bigger than I would like it to be, and he sometimes carries the weight of it. He experiences stress I can't absorb for him. He is tender and loving and kind, and I have to remind his teacher that he is just a little boy.

Sure, he looks tough, and he certainly acts tough, but under all that hair, he is still beautiful, soft, and sensitive. He can be those things and still be all boy.

We push our boys to toughen up. We expect the bumps and bruises they take to become calluses when they should still be tender feet. We expect them to sit still and walk in lines, to be more organized than their mothers. We've got it all wrong. We send them to play on playgrounds with signs that say No Running. We send them to schools that take out the swing sets because swing sets have become a liability issue.

"When did swing sets become a liability?" I asked.  "Well, one child broke his arm when he jumped from the swing set," they told me.

Of course he did! When I was in elementary school, that happened about once every two years. Do you remember the year the kid in your class broke his arm?

When kids jumped from swings, our principal didn't consider it a liability. He considered it a learning experience. The howling boy would pull it together and act strong while the principal gently wrapped a magazine around the arm. He put an icepack between the arm and the magazine, and he taped it so that it stayed the way he wanted it. The magazine provided stability while the boy waited for his mother to take him for an x-ray. As the mother drove away, the principal told the other students, "Looks like a pretty good break. He'll be in a cast for a long time. Won't be able to play ball, or get it wet. No swimming," and everyone would be a little more careful when they jumped. We still jumped. We ran, leaped, fell, and smacked our heads and banged our knees and had fist fights, even us girls.

They removed the swings on which my boy loved to play. The boys started playing football at recess. They told them no tackle football, and the boys tried to keep it to touch, but they are little boys. Touch didn't last for long.

The first time a child fell they banned footballs at recess. Their footballs all confiscated, they took to the woods, and began playing the same game, only using a pine cone instead of a ball. It was easier to throw, harder to catch, and much more likely to put out an eye than a ball.

Sixth grade is hard. It was hard for his sister, too. I can't help but think it doesn't have to be, and it should not be.  Our system makes it that way. They want to toughen them up before sending them to middle school. Schools used to provide more stability than stress. It used to be a place where the larger community kept an eye on you. They expected you to be a kid. I don't see that anymore. One sixth grade teacher told the parents on orientation night that she had never had a group of boys like this one, and she didn't know what to make of it. They are always hugging each other. Hugging each other! Not that there is anything wrong with that, but she finds it strange, and is not quite sure what to do about it. Harrison's other teacher said to me that she has never had boys as tightly knit as this group. I think when they get a glimpse of the soft little boys who aren't afraid to hug, it seems wrong. We have to make them afraid to hug. Make them feel ashamed.

My son is not habitually late with his assignments, but last week his teacher thought he needed to focus more on his reading, and kept him in from recess.  I have asked her not to do that. Boys need recess -  fresh air, sunshine. They need running and laughing without restraint. They need footballs and swings.

He is growing up too fast, as they all do. He watches the Jets with his dad, cooks with me, and drives his sister insane with his Nerf guns. Much to my horror,  he is listening to Kanye West, while his sister is living Taylor Swift's Fifteen. She is a pretty good sister, and she loves him, but sometimes I have to remind her, "Take good care of your brother..."

"Call and they'll come to you, covered with dew. Vegetables dream of responding to you, standing there shiny & proud by your side, holding your hand..." Frank Zappa

When I am troubled, I cook. When something bad happens, I cook. When I am happy, well I cook then, too. When my father was troubled, he drank.

You can always tell when something is bothering me by looking in my refrigerator. When my emotions are in turmoil, the shelves of my refrigerator are equally as upset. I just opened my Frigidaire, and it is a mess.  I can't find anything in there. On the top shelf, there should be a carton of 18 eggs in the left corner. Heavy cream, half and half, a pound of butter and a quart of yogurt should line up accordingly from left to right. Tonight I see, on the top shelf, two cartons of eggs, a bowl of black beans, olives, a can of Pillsbury croissants, half a container of canned tomatoes, and the shiny silver cup that is used on the milkshake maker, half full of whipped cream. There is even stuff behind all that, but it is scary and I am very afraid.

In the cheese drawer, things have been shoved and it is hard to open, a lot like my brain. There is a head of lettuce, and one of cauliflower on the second shelf. Clearly, these belong at the bottom of the refrigerator, in the produce drawers. There is some ground turkey, which belongs on the third shelf, with the spare ribs, and tortilla wraps. A bottle of salad dressing is on this shelf, too. Odd - I don't remember opening it. I can't find the peanut butter. There is no dark chocolate. There are too many containers of leftovers.


During difficult times, when I am under duress, my shelves fill with small random dishes of leftovers. There are whole meals prepared and then abandoned - eggs on the wrong shelf and condiments askew. Multiple heads of cauliflower sprout from parts unknown. There is far too much broccoli. When I am under stress, I buy broccoli, and because I am preoccupied I have no memory of buying broccoli, so the next morning I buy more broccoli.

Broccoli is healthy. I am a good mother if I serve my family broccoli. I will loose weight if I eat more broccoli. My husband won't get colon cancer and it won't matter that we don't have health insurance and he will always be here to take care of me if I feed him more broccoli.

In my fridge right now, there are several bunches of broccoli. One is for the first week of classes, and the first assignment I have already screwed up. The professor sent it back to me, with a message to re-read the assignment and resubmit. One is because the mother figures in my life have recently decided to die, and the ones who didn't successfully die within the past two months have gone into nursing homes or shown signs of dementia. One is because no matter how nice we are to my daughter, she is sullen and cranky and turns on us. It is the broccoli of adolescence. One is because my son cries himself to sleep at night when he remembers that he has to go to school the next day. His teacher is less than nice. I also hold her responsible for the two extra heads of cauliflower, a second bag of carrots, and the nearly empty bottle of Absolute in the freezer. Sometimes, I think Dad had it right.

I have to stop this. I will stop this - tomorrow or Wednesday when I have the energy.

Here is to the coming week, when I will have the energy to clean the refrigerator, find the control that is missing in my life, and in creating order, let go of the gloomy sadness that holds me. I will toss it out with the vegetable soup that my husband did not especially enjoy, and the sliced turkey that was not enough to make a full sandwich of, but too much to eat without mayo. When the shelves are tidy and the condiments back on the door, I will bake my minister a flourless chocolate cake. She announced this week that she is leaving our congregation. I am happy for her as she starts a new chapter in her life, but I think she is the reason I have so much celery.

"Met a redneck on a Grecian isle, he did the goat dance very well, he gave me back my smile, but he kept my camera to sell..." Joini Mitchell

Aretha Franklin is the Queen of Soul, Mary is the Queen of Heaven, and I am the Queen of Yogurt. My reign began over the Christmas holiday when I first used my Yogotherm. Dennis suggested an official coronation after I made the fourth batch of yogurt in three days. In these economic times, the Queen's coffers are nearly bare. No longer can I afford to allow my court to feast on Fage Greek Yogurt, that sells for over $9.00 a quart in the supermarket- a King's ransom I dare say. Instead, I am providing for my subjects a superior yogurt for less than $2.00 a quart.

I can't believe how easy it is to make yogurt.Why have I never tried this before? I ordered my Yogotherm and cultures from New England Cheesemaking Supply Company. The Yogotherm is simple, just a plastic bucket in a styrofoam insulated cooler. Within the first week, my Yogotherm paid for itself. All I do is heat two quarts of milk to 180 degrees, allow it to cool 105 - 115 degrees, then add yogurt cultures, stir and pour into the Yogotherm.  I add additional protein and thickness to the yogurt by incorporating 1/3 cup of dry milk powder when I add the cultures.  Let it sit for five hours, and voila! Yogurt! I line a colander with cheesecloth and set it into a bowl in my fridge, strain the yogurt through that overnight, and in the morning my yogurt has gone Greek. Thick, luscious, creamy, fresh Greek yogurt. Yogurt so delightful, it is worthy of it's own Greecian urn. It is almost a sin to store this in a plastic container that once held won ton soup.


I've been serving Eden yogurt smoothies for breakfast, throwing frozen bananas and berries in the blender and letting it whirr into something she can grab on her way out the door and drink in the car on her way to school. I serve Dennis a bowl of yogurt with walnuts, honey and granola for lunch. Last week, I was inspired by the fresh mint I saw peeking through the snow in my garden, so I made Greek meatballs and taziki.

First I chop and salt a cucumber, and let it drain in a collander in the sink. Then, I pop that in the food processor with some garlic and fresh dill. I mix this into my Greek yogurt with a little lemon juice, and it is really nice.

Kostas, the very handsome Greek father of Eden's friend at school, tells me I should have used vinegar instead of lemon juice for the acidity.  Kostas and his family spend their holidays in Greece, and if I save enough money making my own yogurt, my royal family can visit his family at their home in Greece, and I can learn the culinary ways of his people.


I needed a vehicle for the taziki, so I made some Greek meatballs and served them on a nice tandori flatbread. I had never made Greek meatballs, but I had fun coming up with the recipe. I took a pound of meatloaf mix from the butcher (equal amounts of beef pork and veal) and I incorporated 1/2 pound of ground lamb. Honestly, I don't like lamb - it is just too strong a flavor for me and freaks me out. All the Greek meatball recipes I found were made with only lamb. Dennis likes lamb, so I added it to the mix. I was surprised to like the result.

I also added crumbled feta cheese and an egg to bind it. I seasoned the meat balls with mint, cilantro, oregano, red wine vinegar, minced onion, salt and pepper. I put them on a parchment lined cookie sheet, sprayed them with olive oil and baked them.

I served the meatballs on the flatbread with lots of lettuce, some red onions and black olives, and a paste I made by running a jar of roasted red peppers through the food processor. With the refreshing, creamy taziki, it was a wonderful dinner. When my friend Julie came to visit later in the week, I made an appetizer using the leftover meatballs and taziki, serving them on little pita triangles.
This week, I the Queen of Yogurt, will take a break from cooking to concentrate on other important matters of state, namely schoolwork and household organization.

"I'm a monster for these cookies, I'm a beast for they treats, an animal for they crackers, head to feet they so damn sweet....I can't keep my hands out the cookie jar." Gym Class Heroes

Dennis is working on a new film project, and he and his film project friend have been testing the equipment. This means that I get to sit on a stool in the kitchen and hold up signs indicating camera and soundboard settings and babble on, ad libbing whatever comes to mind so they can work out the kinks. On one hand, this is good, because Dennis and I have been too busy to actually have real conversations with each other. Now, once a week, we do this film test and if he wants to know what is happening in our family, he can come back later and just roll tape. I have talked about parent teacher conferences, my new job, school work, our friends' adoption saga, and pretty much everything else he needs to hear. The entire time I am talking, he is too engrossed in lighting and such to hear a word I say, but the sound guy - he now knows my most intimate secrets.

Dennis was using me for a film test a few days ago, when I made these cookies.  I must say I think they are some of my finest work.  It all started when my online friend Rachel posted a link to this recipe from cooking light. The Cooking Light chocolate chip cookie was really good, better than the Toll House recipe, and only 15 carbs per cookie. They are made with egg whites, beaten stiff, which is what makes them light in fat and light in texture. My cousin stopped by and had one, and commented that she found the cookie too sweet, so I went to work improving the recipe.

First I cut the sugar in half. When I made the cookies the first time, I found the dough too dry to come together easily, and I ended up adding a few teaspoons of Eggbeaters. Even with that they were too dry, but the reduced sugar was fine. In fact, the cookie was better with less sugar. The chocolate chips stand out more with less sugar. I also added a few more chips than the recipe called for. I think extra chocolate never hurts.

I decided to make another batch, using four egg whites instead of two, and substituting 1/2 cup of almond flour for the white flour.  I still had to add some eggbeaters, but these cookies were unbelievable delicious. The almond meal gave them a really good texture.  In the next batch, I am going to try adding oat flour.

A few things may come from these film tests. Thankfully, it is not often I get to see myself on a HUGE t.v. screen - and we know the camera never lies. In fact, it is more honest than a drunk uncle.  On screen, it seems my hair is too dark, and shows up really flat, so I may try getting some highlights. Having seen myself on the big screen, I can certainly justify the purchase of a new bottle of Bobbi Brown foundation, unless I want to start wearing a brown paper grocery sack over my head. And in other news, we may start filming a cooking show from right here in the Mermaid Cafe.

"I break the yolks, make a smiley face I kinda like it in my brand new place..." Jewel

I think starting a Saturday morning with a breakfast that will hold you all weekend is a good idea, so this morning I got up and made Dennis a big plate of huervos rancheros and a nice cup of Spanish coffee. This meal was so easy, quick and filling, that I am surprised I've gone my entire life without making it.

I opened a can of Goya black beans and while they were heating in a little pot on the stove, and heated up some left over refried beans in the microwave. I tossed a couple of whole wheat tortillas in my black iron frying pan and let them get nice and tasty with a little butter. I used no fat in the beans and skim-plus in the coffee, so I decided the minimal amount of butter would be justified. While the tortillas and beans were heating, I made a couple of eggs over easy. I smeared the tortilla with a little refried bean, added the black beans, and laid the eggs right in the middle, sprinkled with a little cheese. Then I dumped some Goya Pico de Gallo in the pan that was still hot from the eggs and let that cook down until is was thick and bubbly. While that was cooking, I sliced an avocado.  Poured the salsa on the eggs and in less than 15 minutes made my husband a meal he loved. 

Now that we won't have to eat again for a few days, I think I'll tackle the laundry.

"I went down to the sacred store Where I'd heard the music years before, But the man there said the music wouldn't play..." Don McClean

 

The founding mothers of La Leche League International.

I was so sad this morning to hear of the passing of Viola Lennon, one of the seven founding mothers of La Leche League. Viola Lennon had ten children, and in addition to running her home and her family, she and her girlfriends founded an international organization that for nearly fifty years, thrived. People in my family don't seem to understand how important these women have been in my life, or why in this stage of my life when my children are far from nurslings, I would give these women and the organization they founded a passing thought. They seem surprised that when one of the founding mothers passes, I feel as if I have lost a beloved aunt or grandmother.

When I was a young mother, I had very few examples of mothering that I could follow. My own mother was far away. It was the mothers of La Leche League who mothered me. These were the women who provided me with an example of what being a mother could look like, and concrete tools I could incorporate into my life that would make mothering easier and more fulfilling. I was inspired by these women, with their large families, who were able to accomplish so much and help so many.

When I look back on the time in my life when I was the mother of small children, I do not forget how special those days were. Even when I was in the thick of things, sleep deprived, washing diapers, wiping noses, and chasing toddlers, I knew it was a special time. I wanted a large family, and have always been sad for the babies I did not have, but I loved every minute with the two I was blessed to carry to term.

I think it was easier for me to enjoy my babies because of the women of the League. I belonged to a subculture of society that gave me strength and love, and helped me to realize that as a mother, I had been given a sacred opportunity to nurture and protect my babies. In this subculture, my work was honored, and my happiness was shared. The grief I experienced when I lost Genevieve was also honored and understood. The women of this subculture gave freely of their lives. We loved each other's children. We cared for each other's families. If one of us was sick, a pot of soup was delivered to our door. The examples set by the founding mothers were like a good old-fashioned bowl of chicken soup - simple, nourishing, healing.  We were a tribe.

I cannot go back to that time, or to that place where I heard the sacred music of motherhood.  The organization has changed so much in the past decade, that for me, the music doesn't play. I have experienced these changes as a great loss. This is one of the issues in my life that has been too personal to write about, too difficult to share. The church bells all are broken, and now three of the women I admired the most have passed. Rest in peace, Mrs. Lennon.

"Bag lady you gone hurt your back Dragging all them bags like that I guess nobody ever told you All you must hold on to Is you, is you." Erykah Badu

I need a new bag. My husband does not understand how anyone can possibly have as many bags as I do. He does not quite understand why women need a purse at all. Since, in man world, he sees no need for a bag in the first place, how can I expect him to understand that one would need different bags for different occasions? It seems perfectly logical to me that I would not carry a small beaded evening bag to work, nor would I carry a back pack to a wedding. I understand the lethal leather combination of white shoes with a black bag and the subtle nuances of Naugahyde and velvet. Even the most practical woman might find herself in need of several different bags.

Today was a typical day for me.
After I got the kids off to school, I went to the local bookstore where I run a breastfeeding support group meeting. For that meeting I had to carry the following:
*My day book,
*business cards
*water bottle,
*Burt's Bees Lip Balm
*Cash
*Pen
*Writer's Notebook
Breastfeeding Cafe specific notebook
Breastfeeding Reference Materials
Prop Doll
Sling
Netbook
*Altoids
*cell phone
*reading glasses
*sun glasses
*prescription medication
*glucometer
*snack
*feminine hygene products

From there I had to go to a committee meeting at school
For this meeting I needed my daybook and a different notebook, and a pen

From there I went to work where I needed
a set of files
traveling office supply kit (I have no desk or storage space at work)
Netbook
Water bottle
Snack
Two magazines
Prescription medication

As of next week I will need to carry textbooks and workbooks with me as well.

The only logical option for me is to design and sew one bag with multiple pockets for my basic supplies, those marked with an asterisk, and possibly a pocket large enough for my netbook.

Then I will have to set up a series of second bags for each role I play in my day, and at all times I would carry two bags- the main bag with multiple pockets and:
One for the hours when I am a student,
One for support meetings,
One for client meetings,
One for when I am working at school,
One for when I am teaching Sunday School.

In an ideal world, all of these bags would be waterproof.
Each bag would be easily recognizable by color.
The bags would be made of neutral fabric.
The interior pockets would be clear and labeled so that the system would work.
There would be enough room for a mini cosmetics touch up kit.
The pocket for the cash would contain real actual cash.
In an ideal world, my husband would understand why I need a minimum of six bags. Then we could talk about shoes.

"All alone...and feeling too foolish and strange to say the words that I had planned I know that I miss you but I don't know where I stand." Joni M.

After so many months of neglecting this blog, I have come back to it, only to find 36 comments in need of moderation. Most of these comments included the word Viagra, and one was related to nude photos of Miley Cyrus. Come on, you spammers, can't you leave that poor girl alone?

I have wondered what to do with this blog, in the same way that I have wondered what to do with my life. The initial purpose of Mermaid Cafe was to keep in touch with my friends after our first move to North Carolina. When my life and my writing became too personal to publish, I abandoned this blog. I have considered a fresh start, with a new name and a new URL. I have considered writing under an alias, and renaming my husband and children to protect their privacy. I have considered not writing at all. None of these options seem right for me at this time, just as nothing in my life seems quite right for me at this time.

The past year has been one of mourning, losing my identity, stretching my boundaries, pushing myself beyond my limit and stretching some more. I have met new challenges and been lonelier than ever before. I was unable to laugh my way through it. I am ready to laugh again. I am ready to find some remnant of myself that I can still recognize and revive it. I am ready to find the lyric to the melodies that fill my head. For awhile, I had lost all my words, and I was living life in a minor key. Today I want to sing.