Heptadecagon

A little tidbit from The Incredibles . Bob Parr: What are you waiting for? Little Boy: I don't know, something amazing, I guess. Bob Parr: Me too, kid.  For those of you who write or who just like to think about life in general, ruminate on those words for a little while.

Early last week, I attended a makeup class. Yes, yes, I did. I ATTENDED A MAKEUP CLASS. When we had to go around and introduce ourselves to the class, indicating our level of makeup talent, I said, "Hi. My name is Christina. I wore lipstick to my wedding 15 years ago. And that's where I stand." I may have said "Chris" instead of "Christina," but I can't remember what I ate for lunch yesterday much less remember the exact words from over a week ago. Anyway, I digress... So I'm sure you're wondering why I even bothered with a makeup class. After almost 42 years, I simply wanted to know what to do and how to do it right. Plus, I take the girls to Beth to get their eyebrows waxed from time to time, and she's so nice, I wanted to support her and her business. (I am not kidding when I tell you she didn't ask me to write that.) The question is, did I learn anything? Yes, yes, I did. I learned that applying makeup really is an art and

The list of the Mom-approved menu items is sparse. It includes: Salami White bread Pepsi Eggs Frozen Waffles Cucumbers Lettuce Hotdogs Mushrooms Pasta Pizza You'll notice that she's very short on fruits, vegetables, and water. And don't get me started on the quality of meat she must be ingesting. I know when I visited, I tried serving her grilled chicken, lean pork chops, and vegetarian dishes, all of which were met with disdain. I don't pretend to understand what she's going through--how she likely sticks to the foods she's most comfortable with because she knows what to expect from them. I also don't understand, but wonder about, her ability to taste. If a brain is degenerating and said brain takes care of processing taste, then shouldn't her sense of taste change? No sooner had I written the above statement than my sister posted an article on a person suffering from Alzheimer's whose taste in food has changed. The article is a pa

Sixteen days until the kids start school. Sixteen! So little time and so much to do. So I'm not writing today, I'm posting more kitty cuteness.

Last week, we had a visitor. Cousin A stayed for a week while FRN went on her honeymoon. (Hope you had a great time! I know you didn't get eaten by bears, and I have to say, I'm grateful that you didn't!) I wondered how the week would go: Would the kids get tired of one another? Would we find enough to do? Just how fatigued would I be at the end of the week? Well, I have to say that having one more child isn't that much more work when you already have five. (Oops, I mean four. I have four kids and that one really big kid.) However, last night, I went to bed at 8:30 p.m. So that's saying something. But I thought I'd share a bit of the fun we had last week. I'm glad the kids had the chance to experience some cousin time. Tea time for Melina and A. A helping make chocolatey chocolate chip cookies. Melina helping make chocolatey chocolate chip cookies. Zoe and Melina at the landing at Carillon. Talia in the slide at Carillon. Ava

151. Quiet time in the morning. 152. Lego creations that stem from the imagination and not a kit. 153. Word Porn . 154. The movement of a hummingbird's wings. 155. Email. 156. Fresh-baked cookies of any variety. 157. A letter from an old friend. 158. The rush of cold air that hits your body when you open the freezer door on a hot and humid day. 159. Good news. 160. Waking up to the feel of a kitty pressed against your legs and not wanting to move.

I haven't been talking much about writing because, as you can imagine, I haven't been writing. One parent with Alzheimer's, a dog with what we thought was cancer and wasn't (yoo-hoo!), four kids at home, some new kitties (that are crazy, by the way) and a house to deep clean. Yeah, not writing. Except for these lovely posts of mine. And yet there are moments during the day when I stand at the kitchen sink, soaping up dishes, and I think to myself about my characters. I wonder how to make Philippa more interesting and whether or not Sadie should actually give in and kiss Andrew (maybe then an agent would want my story). I think about how the scene between Daniel and Vivian needs to pan out and whether or not I can write witty dialogue from a gay man's point of view. I get so invested in these characters as I try to make their stories come to life, that I absolutely cannot wait for the time when my own life will settle down a bit and my fingers can play with my comp

Dear Dr. B, I don't remember exactly when we found you, but we've gone to your office for quite a while now. And considering that five out of six of us currently wear glasses, I want you to know that the yacht you just put a down payment on? Yeah, we helped pay for that. I'm just letting you know of my displeasure in the amount of time we had to wait, yet again, at your office. It seems that over the last year or so, we spend more time in the waiting room than we do actually seeing you. Several months ago, I waited almost a half hour past my appointment time. And today? Today we waited 47 minutes, at which point I walked up to the receptionist and told her that I'd reschedule for another day. "You're the next to be called," she said. It didn't matter, Dr. B. I'd been sitting in that waiting room for 47 minutes. I knew how many minutes passed between patients and I had no intention of waiting one hour or more past my appointment time to see

Have you ever tried to make everyone happy with a pizza order? If the gang all likes one meat, or one vegetable, or just plain cheese, you have it made. Or, if you're making individual pizzas, life can be good. But if you have some picky people in your midst then, well, you might get frustrated. Such was my life the other night. "What does everyone want on their pizzas?" I asked. The kids were the easiest of the bunch. "Cheese!" said two of them. "Pepperoni or sausage!" said three more. (I realize that 2 + 3 = 5 and I only have 4 children, but we have a cousin visiting.) FRN asked about bacon. "Can we do bacon? If we do that, A would eat that or the cheese pizza." (A is the visiting cousin.) "Let me check." I walked into the room where the kids were sitting. "How about bacon?" All kids nodded their heads, and one actually answered me. "That would probably be okay. But how about pepperoni, too?" So we

What do the kids (and one cousin) do when Dad decides to shave and uses shaving cream to do so? Well participate in the fun, of course. I'd have posted the picture with the shaving cream bikinis, but I didn't think it was quite appropriate for the internet.

"I'm grateful my kid didn't make your blog," FRN texted me yesterday morning. She had obviously read my Sunday post , where I spoke of being grateful. The incident she referred to was one that happened at my house on Friday afternoon. I had no intention of posting about said incident, until I received that text. I thought to myself, Well now...I must make sure her kid makes the blog. I'm just mean that way, I guess. So here's the long and short of what really isn't much of an incident. Imagine this: FRN and her daughter, A, arrive. They lug their belongings into the house, and no more than 15 minutes later (okay, really, I don't know how long they were here, but it wasn't long), A decides to hang on our banister. Hanging on the banister sounds like a great idea, except that our house was built in 1949, so that banister is pretty old. More importantly, I'm not sure the banister has ever been repaired or replaced. Which means it might very

Yesterday morning dawned hot and humid, right from the the outset. But being Saturday, I had to run. You see, my measly goal for the summer is to run two times a week for thirty minutes each. I cringe when I think of that goal and how just one summer ago, I was still running three times that long in one fell swoop. But the road to recovery has been longer than I anticipated, and at this point, I'll take what I can get. Which means being grateful for being able to run at least a half an hour at a time. So I am grateful, and that's a great place to be on a Sunday morning.

Are you a half-full or a half-empty sort of person? Do you know? Do you care? Over the last 15 years, I've turned myself around and now brim with more positivity than I ever thought possible. Of course, I have my moments, and I could always be more positive, but I try never to dwell on the negative, to tuck away the pessimism where the sun don't shine. So it always amazes me when someone with a full and rich life can make a statement such as, "I never thought my life would crumble and be like this." Don't think about what could have been or what might be. Consider the blessings you have: a home, a car, a family, food in the fridge, and money in the bank. Dwell on the fact that you are healthy and alive, and not lonely. Look at your life from the perspective of someone who has less, and I'm guessing you just might be able to walk away with a swing in your step. If you can't, you're just doing the whole living thing all wrong.

"She's like a dead woman inside," my dad said as he shook his head. "I don't know who she is anymore." I stared at my dad, wondering what I should say. What I could say that might make him feel better. They'd traveled down, of their own accord, to visit us for a few days. In fact, Dad had called me himself. He asked me to make appointments at several senior living places in the area. He'd been uncharacteristically proactive, and now I knew why. "It's only going to get worse, Dad. She's not going to get any better." "Well, we're using those patches...those might help, right?" He was talking about the Exelon patch, a transdermal medication that had been prescribed for mom. She hasn't been on them long, and while efficacy has been shown in mild, moderate, and severe cases of Alzheimer's disease, I hadn't done any research on the patch itself. I didn't have a clue how much more time it would give he

I spent the last two nights sleeping on the floor, keeping vigil over my buddy. I felt like a new momma again, waking at the littlest noise, checking to see if Shadow was still breathing. Night number one was hard: he had just come out of surgery and moved pretty well, but the anesthesia hadn't been completely metabolized and he panted for most of the night. In the dark hours of the morning, Shadow began to whimper. Nothing too horrifying, but enough to know that he was in pain. Only a constant hand on his head kept him completely calm.  Last night, number two, was much easier. Shadow looked at me several times as the hours crept by--we were nose to nose--but he must have been resting as comfortably as he could. He didn't whimper. He didn't pant excessively. His breathing was steady and strong. He took his meds easily at 3:40 a.m. We have to wait for the biopsy results to come back before we have a better idea of the outcome for Shadow. But using ultrasound to diagnose,

Sometimes, other people say it better:

It's that day of the week again. Time for more of the cutest kitties on the block. Clearly, I disturbed his nap. Finally, back to resting. Arnold fills this out pretty well now. It used to be that two kitties could fit on it. Oops! This is not a kitty, but a canine cutie named Bruce. Getting a little big to lounge in the stroller. Not sure at all how Heathcliff finds this position remotely comfortable. Benedict looking adorable. This isn't a kitty, either. Rest up, Shadow!

"Do you know what your father did?" she asked me, incredulity creeping into her voice over the phone. "No, what? What did he do?" I wasn't sure what my father could have done. Two retired people who didn't go anywhere or do anything. Something completely and utterly outrageous? Maybe he bought a boat? Or booked a vacation? "He sold my car!" I snorted on the other end of the line, quiet enough for her not to hear me. "And do you know why he sold your car?" I asked her, as gently as I could. I wanted to yell into the receiver that she'd had this conversation many times over the last three weeks. But I knew yelling would do nothing except make me feel guilty. "No, why?" she asked. I decided to be blunt. "Because you can't drive your car anymore." A pause, and then, "I can't?" "No, you can't. And do you remember why you can't?" "No." I settled in for the

Dear MSD Consumer Care people, I hope I'm addressing the right entity. To be quite frank, I cannot read the small letters at the bottom of the bottle of Coppertone Ultra Guard sunscreen because some of that sunscreen managed to make it into my left eye, and said eye has been watering for hours. So while I hope you are the right people, perhaps I should have addressed this letter directly to Coppertone Ultra Guard. No matter. I've mentioned you both here, so if you aren't the right people, do a girl who can't see a favor and send it along to the right people, will you? Use at your own risk. You might be wondering why I'm bothering to write this letter. Well, let me tell you a little story. Way back in 1998 (I know, right?), on a trip out to California, a friend of mine was eating a Big Mac in the back of  minivan we'd rented for the trip. We were driving along peacefully until he burst out that he'd gotten special sauce in his eye. Use this at your

According to some very rudimentary research I just performed in 30 seconds, parenting can fall into styles. Of course I know this. I mean, how many times have I heard people talk about Attachment parenting? I'm guessing that might be a style. But according to someone named Diana Blumberg Baumrind (a clinical and developmental psychologist), three major styles of parenting exist. (Attachment parenting isn't one of them. Neither is Helicopter parenting.): 1. Authoritarian parenting 2. Permissive parenting 3. Authoritative parenting If you're not sure what these styles encompass, let me explain (and by explain, I mean that I'll cut and paste what I found...it's faster that way): Authoritarian parenting "emphasizes blind obedience, stern discipline, and controlling children through punishments--which may include the withdrawal of parental affection." Permissive parenting encompasses "emotional warmth and a reluctance to enforce rules." Auth

I'd like to say I have the time and inclination to write something eloquent today, but alas, I don't. I should, since today--July 10, 2015--marks Melina's 7th birthday. Seven! I can hardly believe we're already at that number. When the girls turned seven, Melina was a little over six months old. When Aaron turned seven, Melina was three and a half. I look at her now, at seven years old and think, Where did the time go? How did we get here already? And didn't we have a ball? I'm not kidding when I make that last statement. As many of you know, life with Melina is literally, at times, a ball. As in a full-out formal gathering where we all dance. In tutus. Or ballgowns. Or tuxes or bathing suits. You name it, we've danced in it. But what I really meant is that the last seven years of raising Melina have been (for the most part) pleasant. Fun. Super even. And part of that is because Melina is difficult to describe in one word. I don't want to say that she

You can find more coolness here .

A rainy afternoon calls for peppermint tea, a chocolate chip muffin (I'm giving myself a break here), and Jurassic Park with the kids. Sometimes, life can't get any better.

I've only been awake for 22 minutes, but already, I've learned something today... Morning being my only silent time, I usually creep down the stairs, grab some cereal and coffee, and pull up my email and Facebook accounts. Thankfully, I had zero email messages that needed attention, so I quickly switched to see what was happening over at Facebook. Not a whole lot there (is there ever?), but I did have one notification. I clicked on the little blue globe, and noticed that an aquaintance had commented on my post. Now, let me be very clear when I say that I don't know this person well. She seems lovely and kind and overall a great person, but I only know her from the kids' school. She sent a friend request back in May and I accepted it. But you know how my life has gone since then...I've been incommunicado for the most part and I haven't had much time to sit down and immerse myself in the Facebook lives of anyone. So on Sunday, I realized that this person had

Hey! Remember me? I'm that friend who has pretty much dropped off the face of the earth lately. I've been inundated by familial obligations and for the most part, I've done nothing with anyone. I apologize, but if you can imagine yourself in my shoes, you can imagine you might do the same thing. Anyway, I'm here to say thanks. Thank you to all of you who have texted, emailed, and called to say Hi , or What's up? or I'm here for you . All of your wishes are heartfelt and appreciated. And while I've said this before, I'll say it again: when I get stressed, I shut down. So while I don't mean to shut anyone out, I know I have. Once I've caught up on life, I'll be sure to give you a call. Until then, carry on.

I'm not the church-going type. I should be, but I haven't yet found a church of which I'm proud to say I'm a member. However, our neighborhood parish has a new pastor and associate pastor, so I thought I'd give them a try. Melina and I headed to the 8 a.m. service today, hoping for something good. I won't bore you with details. Everything aligned for a peaceful and lovely service: wonderful singing (thank you, Karen), great lector (thanks, MM), perfect homily. It's probably a fluke that I chose today to go back to church. But as the universe is wont to do, it taught me a lesson. For the psalm today was number 95: If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts. In the moment Karen started to sing the psalm, I realized exactly what I've been doing over the last few weeks with respect to my parents. I've been hardening my heart. And without going into anything else about the circumstances, I realize, once again, that I need to be more forgivi

141. Bananas. 142. Pictures of kittens. (I'm sure this surprised no one.) 143. Circle pretzels. 144. Dancing to Something That I Want with Melina. 145. Lovely, arched eyebrows. (I do not have these, but the twins do.) 146. Aaron's hair right after he gets it cut with a #4 blade. 147. Vo5 Kiwi Lime shampoo. 148. Regrouping. (I know. I'm weird. But the process makes sense to Melina and me.) 149. Beyond the Trees. (I still really like that story. I wish someone else did.) 150. Hope.

"I want to stay in our house," he says, tears perched on his lower lids. Up until this year, I'd never seen the man cry, but I've witnessed the act several times now. I don't like to see anyone cry, much less someone who never does. But I watch as a stray drop makes its way down his olive-skinned cheek. My hand itches to wipe the tear away, but he does so before I can. I understand that he doesn't want to move from his house of 27 years. I understand that he wants to keep his wife wrapped up in her comfort zone. I understand how difficult any change can be much less something monumental like the change staring him in the face. But I don't think he understands that her good days will soon wane and that the number of bad days will increase. Her lucid moments are numbered, really, and someday, it won't just be that she forgets her address, or the name of her sister, or where she placed her purse. Someday, her brain will be unable to execute commands and

We've had a very tiring few weeks around here. Melina has been going to bed too late and getting up too early. She's been a trooper, but the fatigue is wearing on her. She walks around like a zombie at times. Other times, she yawns incessantly. And her ability to be happy-happy-joy-joy all the time is, well, at an all-time low. Last night, she attempted to round the kids up for dinner. (Melina does this sort of thing regularly. She is a rule follower, and when I say it's time for dinner, she makes sure that everyone does their job in setting the table and also that they come to the table to eat.) The girls had just come back from an overnight STEM camp and Aaron was showing them what he'd built on Minecraft. I had told the kids that dinner and a movie would be fine, but that they needed to choose the movie before dinner made it onto the table. Melina tried, oh how she tried, to get those kids moving. But they were slow to do anything that she said. Finally, she shuf