The Write Way Home

It's Facebook's Fault

2009-03-21T15:06:00.006-05:00

I know, I know. As Lori was kind enough to point out, it's almost April.

Bleah!

Thing is, I've finally gotten myself to a place where I'm writing productively, consistently--growing in my craft and continuing to make connections and press forward. This blog, on the other hand, is a rant-place for life as a mom, life as a writer, and life in general.

And I find that I simply don't want to pour myself into something that can so easily be done via Facebook.

Seriously. Who wants to pull up Blogger, think her way through a coherent post, proofread and post it, when she can pop onto Facebook and write a teeny-tiny update?

And post pictures with ease?

And--the best part of all--keep up with all her Facebook friends at the click of a mouse?

Sure, this blog proves, at times, to be cathartic. But it's not interactive. Let's face it--comment boxes don't count. And I intensely love--crave, even--the interaction that Facebook provides.

So blame Facebook.

There. I've said it. I feel much better now.

Except I still feel compelled to post pictures of Molly.

And I think I might want to update you on my progress as an Aspiring Author.

And there's always a fine example of husbandly idiocy nearby, with which to craft a ridiculous-but-true story.

So I'm sure I'm not finished round these here parts. Just finding more productive outlets for my writing.

(I've started my fourth novel, if you've been counting.)

That about covers it. I'm not making any promises this time, since the egg on my face is sticky enough, thank you.

Hugs to you all (yes, I see you on my subscription list, you wonderful, faithful, die-hard readers and friends!).

Horridly Lax

2009-01-15T15:37:00.003-06:00

Well, not in general. Just here, on this blog.

It's just that I've got other "things" I've been doing. Namely, writing. I know, I know, blogging is writing. But it's not the kind of writing I need to be doing right now.

I'm still on an active agent search (two have material on their desks as I type) for Book One, and I've recently finished the first draft of Book Two. I've got a rhyming children's book that I really need to get back to, and I'm busy with other writing as well (online).

So tales of diapers and hapless husbands and life in the Boehme Hoehme has had to take a necessary back seat.

And, too, I've got three teenagers underfoot. (Disclaimer: The girls do not wish to be called "teenagers.") They're awesome kids (she says with utter disinterestedness), but they're still...teenagers. Or whatever it is they wish to be called.

And that can get...trying.

Add a toddler and a never-stops-talking nine-year-old to the mix, and you can see why I need to streamline my writing time.

I'm keeping this blog open, and will try to at least post a few melt-your-heart pictures of Molly from time to time. But mainly I've got to focus on Other Writing.

That, and getting rid of the ridiculous case of hives I've been battling for weeks. Molting sounds like a good idea right about now. I mean...have you ever scratched yourself so violently that you ended up with bruises?

Yeah. Bruises. I look like some sort of reptilian junkie.

So you'll excuse me if I'm not including a picture of myself with this post. It's bad enough that Eric has to look at me while rubbing doesn't-do-all-that-much creme on my back.

He's so good. He keeps telling me that I'm beautiful. His optometrist, on the other hand, keeps telling him he needs bifocals.

There you have it. Thanks for checking in. I promise I won't let more than a month pass next time!

This says it all

2008-12-16T14:48:00.001-06:00

I love my sister. :)

Real Men Wear Baby Blue Mittens

2008-12-06T08:22:00.003-06:00

We got our Christmas tree last night.

Naturally, it was extremely cold. Well, okay -- "extremely" as in "I've lived in the South for 20 years and my body can't take any temperature below 40 degrees." And honestly, it was hovering around 30. So, yeah. Cold.

My dear husband, of course, left the house without his gloves. Not that riffling through Christmas trees and standing in the 30-degree weather holding up tree after tree for the family to debate over is going to warrant warm hands or anything.

Nah.

So by the time we got to the second tree, Eric's hands were hurting.

Maggie stepped in, producing an extra pair of mittens from within her coat pockets. "Here, Daddy. Put these on."

She held out the baby blue, oh-so-soft-and-stretchy, girlie mittens to her father.

Eric hesitated. "No, I'm okay, thanks."

"Daddy, TAKE THEM."

Eric hesitated some more. Then his cold hands won the battle. He took the mittens and squeezed his hands into them.

They looked really nice with his black leather jacket.

Of course he launched into a silly, effeminate dance to show off the mittens. Or maybe he was showing off his manliness.

Because, you know, real men aren't afraid to wear their daughter's baby blue mittens when their hands are cold.

I love my husband.

Author-in-the-Making

2008-11-09T12:49:00.003-06:00

I'm already pleased as pudding that nine-year-old Spencer is happily reading Tolkien's Lord of the Rings.

Imagine my delight when, the other day, Spencer looked up from the pages of The Two Towers and said, "I'm not only reading this because I like it. I'm reading this because it's teaching me how to write well."

I was...floored. Because, honestly, I didn't teach him that. I believe it with my whole heart, of course. Every fledgling writer who asks me what they should do to improve their writing ("College degree? Grammar courses? A new Macbook?") receives the same answer: "Read good books."

It's true, you know. You will only write as well as you read. And somehow, my son instinctively picked up on this.

An author/homeschooling mama's dream child.

Well, most days.

A Girl's Best Friend...?

2008-10-23T12:43:00.003-05:00

I had just finished changing a poopy diaper -- a remarkably large load, I might add -- and was on my way out of the bathroom with just-washed hands. Little Molly, of course, had followed me into the bathroom (no matter how fast I move, she's always quicker). I scooped her up and began to smother her in kisses. That's when I noticed she was in the process of putting something smallish and distinctively non-baby-friendly in her mouth. I grabbed it before she completed the move.

It was my diamond engagement ring.

Now, I only remove my diamond ring when I'm making dough. I shower in it, sleep in it, and do every household chore imaginable in it -- mainly because, if I took it off, I would be sure to lose it. (You all know this is true.) Which means that the obviously dropped ring was the result of one of three things:

1. My fingers have lost weight.
2. My knuckles are shrinking.
3. Molly was born with criminal instincts.

Since my fingers are as short and stocky as ever and my knuckles continue to appear at least twenty years older than the rest of me, I'm going to assume that my daughter couldn't resist the diamond. The poop was a ploy to distract me while she greased it off my finger with her own saliva.

Yeah, that must be it.

It was a stomach-dropping moment for sure. Because if Molly hadn't picked it up and decided to taste it, I'm not I would have noticed it was gone. And I can just imagine the sheer horror of looking down at my left hand and noticing the absence of the one thing I own that has real monetary value.

Now I'm paranoid. I keep checking -- is it there? Has it slipped off?

I'm still not sure how it happened, or when. Part of me wants to take it off and put it in my jewelry box. But if I do that, I'll forget that I did it, and I'll panic when I realize the ring isn't on my finger.

I can't win.

Maybe I should attach it to my wedding band with florist's wire. Or solder.

And maybe I shouldn't tell Eric about this.

Or...maybe I should stick to cheap costume jewelry.

Oy.

Armpit Angst

2008-10-08T11:57:00.003-05:00

I am really going to lay myself bare here. Almost literally.

My armpits are itchy. Not just your average, after-the-shave, I'm-feeling-a-little-sweaty itch. I'm talking an all-out, wall-climbing, digging-the-flesh-from-my-frame-with-angry-fingertips itching.

I was awake three times during the night scratching my armpits like a heretofore-undiscovered rabid mammal.

It all began when my body decided it didn't like the all-natural deodorant I'd been using. Notice I said "all natural." This is actually the third all-natural deodorant that has made my armpits unhappy. It flies against an earth mama's reason, but there you have it.

Being unwilling to stink, I put off going deodorant-free for longer than I should have. When I finally got to the point where the itching seemed far more undesirable than the potential for midday body odor, I tossed pride out the window and stopped using the deodorant. I figured it would take three or four days for the itching to clear up.

That was three weeks ago.

The good news is that I don't stink. (No, really. I've checked.) But the itching (from a barely-visible rash, I might add) has been increasing exponentially. And last night's agony compelled me to do a little research this morning. Time for some self-diagnosis, you know.

Eric, of course, wants me to fly to the nearest dermatologist. My response? Not in this lifetime. Can you just see it? "Hi, my armpits itch. Can you help me out?" And I'd end up with some nasty prescription cream with an accordion-folded, eighteen-inch-long warning label attached to it, and I wouldn't use it.

So. I'm not showing my armpits to anyone.

Happily, I'm fairly certain I'm on the trail of a right diagnosis. There's a high likelihood that I'm suffering from a yeast infection. Good ol' candida, camping out in my armpits.

The first bit of advice I read sounded good to me -- raw, unfiltered apple cider. I already know that the stuff is marvelous. We should all have a little bit every day. Why not share the love with my armpits? I dashed a chug into a bowl and added some filtered water. Then, as my delighted children ate their lunch, I bathed my armpits with the diluted vinegar.

Boy, do I smell good.

I can hardly wait until Eric comes home tonight. What more could he want than a wife redolent of raw vinegar? Gives a whole new meaning to "hippie."

I'm beyond caring what I smell like, though. I don't think I can live through another night of itching. I was mildly surprised this morning to discover that the bedsheets weren't spattered with fresh blood. I might not be so lucky a second time.

So I've got a "plan B" to go after, should the vinegar not suffice. I've read -- and I'm willing to believe -- that Lotrimin works on armpit yeast infections.

That's right. Jock itch under my arms. The next time Eric comes home from work, I will smell like a testicle.

It could be that I'm just getting old. I've heard that itching is one of the strange side effects of menopause. And that old people tend to itch more.

I don't know. I'd like to think it's a yeast infection and leave it at that. So wish me luck with the vinegar.

And if you don't want to tell anyone that you know me, I completely understand.

Something's Fishy

2008-10-02T15:45:00.003-05:00

I opened the dryer to pull out the freshly dried dark load that needed folding. An unmistakable stench greeted my nostrils -- and it was not the smell of nice, clean laundry.

It smelled like rotten fish.

Now, had this been a load of Jonathan's clothing, I wouldn't have blinked. Among his many other talents and interests, he's an avid fisherman. It's easy to imagine his clothing smelling -- fishlike.

But, no. This was a load of Eric's and my clothing. And it reeked.

Of course, I'm often accused of having overly sensitive olfactory organs. So I grabbed Jonathan as he came down the third floor steps and held out a pair of his dad's underwear.

"Hey, Jonnie. Will you tell me what this smells like?"

He took a cautious sniff. "Bait."

Right. So it wasn't just me. Our entire load of laundry smelled like dead fish.

What to do? I wasn't about to re-wash the entire load. So I did a sniff-test. Certain articles smelled very strongly like fish while others were barely noticeable. I pulled out the worst offenders and put them on a "to be re-washed" pile. And the rest I simply folded and integrated with the rest of our clothing.

Okay, I'll be honest. I didn't feel like rewashing all that underwear. So some of the really fishy pairs got mixed in with Eric's other, non-fishy pairs. I hoped he wouldn't notice.

And he didn't. Notice, that is. Until the following week, when I mentioned it to him.

"You know," he said, "I thought something smelled funny but I couldn't put my finger on it. Yeah, it was a fish smell!"

One wonders how the man could wear fish-scented underwear all week and not think a little harder about it.

So I washed that week's dark load, including the fishy scivvies. The fish smell wouldn't budge. I actually threw away a pair of my jean shorts because they smelled so bad. Eric might not balk at wearing eau de bluegill, but I wasn't going to go there.

What I really wanted to know was where the smell came from in the first place. You know?

And then it dawned on me. The smelliest thing in the whole lot was the pair of shorts -- my shorts. And I have a nasty little habit that may well have led to this laundry mishap. I sometimes stick my fish oil capsules in my pocket instead of swallowing them right away.

Yep. Can you just picture it? A little fish oil capsule inside Jilly's pocket goes through the cold wash cycle without a hitch. Then it hits the hot dryer. It melts, integrating its loveliness into Jill's shorts and all the surrounding pairs of Eric's underwear.

The result? Fishy clothing.

Eric was more than happy with my explanation, since it was clearly my fault and not his (and yes, I did try more than once to pin it on him). Of course, after our discussions about the Mysterious Fish Odor, he decided he could no longer wear his fishy undies. Mind you, he wore them for an entire week before I mentioned anything. So I'm fairly certain this has more to do with Psychosomatic Smell Disorder than it does my laundry mistakes.

What has me baffled, though, is why he hasn't thrown them away. I mean...they stink. They really, really stink.

Not that I spend a lot of time smelling his underwear. Trust me, you don't have to get too close to smell them.

I'm still taking my fish oil every day. The fish burps are nothing compared to the stench in Eric's underwear bin.

There was more fish stink in my future, too. I started to notice my kitchen hand towels sporting a mild fishy odor (I know it well). It was puzzling, since these towels were not in the original Exploding Fish Oil Capsule load.

Then I caught him. Eric had just swigged his cod liver oil and was wiping off the lip of the bottle in my clean hand towel.

"Ack!!! It's you! You've made my hand towels smell like fish!"

He said I could buy new hand towels. And I suppose that means I should let him buy new underwear.

Life was easier before fish oil.

The Ideal Piano Student

2008-09-23T17:08:00.002-05:00

Spencer is taking piano lessons. From me.

Mind you, it's been a long time coming. I've known since he was in diapers that he was gifted in music. The child sang before he spoke. Sang, as in, correct pitches. Real melodies.

I had a feeling that he'd play the piano, but I decided not to push it. Oh, how glad I am that I didn't! Because about two months ago, Spencer made the unilateral decision that he would, indeed, play the piano.

Of course, I didn't get around to the lessons right away (typical of me). Did this deter the boy? Nope. He sat there and "taught himself" things. Things like...oh, reading notes. And time signatures. And chords. And...well, he's borderline prodigy.

Seriously. Well, seriously with a tinge of mama pride.

So about a month ago we finally sat down to our first "formal lesson." I realized right off the bat the the child was beyond the regular "book one" level that I've used to start all my other students. This boy -- this nine-year-old, do-it-yourself pianist, was ready to jump right into "Piano For The Older Beginner."

And in the first lesson, we covered the entire two first units.

For the uninitiated: That is probably two to three months of work for the average student.

Four weeks into the venture, he has not ceased to impress me. Every morning directly after breakfast, he sits down and practices. He is methodical -- precise. He taps his foot on the floor to keep a steady beat. I didn't even tell him to do this; he just did it. On his own.

He is every piano teacher's dream.

He doesn't only practice once a day, either. In addition to his intensive morning practice, he usually sits down mid-afternoon and practices some more. And sometimes he practices in the evening, too.

The boy is...unreal.

He transposes his lesson pieces to other keys -- on his own.

He has taught himself minor chords, when we've not even moved beyond C Major in the book.

And he writes music. By hand. On manuscript paper.

Some of it has lyrics. They're hysterical.

In church on Sunday, during pre-worship, he sat quietly beside me and made up his own time signatures.

I have here a bonafide musician. And it's thrilling the wadoobies out of me.

To be fair to Rachel, she is my other "natural talent." We have finally -- finally! -- resumed piano lessons. And she is absolutely excelling. She's dipping her toes into the waters of scales and arpeggios already. I'm immensely proud of her.

Bach is no more than a few months away.

So I'm thinking, my college degree was worth something after all. There is nothing -- I mean absolutely, positively nothing -- as fulfilling as watching one's children bloom at an instrument that has given me so many years of pleasure.

Thirty-eight years, to be precise.

And that's my Proud Mama rant of the week. This is my reward for all those dud students I had to deal with in the past. Students who never practiced. Students who forgot to bring their piano books to the lesson (hello???). Students who informed me that they were only taking lessons because their mom was making them, and they really wanted to be a marine biologist.

No, I'm not making these up.

So. I'm delighted. Thrilled. Ready to actually pay a piano tuner to fix this poor Baldwin of mine.

I might even brush up on some Beethoven myself.

Ah, the joys of music. I'd almost forgotten them.

Don't Scare Your Mama Like That

2008-09-12T09:56:00.003-05:00

I was in my office when I heard Molly cry -- one of those loud, long, I'm-hurt-and-upset-and-inconsolable cries.

"What happened?" I yelled to Spencer, who was with his baby sister downstairs in the hallway.

"She fell, but she's okay," came the sweet reply.

But the cry had had the "I need my mommy" tone to it, so I got up and made my way down the steps. Molly was lying on her back in the hallway, right at the bottom of the stairs, where I'd stuck the safety gate two steps up to give her a little "safe practice" with step climbing.

As I hurried toward her, something felt dreadfully wrong. And as I approached her, I realized what it was -- she had stopped crying.

Not only that. Her face was a strange, purplish color, and her little arms, bent in front of her, were sort of twitching.

I sank to my knees and leaned over to assess her. Her little body was limp and her eyes were rolling.

My world stopped.

"Molly." I leaned close. "Molly." Fearful of a neck injury, I didn't want to touch or move her.

The hour-long seconds passed, and there she was, looking up at me with normal eyes, completely awake. She began to cry again, so I gently scooped her up.

There was no sign of injury on her head. No goose egg, no redness, no gash.

For the rest of the evening, she was completely fine. Playing, crawling, cruising, jiving to Telemann. Molly went on as though nothing had happened.

Mommy, on the other hand, was an emotional wreck.

I had a theory, deep in my gut, but I had to research to be sure. It seemed to me that she had somehow "asphyxiated" herself with too deep a cry. Because, ya know, the child can really go there. Those deep, will-she-ever-breathe chasms between wails that clutch at a mama's heart.

And wonder of wonders -- I was right. You want to know what happened to my baby?

It was a Breath Holding Spell.

Yep. My tiny drama queen held her breath and caused herself to pass out.

To be fair to Molly, babies don't do this on purpose. Only about five percent of children have this kind of physiological response to sudden pain, fear, or frustration. It will often occur after a fall or a sudden injury like a pinched finger.

And if you react by giving them the world on a golden spoon every time they go through it, they will learn to do it on purpose.

Guess who's going to play it really cool if this ever happens again.

Despite my frenetic personality, I'm not a nervous type of mama. I don't run my children to doctors when they have a fever (what can a doctor do, anyway?); I don't wring my hands if they fall and hurt themselves; I've cleaned up fresh blood from the bathroom tile (head gash) without blinking more than twice.

But you know what? This. Really. Scared. Me. It just looked so...wrong.

And from what I've read, every mama who experiences this for the first time feels that way. Scared.

It was downright creepy. I needed extra chocolate after this one.

Oh, Sweet Baby. Don't do this to your mama again. She's too...old.

Well, old-ish, anyway.

And Here's The Princess...

2008-09-02T17:34:00.001-05:00

Sweet Molly Turns One

2008-09-01T16:23:00.003-05:00

If I lament about the rapidity of the first year of my baby's life, it'll sound trite.

Yet it's true.

Sweet Baby is decked out in pink and brown, toile and ruffles, big bow and smiles. First cake, first presents. Seventy thousand photographs. Some of which will end up right here.

Oh my precious daughter, my Bohemian Princess, my Earth Baby.

How I love you!

One of the best days of my life happened exactly one year ago today.

God is so very good.

Microscopic Yuckies

2008-08-22T14:22:00.003-05:00

Ah, the things we forget with the passage of time. Things like the pain of childbirth...the sleep-deprived haze of the early weeks of infancy...the uncanny ability of a not-quite-one-year-old baby to find the teeny-tiniest things on the floor.

Even right after I've vacuumed.

Even when, fifteen seconds earlier, nothing was there. I swear.

And in the midst of all these other children and a house that has more square feet than I care to keep up with and a vacuum cleaner that is missing one of its wheels, I am rediscovering the delight of Molly's carpet-dropping munching habits.

You know what I mean. Brittle bug body parts. Metal screws. Hair. Miniscule slips of paper. Fuzz. String. Toenail clippings. Pencil shavings. Staples. Barbie shoes. Ancient crumbs. UFO's. (That's Unidentified Floor Objects.)

Gagsghghskfft.

I've done really well with over-40 motherhood so far, but this one may do me in.

Add to the constant vigilance the drama of Oral Object Removal. You'd think I was trying to tattoo her tongue. Oh, the offense of Mommy's finger in that little mouth!

I've retrieved a few items, though. So it was worth the tears and anguish.

Hers, not mine.

So I'm considering buying a four-man tent and setting it up in my family room. Do you think Molly could live in there until she's old enough to realize that bee wings and bent hair pins aren't supposed to be eaten?

Probably not.

So I'll just have to save up for that Dyson I've been dreaming about. And then I'll teach my daughters how to use it.

Including Molly.

Can you tell I'm glad it's Friday?

August 13, 1988

2008-08-13T13:47:00.003-05:00

Today is our 20th wedding anniversary.

Surely I'm not old enough to have been married for 20 years. Surely!

That 80's pouf veil is better left forgotten. I didn't even like it back then. I was talked into it by an overbearing woman at the dress shop.

I wanted a simple, fingertip veil with a small tiara. I was too timid to speak up when she told me that I needed a different kind of veil for the gown I'd chosen.

I know. "Timid" and "Jill" don't belong in the same sentence. You wouldn't have known me in 1988.

I like myself better now.

More importantly, I still like Eric. I think I should keep him, don't you? Especially since he's taking me out to dinner tonight. It's not exactly the trip to England we'd hoped would be the hallmark of our 20th anniversary. Neither one of us expected there to be a sweet new baby in the picture.

So a dinner out will have to suffice.

I am blessed, though. Richly blessed!

Now, what should I do with my hair...

L'Enfant Gourmet

2008-08-12T13:44:00.003-05:00

Sometimes she eats better than we do.

Molly, that is. Pictured above: Braised lamb with fresh rosemary and baked sweet potato. She loved it. Snarfed it, even. Gourmet meets gourmand.

I need to requalify my first statement. Molly ALMOST ALWAYS eats better than we do.

We're talking organic raisins and applesauce. Unpasteurized aged Gouda. Whole-grain, sprouted bread.

If we sold our house and bought a big tent to live in, I could afford to feed my whole family this way. As it stands, I'm giving the best to my baby. As she gets older, I'll have to compromise. I'll trust her body to better handle the pasteurized dairy, for instance (much to my sorrow). I'll slum it and give her regular ol' raisins like the rest of my deprived offspring.

But for now, she's my Earth Baby. Breast milk and Really Good Food.

Eleven months later and I'm still completely ga-ga. I intend to stay this way for quite some time.

It's keeping me young!

Bugs For Breakfast

2008-08-07T14:16:00.005-05:00

Breakfast is a special family time for us. I set the table with pretty linens, light our "breakfast candle," and try to offer something better than cereal at least a couple times a week.

Things like spinach and mushroom frittatas, veal gravy over homemade biscuits, and breakfast quiche.

Of course, there are mornings when cereal suffices. And this was one of those mornings.

Naturally we eat organic cereal. Publix carries its own brand of organics, and fortunately their cereals are affordable. So we were munching on a particular variety of Publix Greenwise cereal when it happened.

Maggie held up her spoon and said, "What's this?"

I looked. There was something dark on one of her flakes.

"It looks like a burned bit," I said.

"No. It's not burned."

Jonathan the Scientist leaned forward. He examined the morsels on Maggie's spoon and confirmed my worst fear.

It was a bug.

No, it had not fallen into Maggie's bowl from some far-up perch on our kitchen ceiling. It was a squirmy little larvae. And it had come from inside the box.

Yes. Inside.

And so my children began to examine the bowls of cereal that sat in front of them. And more little squirmy things began to emerge from amidst the flakes and milk.

I would not look at mine. I did not, did not, did not want to know.

I had eaten three spoonfuls already.

Rachel's situation was even worse. She had eaten an entire bowl and was on her second.

I quietly dumped my uneaten cereal down the garbage disposal. I didn't watch it as it went down. Ignorance was bliss.

Then I took Spencer's bowl and dumped it, too. Poor Spencer. He had been in his own world during our entire conversation. He didn't understand why I had just thrown away his breakfast.

He stormed up the steps in a fit of pique.

Meanwhile, Jonathan calmly ate the rest of his cereal. (Is this guy actually related to me?) This was after he retrieved a particularly robust specimen from his bowl and placed it in a container with a flake or two, just to see if he could get it to grow to maturity.

Because, yanno, we all really wanted to know exactly what we had ingested.

To date, I have not been able to bring myself to buy another box of Greenwise cereal. I mean, what if the entire plant has been infested? There's a high likelihood that ours wasn't the only box with little feasting beasties inside it.

I feel ill when I walk past the cereal aisle.

I feel ill when I think about cereal.

I may never eat cereal again.

I can't write about this anymore.

Bleah.

Vocabulary, A Badge of Honor

2008-08-01T14:05:00.004-05:00

For me, that is. As his mother.

For, you see, on the drive home from my sister's house (which is approximately seven and a half hours long), my sixteen-year-old son used the following three words:

Copious.
Meandering.
Redundant.

He used them in the course of normal conversation. He used them correctly. He used them without thinking about it. He was just, you know, talking.

Maybe that's not very exciting to you. I am admittedly easily diverted. But if I can boast a son who speaks as though he's actually read a book or two, then I am well pleased.

Vocabulary Snobbery notwithstanding.

Maybe I'm grabbing at straws, but these things make me happy. Must be that mom/writer combination kicking in.

Now if he would just remember to take the garbage out...

And On The Way Home...

2008-07-23T10:12:00.006-05:00

"Daddy, that trucker was signaling to us."

You know how it feels when another driver is wildly gesturing, and you've got no idea what he's trying to tell you? It was one of those moments.

Immediately, Eric feared for the bike rack. It was the first time we'd used one, and he admittedly had spent the majority of his driving hours worrying that it might, you know, fall off. Or something.

The bikes were still clearly visible through the back windshield, though.

"Maybe the bikes are loose." Poor Eric. I could see the tension around his eyes.

We drove for a minute or two, Eric all the while eying the bikes and wondering what the trucker had tried to warn him about. He had pretty much made the decision to pull over at the next exit to check the bike rack.

That's when we saw the trucker. He had pulled over to the side of the road, right before the exit. He waved to us as we passed him.

"Why did he stop?" Eric sounded panicked. "Why was that trucker still waving at us?"

Honestly, I wasn't worried about the overly friendly trucker. If anything, it seemed to me that he was looking out for us.

We pulled into the first empty parking lot we came to. And as Eric pulled on the brakes, our trucker friend pulled into the lot right behind us.

"Why is he following us?!" If I had ever suspected Eric's paranoid tendencies, this clinched it. "Why is that trucker following us? Why did he follow us?"

"Ur, maybe he's just trying to help us." I don't know what made me so particularly calm. It was probably a complete lack of coffee over the past forty-eight hours.

Sure enough. About six or seven miles back, the guy had noticed something blow off our roof rack. Two somethings, actually. He knew we were completely clueless, so he did everything in his power to get our attention. Everything, including following us off an exit ramp.

I wanted to hug him.

It seemed as though my stellar packing of beach towels and bed sheets didn't quite hold up to the 65 MPH sheer winds on top of our van. The garbage bags (yes, garbage bags...I know, I know...) had shot off the rack like overheated popcorn kernels.

"As far as I could tell, they were still intact when they landed," our trucker angel told us.

So. What to do? Were beach towels and bed sheets worth turning around for?

At first, we were less than inclined to do so. In the end, Rachel's emotional attachment to her beach towel turned the tide.

"Let's just go back ten miles," I said. "If we don't see them, we'll give up."

We returned to the highway and began to travel back north, eyes peeled. Three miles passed. Four. Five. Five-and-a-half.

"That's Maggie's beach towel!" We all saw it at once, on the other side of the highway. And not far from it lay the rest of our ejected linens, in a haphazard line on the shoulder.

We exited, turned around, pulled over next to our lost goods. And of course the first thing I thought of was the camera. It's a good thing, really. Because how many of you have pictures like this from your family vacation?

We gathered all but one item -- Spencer's beach towel -- which we were willing to accept as a loss. But just as we pulled out onto the highway again, we spotted the errant towel. It had blown across the road and was nestled against the cement barrier. Eric risked life and limb to retrieve it.

And so we got everything back, and went along our merry way.

I wish I knew who that trucker was, though. Think about how far he went out of his way to help us. It's a redefining of "Good Samaritan," surely. I thanked him profusely; of course I did. But it doesn't seem like enough. He was an amazing example of loving one's fellow man.

It's not that beach towels and bed sheets are irreplaceable. They're not. It's that a complete stranger cared enough about our family to interrupt his own life to honor ours.

And, yeah, I won't use garbage bags next time.

Oh, Vacation, Where Have You Gone?

2008-07-19T09:29:00.004-05:00

We've left our hearts in Cape May...

Live Long and Prosper

Legs and arms and a little bit of boy

Frying eggs in the condo

Tell me again how cute I am...

And again...

Date Night

Two enduring loves: My baby and the ocean...

I dare you not to love me

Daddy and son

Final evening...

Cape May Blues: No Longer Mad About The Mad Batter

2008-07-10T15:08:00.006-05:00

It used to be one of our all-time favorite places in Cape May, NJ. Now, I'm not so sure.

One of the highlights of our week-at-the-shore is to have a special Dinner Date, just the two of us. Last year we went to The Washington Inn,, which rates high on our list for quality of food (gourmet), excellence of wine list (Sonona Cutre Chardonnay), and ambiance (ahh, romance!). This year, however, we decided we needed to spend a little less on our special date.

The cost of gas on our drive up practically killed us, you know?

Naturally, we were delighted to discover that The Mad Batter, which is just a few doors down from the place we rented for the week, offered an "early bird" special: Buy one entrée, get the second one for half price. Perfect! We simply had to get there by 5:30 in order to qualify.

So imagine the scenario. I kept Molly on Central Time during our vacation in order to avoid a scheduling mix-up once we got home. (Once anal retentive, always anal retentive.) Consequently, her "dinner time" in Cape May was around 4:30 pm. That's bits of food followed by a nursing. I figured I'd be able to get it all done and still make it to The Mad Batter on time.

While she was still sleeping, I did my hair and make-up. Then I fed her and nursed her, all the while watching the clock with sharp eyes and a rapid pulse. Had to finish on time! Had to get to The Mad Batter on time!

Eric was calm as ever, naturally. After all, the restaurant was about forty paces from our front porch. And it wasn't even raining.

By the time I handed off the baby to the nearest older sibling and slipped into my sundress and sandals, it was past 5:20. Almost as an afterthought, we paused on the front porch for a few photos. (I mean, what's the point of dressing up if you're not going to have proof afterward?)

Then, hand in hand, we hastened down the street with just a few minutes to spare. Success!

"Good evening! Table for two?" The hostess picked up two signature menus from the podium as she spoke.

"Yes," Eric said. "Do we get the early bird special?"

"Oh. Um..." She looked behind her, where another woman was standing. "Um, do they get the early bird special?"

The other woman -- the Woman Of Authority -- spun round to face us. "No. No, you don't. It's past 5:30." Short, blunt. Passionless.

Eric pulled out his Sprint phone -- the one that's linked up to the atomic clock, mind you -- and pressed a button. "It's 5:29."

Woman Of Authority craned her neck toward the computer monitor against the back wall. "No. Our computer says 5:33. So, no, it's past 5:30."

"Dumbfounded" does not begin to express what we felt.

"So, you're not going to give us the early bird special, then?"

"No."

We left. Where moments earlier I had been feeling light as souffle, I now felt deflated. Icky inside. Abused, somehow.

Where had my magical "date feeling" gone?

Eric was angry. Indignant. I let him vent a bit as we hurried away from the traitorous Mad Batter. Then, right before we reached our front porch, he stopped.

"I need to go back," he said. "I have to give them a chance to make it right."

"I'm not eating there." Well, that's me in a nutshell. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever. (Mr. Darcy fans, unite.)

"Jilly, I have to go back."

"Well, I'm not coming."

"You have to come, so that I can motion to you to come inside."

"I'll walk back with you, but I'll wait out here where you can see me."

Call it pride, call it mortification, call it I'm-not-setting-foot-in-that-stinkin'-restaurant-ever-again, that's where I was at the moment. So Eric returned, and I waited.

Moments later, he emerged, and his face was dark.

Woman of Authority was under no circumstances going to allow us to have the early bird special. Period. Almost every table on the restaurant's porch was empty, and they could've used our business. But no. Nothin' doin'. She was going to let us walk away over a four-minute discrepancy.

Four lousy minutes. And she lost two customers for the rest of their vacation. And possibly forever.

Interestingly, we met Vickie Seitchik, one of the founders of The Mad Batter, last year while on vacation. At the time, she also owned our condo at 41 Jackson Street, and was often sitting on the front porch as we came and went. She was a kind woman, a bit on the sad and quiet side. She seemed passionate about Cape May and everything she'd invested there over the years.

I don't think Vickie would have turned us away from the early bird special.

Obviously, the Mad Batter's new owners feel differently. Woman of Authority was quick to blame "Mark" for being a stickler about the 5:30 cut-off.

Shame on you, Mark.

At any rate, we had a lovely, albeit more expensive, dinner at The Merion Inn, a beautiful, historical restaurant where you can get plain, simple seafood done the way you like it. I ordered broiled haddock with browned butter.

Delicious.

I'm proud of myself, too, for not allowing the complete lack of decent customer service at The Mad Batter to ruin my evening.

It really felt awful to be treated that way at what used to be one of our favorite haunts.

We've been there for a late breakfast. We've been there for a romantic dinner in the rain. We've been there for a quiet lunch.

We really loved the place.

And see? I'm speaking in the past tense, and I can't help it. Loved. Not love.

I feel betrayed.

Woman of Authority had no idea, of course, that I had purchased a new dress, managed the care and responsibilities and feeding of five children, gotten myself ready in record time, and nursed a hungry baby before hurrying down the street to her doorstep. No, indeed. To her, I was simply the woman standing beside the man who claimed it was only 5:29.

So there it is. I will no longer recommend The Mad Batter to anyone.

I will, however, recommend The Merion Inn, where a phenomenal jazz pianist was playing that evening (in between surfing on his Mac -- I kid you not). I will also recommend The Washington Inn for a truly superb dining experience.

In fact, I will continue to recommend Cape May in general. It is such a special place for vacationing -- as a family, and as a couple.

As for The Mad Batter? I don't know what it would take to win back my loyalty. Perhaps two completely free meals -- a dinner for two, and a breakfast for seven. That might tempt me.

We are, after all, already talking about the possibility of returning to Cape May next June. And Eric is known for his mercy. And nostalgia.

Right now, I'm unbending.

Home, With The Sea In Our Hearts

2008-07-08T14:08:00.002-05:00

Are there any words to describe a child's first experience with the ocean? Molly is just like the rest of us Boehmes -- one glance at the blue-gray Atlantic and she was hooked. I could see it in her eyes.

We had a wonderful week in Cape May.

We also spent some cool time with my parents, and had another painfully brief visit with my dear sister. Naturally, I'm going to have lots of Vacation Stories to tell.

They are forthcoming.

For now, there's the First Officially Posted Molly-at-the-Beach photo. And the news that we are, indeed, back in town. Wouldn't it be something if I actually began posting regularly once again?

Do I have any readers left?

Ah, but that was rhetorical. I know you're still there. And I'll be sharing some beach moments and non-beach moments in the days to come.

And no, I don't have a tan. Keeping Baby on her nap schedule makes unlimited sunbathing a tad challenging.

'Tis good to be home! And one of my "July projects" is to purge my office (which, in the past eighteen months or so, has morphed into a storage closet) and to actually find the surface of my desk. Clutter does not lead to productivity. And trying to do anything creative in this walk-in junk pile is nearly impossible.

So. Wish me luck. And stay tuned for what will most likely become a nauseating amount of children-at-the-shore photos!

And We're Off.....

2008-06-17T18:48:00.003-05:00

....on vacation, that is.

We're leaving at the cheerful and reasonable hour of 4:00 am.

Well, it's just easier to get an early start. For one thing, after the initial excitement, everyone usually dozes off for a while, giving us some quiet miles in the early hours.

Eric is not allowed to doze off, of course.

If everyone doesn't doze off, it's going to be a long morning. "Everyone" meaning "Molly," naturally.

14 hours in a van with a 9-month-old should be interesting. We're well seasoned with this kind of thing, though. And we've got her carseat way in the back between her two older sisters, who are beyond excited about being her primary caregivers during the journey.

Heh. Little do they know.

And so we embark upon another family adventure, and you will surely be inundated with Cute Beach Pictures upon my return.

Blessings to all!

The Length of a Pregnancy?

2008-06-13T14:38:00.002-05:00

Why did her first nine months zoom by...unlike my nine-month pregnancy, which took its sweet time (particularly the final third)?

Not that I didn't love being pregnant. You all know that I did.

It's just that...wow. She's nine months old.

And the little outfit she's wearing in the photos? It was Maggie's. Who happens to be fourteen.

Nine months. Fourteen years. Life.

But who's counting?

This Is Not Prophetic

2008-06-04T14:56:00.002-05:00

I was lying on the floor of Molly's nursery while she played happily among random toys. After a while, Spencer joined us.

He must have been bored.

This, of course, made a light catnap possible, so I rolled over and got a little more comfortable. Spencer was busy trying to get a Very Old Crib Toy to play its ancient wind-up music. It seemed to have made him a bit nostalgic.

"Did you ever think about being pregnant again after you had me, Mommy?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "I wished for it for a long time."

"I would love to have another baby." Do tell. "What if you had another baby when Molly was three or four or five?"

"Ur, that's a little old for having a baby."

"Well, maybe you could have one sooner."

I continued my attempt at a catnap.

"You could start being pregnant at any minute and only God would know. You could start being pregnant two seconds from now and you wouldn't even know it."

That would be interesting.

"Or you could start being pregnant in a week. Or in two months! Or --"

I desperately wanted to stick a sock in his mouth.

"Then the two babies would be in one bedroom."

"Well, what if it was a boy?" Might as well play along.

"Then we'd paint half the room for a boy and half the room for Molly."

He's got it all figured out, doesn't it? Funny how mommies don't "get" pregnant when children don't know about the *S* word -- they "start being" pregnant. Like, you just lie on the nursery floor, minding your own business, when suddenly, poof! You start being pregnant.

Just like that.

What a frightening thought. I mean, it's been a dream with Molly. I've gone on and on about what a blessing she's been. But...sudden pregnancy on the bedroom floor?

Mercy.

I'll tell you what's really scary, though. When Jonathan was only two and a half and his baby sister was -- well, a baby, he told me that there was a baby in my belly. Smiling, I asked him who had told him that.

His answer? "Jesus."

Guess who was pregnant one month later.

No, we weren't "trying." Yes, I was shocked. Though, to be sure, I shouldn't have been. Because my toddler had given me fair warning. God was sending another baby, ready or not.

So. Do I discount Spencer's pregnant-in-two-seconds rant?

In a word, yes. My sanity dictates that I do so. And anyway, as of tonight, Eric will be permanently moving into the guest room.

Instant pregnancy, indeed.

*shudder*

Geography

2008-06-03T10:27:00.002-05:00

"Mommy?" Spencer said between mouthfuls of dinner. "How do people live in Greenville when it gets soooo cold there?"

"Greenville?"

Pause. "I mean Greenland."

Greenville. Greenland. We're splitting hairs, right?

Erik the Red is rolling in his grave.