beets and beats

Our house has something really cool about it: it's wired so you can hear the music throughout the whole house. It doesn't matter whether you're in the bathroom, the kitchen, your bedroom or the living room -- you can go from place to place and hear the same music. The speakers are high-quality; sometimes, you can hear the music from outside the house if we are having a dance party. (Sometimes I wonder if our neighbors wish we would move.)

We often listen to music as we eat dinner. Sometimes, if it's on the weekend, we play soundtrack tunes and have "name that movie" contests. My HH always is the DJ for these, and half the time, it ends up in a full-on dance-a-thon that makes dinner go on for quite awhile.

Dinner used to be something of a struggle at our house. When I met my boys, they were not very adventurous in their food choices. I think it caused their dad some anxiety, wondering if he could take them out or to someone else's house -- because what if they wouldn't eat what was on the menu? Sometimes he even cooked two dinners in the same day. I was determined to change this, but uncertain how to proceed.

We take it a day at a time. We began an experiment: we gave the boys one day each to choose what they would like for dinner. The dinner has to be balanced (include a source of protein, veggies, and a starch), and they cannot choose the same thing as their brother in any given week, and they cannot choose the same thing two weeks in a row. In addition, they need to help the main dinner maker make the dish, and go to the store to procure ingredients, if a trip to the market is required. They are lucky, because usually what one likes, the other does, too, so they have two guaranteed "I like this a lot" meals in any given week. The rest of the time, they must eat what is on their plate -- without complaining -- a Herculean task. I do make the concession of trying to have at least one side I know they like with every meal so they don't feel like life is miserable, but that's about it.

I think that part of teaching my boys to fish is helping them to use proper table manners, have appropriate dinner conversation skills, and to eat a variety of types of cuisine.

Tonight, I had what can only be determined as a "mom win."

Before I can explain my victory, I need to give some background: the boys have been discovering that fresh and ripe and from the garden/tree is the very best way to eat things. Things that were "okay" or brought out the "sour" face (I wish I had a picture of L's, it is 'legendary', to use his own phraseology) when eaten fresh from the garden generate thumbs up and "My tastebuds changed, mom! I like it!"

I wasn't feeling well, so T, stalwart and steadfast as ever, made dinner all by himself. T does not love cooking -- it does not bring him the innate sense of joy which feeding my family brings to me. But he does take putting food on the table very seriously, and if his help is what is needed, he will gladly offer it. He is always in charge of dinner whenever we have fish, steak, or hamburgers. They honestly just taste so much better when he makes them.

So dinner was on the table tonight. We were having sauteed garden beans (some from our garden are a foot long this year) and beets. We planted a variety pack -- so we have white, yellow, and red beets.  I had to remind L several times to eat his, as he was getting distracted. I was internally dreading the moment when he actually would get around to eating them -- I figured his "sour" face would come out and then I would tense up. I have gotten a lot better at not taking it personally when the boys don't like things, but honestly, sometimes it feels like they are rejecting my very best friends!

L put one beet in his mouth and I could tell he was prepared to not like it one bit. He had his "I must do this -- it will kill me, but I will do it anyway" face on, and I was preparing myself for a skirmish ... but much to my surprise, his face changed, and before he had even finished eating the second piece on his plate, he asked for more. N was not as enthusiastic, but was not naysaying either: "not too bad," which is his standard comment. Both boys even ate their sauteed garden beans -- without comment. I can assure you, even a couple of months ago, that would not have been the case.

I am proud of my boys for coming so far. They have increased their food repertoire by leaps and bounds, and reduced their complaining by standard deviations. Dinnertime still takes way too long, but it can actually be fun, instead of almost always a battle.

I decided to make a list of the foods they have tried and eaten (some with some mild complaints -- but they always eat it) since I met them:

mushrooms (N actually will ask for them now)
beets
spaghetti (in N's case; it is L's favorite and he asks for it at least every other week, even if we have zucchini noodles, which he hates)
taco meat
enchiladas
black beans (with said taco meat)
peanut butter sandwiches (the jelly is the only thing that make it tolerable, according to N)
zucchini bread (they think it tastes just like banana bread -- probably because I admittedly told them so)
green beans
savory peach pork chops
crookneck yellow squash
stir fry
potstickers
peaches
nectarines
pears
strawberries (L will eat them most times; N will only eat ones from the garden)
homemade pizza (I was told "I will hate it" before I made it for them)
italian sausage


Things I would like to try:
creamy chicken enchiladas
chili
beef scramble
chicken noodle soup (N detests broth, but I think L will eat it now)
sweet curry, like my mom used to make for us
hamburger bean bake
turkey tetrazzini (I don't know why, but I had a sudden craving for it the other day that won't go away)
split pea soup
ham and white bean soup
beef stew
cauliflower rice
kabocha squash
and loads more

Soups are hard, since N really does not like broth or things that are wet at all, but with winter coming on, it will be hard for me to do without them. I am hoping we can all find at least a few new things. I have been seeking new recipes out and have decided to try at least two new recipes a month. I will find more than that -- I do love to look for new recipes. Here's hoping I find some really good ones!!

teaching boys to fish

There have been lots of ... how can I say this ...  character building opportunities in my life lately. Everyone at my house has been adjusting to being together again after a summer hiatus, and that takes time, patience, and understanding from everyone. The kids have come to roll their eyes at my new mantra regarding skill-building and following through: "We are teaching boys to fish." There have also been a few good things.

My garden is going crazy (in a good way). I learned so much what NOT to do for next year. I have only had to go to the store twice in the couple of weeks because we are able to get so much goodness from our garden. I have had fresh peaches every day for almost three weeks now -- or nectarines. My choice! (Thanks to the generosity of my mother.) I have great hopes and aspirations for the 2017 growing season. I realize I never did post photos of my garden -- they're stuck in an unfinished blog post somewhere.

This morning, after breakfast of waffles, bacon, whipped cream and peaches, the boys were trying to delay the inevitability of Saturday chores. They sure know how to get me to go along with it: they sweetly each put their heads on my lap and one pretended to be a cat and the other pretended to be a dog. My boys are so kind and loving. They have a wonderful example to follow -- their dad is always trying to give me the best of everything, whether it's the larger "half" of the dessert, the bacon the way I like it, first dibs on dinner food, and opening the door. They are all very protective and loving. L especially does not like it when I am hurt, and is super gallant -- always opening doors for me and ushering me through. N also gives me hugs whenever I like and knows just what to say to cheer me up.

Soon, the boys won't want to sit in my lap or hold my hand voluntarily as we walk down the road on the way home from the school bus. They are growing up. Every day they can handle a little more. They have had a lot to deal with in the last 18 months, and all things considered, they are doing marvelously.

Teaching boys to fish is hard. But when they bring me the fish they've caught, it brings a sense of satisfaction and happiness that cannot be replicated. My family is my struggle and my joy -- just as God meant it to be. And although some days are hard, the sweet love we have in our home is worth it. Everyone contributes -- everyone here is fishing for love. Good thing our lake house is stocked!

mowing the lawn

A couple of days I was mowing the lawn. It is tiring work -- we have a lot of lawn, and my husband really needs to sharpen the blade on our mower. The astounding number of dandelions we have manage to 'cultivate' on our property doesn't help, either.

I was in the zone, concentrating on finishing before my energy ran out.

--It occurred to me that living here has inured me to many things: uneven lawns, molehills and molepotholes, many random twigs and even branches that pop up. Some things I don't think I'll ever get used to: yesterday as my husband and I were outside just enjoying the sunshine a deer scared us nearly to death as it came crashing through the forest.

Something else that will take a long time to get used to is mowing over 4" long slugs. I am used to seeing the slimy creatures everywhere, but it's just uncomfy to run them over. It's always on accident, but it makes my heart squirm a little bit. --

Then my husband tapped me on the shoulder. He surprised me into releasing the mower, which was his intention. He had something in his hand, but as he reached toward me, whatever it was fell out of his hand. I thought maybe he had caught me a bug, which my younger son does for me all the time, but I admit I have never really liked the "bug catching" thing. Seeing the bugs without catching, yes. But captive bugs, no.

I wondered what had fallen. I bent down, and saw one of the cutest little things I had ever seen: a baby pacific tree frog. It was beautiful. It was copper on the back and dull, almost toady green on its sides, but brilliant in its iridescence. It would fit on the knuckle of my thumb -- my quilters' eye tells me he was between 1/2" and 3/4" long.  And I really wish I had had a camera so I could have taken a picture of it -- but I really enjoyed watching it. Its heart was racing, its breathing fast. Its toes were so tiny -- thinner than a sewing pin, and nearly translucent.

One of my favorite poems as a kid has a line:

the three-toed tree toad
sings his sweet ode
to the moon

I checked. It had three toes. I felt unreasonably gratified that this small, quick creature fit my mental image. I was so glad that I got to see this little three-toed tree toad. He wasn't singing his sweet ode to the moon, but my husband was singing a sweet ode to me. He knows I am curiouser and curiouser, and that I love living things and new experiences. He brought the little guy (he found him in the grass) to see me because he wants to share beautiful things with me. I felt like by bringing the tree toad to me, he was telling me so sweetly that he loved me, that he is interested in me, and that he, too, likes to feel the wonder of brand new things -- in this case, a tiny little beautiful tree frog.

I have included a picture of what the little guy will look like when he gets older. He is not so green now, and has more copper on his back that is brighter and more liquid looking -- not so many froggy bumps. Still super cute, though!

school bus

I was a chaperone on a field trip on May 26. It was draining, and showed me how little kids actually learn on field trips because they're so wrapped up in the "going" and the experience of /being/ in the place--in the novelty of being there, that they don't really pay attention to what they are doing or where they are.

The parents had to ride separately from the kids, and it happened that we arrived at the destination before the students. A few of the parents (including me) were crossing the street and we could hear the school bus from ACROSS the street. Later, one of the kids in my group said it was so loud her ears were still ringing. She was smiling; it seemed like she didn't mind too much. 


In honor of my school bus memories, here is a poem:

impossibly loud
squishy seats, sticky floors
fun memories made

cuddles

during cuddles:

me: what was your favorite part of the day?
LD: *points*
me: what?
LD: *rolls eyes* I'm pointing at her!!!
LD: Huge bear hug.
me: happy, happy, happiness inside

during cuddles:

me: i love you so much.
N3: I love you, too!
N3: We have the best ideas in this bed.
me: I know. We make a great team.
N3: Yes, we do! 
** a few minutes later **
me: It's time for me to go now.
N3: No!! I want you to stay and have a sleepover with me! 
N3: giant hug and squish


I made the boys rice bags so they can have something warm and cuddly to take to bed. I was careful to make them exactly the same size, and I let each boy pick his fabric. They were both so pleased! I had felt like I was slaving over them (even though they are very simple to make) because I was so exhausted. But I had made a promise that I would finish them by the end of the week (this was last week), and it was Saturday, so I was basically out of time. I pushed myself a bit, and was so glad when each of them stated more than once that they were so grateful for them and the bags were the "best gifts ever." One of those, "Yep, this is worth it" moments that are really tender mercies.

I love my boys. I love being a mom. It's the most difficult and most rewarding endeavor I have ever undertaken. Wish me luck!

gone fishin'

I went fishing for the second time in my life on Saturday. The first time, I was sixteen, and went with my good friend and her dad as part of the most activity-packed vacation I have ever been on. It was a lovely experience, and I'm glad they went to so much trouble to help me have a good time.

As an aside, I always wanted my grandpa to take me fishing when I was younger. I used to beg him, but for some reason, he never took me. Maybe it's because I talked to him so much that he thought I might disturb the fish...or him. Once I told my aunt about it and she said she thought maybe one of her girls ruined it because once they went fishing and then as soon as they got to the middle of the lake, my cousin decided she had to go to the bathroom, and so they had to go back in, and so maybe Grandpa never wanted to take anyone who couldn't pee over the side of the boat. I will never know, and it is just as well. Suffice it to say, I was quite excited to go fishing again!

Here is a picture of the pond where I went fishing. I know it looks like just a half-circle of water, but there is more water behind the little center island. Apparently there is a beaver slightly upstream that is having a field day, and so the fish are very hungry, and there are lots of them.

We went out in a little six or eight foot pontoon boat. (Yes. Fishing in a boat.) N3 caught a fish, and he and my husband came cruising into port and dashed up the yard, fish held in hand, to show me and LD. It was a tiny trout, about 8" long and 1" in diameter. We oohed and aahed and decided that we wanted to go fishing, too. So the poor fish had to wait while we pulled on our shoes, and then we trundled back to the boat and let the fishy go. (He had quite a bad shock, but ended up being well enough to swim away after a few seconds.) It was LD's turn to go fishing next. My HH hooked the worm, and on the first cast, my young sir had a fish in the boat! It was quite exciting. There was a lot of yelling and even some splashing. I wish I had a picture to show the happy look on his face. Later, he reported it was his favorite part of the (very full) day.

Then it was my turn. We ran out of worms, so I wasn't even going to get a turn, but when you get creative, sometimes opportunities knock. In this case, our opportunity was a baby slug (2") that had unwisely decided to get in the boat with us.  It met its demise as it became fish bait. (I had no idea if it would work at all. If I were a fish, I would TOTALLY rather eat a worm than a slug. Just in case you were wondering.) It turns out that if the fish are hungry enough, slugs DO work. HH cast for me, and I had the biggest fish of them all on the hook, and then in the boat, in just a couple of minutes! First cast! The fish was about a foot long and probably was 2" around. Basically, just big enough to actually keep (if I wanted to). HH said that his favorite part of the day was seeing the look on my face as the fish splashed into the boat (very splashily -- I need to work on my final reel technique, I suppose), and then again when I held him in the water and he very quickly (and with much more vigor than I anticipated) swam away. I was a little surprised, and my face showed it. I like to fully enjoy things, and try to look for fun in small experiences, and this definitely fit the bill. We all had such a good time in the boat (until it started raining, and we all got wet bums and had to come in because we weren't prepared for rain).

Looking forward to using the "gone fishin'" sign a few more times this summer!

give a little bit

I've been sick the last while. Basically, it seems like we got home from the honeymoon and I've not been quite myself since. It's a little frustrating, but it has given my husband the chance to showcase his "taking care of me" abilities -- and he has shone brighter than any star that he is great at it.

He has had a few things, too -- he hurt his foot, and also one of the kids accidentally bonked him pretty good. But instead of complaining about it a lot, like I would (and like I do, when bad things happen - :/ ) he just gives a little bit more. He pushes himself to take care of me and do things for our family...and by doing so, I want to push myself harder to be kind, to look for opportunities, to be more aware of the needs of the kids and of his needs, and to even be more aware of my own needs and how I can meet them more efficiently so I can give just a little bit back.

Supertramp had it right:

There's so much that we need to share
Send a smile and show you care

Give a little bit
Give a little bit of your love to me
I'll give a little bit of my life for you
Now's the time that we need to share
So find yourself [we're on our way back home.]

Sometimes sharing lets us find ourselves - the small nuggets of clarity or flashes of insight that we wouldn't get if we weren't thinking about meeting someone else's needs. Sometimes, a smile can go a long way to helping yourself, or the people around you, feel better. With a new marriage, new house, new working situation, and new responsibilities (including parenting two children), it's hard to feel like there is even just one more little bit at all left to give. But in giving all the rest, you get so many smiles and hugs and cuddles and love and finding yourself.

Giving is great. I'm going to go give my husband a hug. 

flowers and boys

So, before I write this post, I have some pertinent information: as of April, I have two sons. Technically, they are my "stepsons," but I don't like the distinction - I think it's lame and potentially very hurtful, particularly in the situation I am in. I am their parent, so I call them my sons, and leave out the "step."

The older one is responsive, such a good dancer, a great hugger, loves to make people laugh, and loves quality time. He is laid back (in many ways), very emotional, and does not like a surfeit of corny jokes (particularly about corn) . He can be very in tune with the emotions of other people, and worries a lot about hurting their feelings. He is very sensitive and loving -- he has what my mom would call a "tender heart."

The younger one jumps on people in excitement, is nearly professional "meow"-er, and loves to hug and be hugged. He is very direct and is, in some ways, like his brother in that he is more emotionally intelligent than many adults I know -- but how they act on their intelligence is completely different.

They are both so affectionate -- I love getting hugs from each of them. Nighttime snuggles are also really hard to beat. We have such a good time, Dad always has to come and separate us. (Oops.)

______________________________
 
Every day this week, my younger son has picked a yellow flower for me. When it is time to get the mail, he hops out of the car (even if it's not his turn to get it) and bends down and picks a flower for me. He likes to put it in my hair, behind my ear. I wear them there until they fall out or until his dad gently disentangles the wilted (often mutilated) petals from my tresses. My son never tires of it. He told me he would pick me a flower every day until there were no more flowers. He also picks flowers for me when we go to the park -- white flowers that look like mini-daisies are his favorite. (Mine, too.) Yellow is his favorite color.

I like yellow a lot better than I used to. His sunny face and the love in his eyes do a lot for me on days when I'm having a hard time. Sometimes his grumpy face can do a lot for me (the other way), too, but overall, we are really enjoying each other.

It has occurred to me that, because of what I know of him and his dad, flowers are really not just for girls. Flowers are also for boys. And they should get flowers sometimes, too -- and not just to give them to girls later!

My older son has such a way of smiling -- when he is happy, he can light up an entire room. His hugs are so sweet and loving, and I love watching him play outside. He almost always has a stick in his hand and is thrusting and parrying with some unseen foe (or perhaps it is a friend). He has a great way of defusing intense situations, and deflecting attention away from negative things.

I love my boys. I love the flowers in my hair. I love the hugs.

moving day + marriage

Another moving day has come and gone.

As always, I have been blessed with help from unexpected sources, and was able to get everything done by the walk-through time. This move, in some ways, was both the most and least stressful move I have ever made.



It's been the most stressful because I simply had more stuff to move this time than I ever had: last time I had a moving day, I didn't have a 300 lb couch or a kitchenfull of dishes. Also, I took no time off (except moving day) in order to get it done.

I started packing almost a month ago. Carload by carload, my stuff began to disappear, until last Friday, a very sunny day, a friend, my fiance, and my future father-in-law came to help me move. We loaded. Then, some stayed to help me clean. I had felt like I was "doing it alone" for a long time, and had felt worn down. Exhausted. My nerves were frayed, and I was wondering how in the world I was going to do this. It seemed that the box agony would never end.

But it did end. And it ended well, too! I am relieved.

Right before the end, on Thursday night, two girls who had met me one time before came and helped me for an hour and a half. My HT, who I have grown to greatly appreciate and admire as the best of friends, came and helped me not only move dirt, but also took apart my keyboard for me and helped me figure out how to take apart my couch for removal the next day.

And my lovely fiance came and helped. He lifted boxes and a bed and cleaned and put up with my moving-day jitters. He told me "we've got this" --and made it be so. He hugged me when I got discouraged and encouraged me to take little breaks. He offered me water at random intervals because he's thoughtful and knows I get dehydrated easily and can get caught up in things and forget to take care of myself.

He tells me he is here to take care of me. Then he does things to back it up. And that, dear readers, is why I am moving. There are things I will miss about my neighborhood and my apartment (my $20 utility bill, and the grocery store across the street, and the water three blocks away). But when I consider that I am gaining two boys and a man who love me dearly, that seems like small potatoes. Small potatoes with eyes in them that nobody would want to eat anyway.

On moving day, my fiance showed me something that his younger son wrote on his homework. The assignment was to fix the sentence, which read something like, "my parents got Married on june 19, 1990." He fixed the sentence -- not exactly as instructed, because our L does not like to do things that way, but it was correct nevertheless -- because above, he inserted a caret, to make the sentence read, "My parents are [getting married] on Earth Day."


Normally, I would wish more for my child to excel in school. But on this day, for this assignment, it meant more to me than any silly A+ that he would write that on his paper. It made me cry. I will cherish it and remember during the hard times how much he loves me and how happy I was in that moment.

So, take that, moving stress! And take that, school system! Our family is becoming official!

easter firsts

This Easter, I was a bunny, a cow, an old woman, a nostalgia food maker, an adventurer, a player of games, and a mom.

I made Easter baskets for my boys -- all of them, and pretended I was the Easter bunny.

I plotted with my stepson and we snuck into my soon-to-be-husband's room and woke him up by making very realistic cow noises at him.

I found my first white hair. It's kind of a relief that I'm not going to be grey. It was long and beautiful, but it made me kind of wistful and almost sad.

I made my family Jello, like my mom used to. The kids hated it. They also hate PB&J sandwiches. They adore calamari. They never cease to amaze me with what they will and won't eat.

I went on an adventure. I had a nine-year-old knight with a machete hack a path through the thorns in the woods for me. There were fallen logs and tiny bogs lots of mud. He did a very good job of picking a path. He was definitely empowered by being in charge and got great enjoyment of slashing. He has a box full of swords. It's clear that all that air practice has transferred into useful skills.

We played a game. I came in dead last. In a way, it was kind of nice.

And I realized that moms are really, really important.

I am grateful for my family -- for the family I was born into, for the friends who are now like family, for the family of friends who feel like family, too, and for the family I will marry into. We have our problems, and there are some days where I feel sad that we are not as close as I would like to be. But we also have love - lots of it! And goodwill, and hope. I am hoping that in my 31st year I can become closer to each member of my family -- both those of blood and "by love," as my younger stepson would say.

night changes

Something special happened to me about a week ago:

It started with a grumpy, stressed, slightly-put-out face on a Monday.

I was tired and out of sorts. My person had asked me to come up to hang out with him and his sister. A special treat for her, he said. She really wanted to see me, he said.

I did not want to go. I wanted to see his sister, and him, of course, but I did not want to expend the effort to make it happen. But because he asked so sweetly, and because I love him, I went, even though I knew I would probably regret it later, as I had a big test for work I needed to study for, and the trip up there was eating into my precious study time -- the test was in three days.

I left work late, due to circumstances beyond my control. Then, traffic was terrible, of course. 

Upon my arrival, the house was in disarray. There were children running about and nerf wars happening and pizza left semi-unattended in the oven, but no sign of my man.

Grumpy cat-face came out. I was peeved: after taking the effort to drive in traffic almost fifty miles, he was not to be found in the house. Neither was his sister. Annoyed, I took over the pizza watch from the oldest nephew, who was doing homework, and stewed inwardly. "You could be studying for the test. Go out and get your study materials." I boiled a little. "Why are you even here? Why is he NOT here? He doesn't even have the decency to be here!" (I must have been really hungry about this point.)

And then he came home and said his sister had been called away to help a friend set up an event. I was practically eye-rolling at this point. Then, a few slices of soggy pizza later, he says that he wants to go check out what his sister has been working on. Suspicious. But I get in the car, even though it's almost bedtime for the kids and I am bemoaning the fact that I even came up at all, feeling it hadn't been worth the trip. 

We parked and I saw only one car: his sister's.  This was my first clue. Then he got a backpack out of the car. A second clue. Then we walked for forever with no sign of anyone. A third clue. The last clue I needed was when we got to a muddy patch and he said, "This is the only place where it's muddy." I thought, "Hmm, he has been across this path, and recently, too. I bet he doesn't realize he just gave himself away."

The stars were so bright.  We could see Orion hanging low.

Then I saw some lights flickering through the trees. He had set up a mini wonderland...candles in large mason jars and twinkle lights on ivy-covered trees, along with music piped through a portable speaker. I was walking along, trying not to expect anything, and honestly a little unsure how I felt, as just that morning I had been conflicted and although I knew I wanted to be with him, I was waiting for a final, settled feeling that to say 'yes' was the only course -- and that feeling had not yet come.

We continued to walk along and then he tugged my hand. I was freaking out inside, looking everywhere and nowhere at the same time, especially not at him -- and then as I turned he got down on one knee and murmured lovely things and asked if I would be his forever love, his wife, his always companion, as he slipped a ring on my finger.

I burst out crying. I was completely overwhelmed. I couldn't even say anything. I couldn't even breathe. Then I tugged him off the ground, thinking of his knees, buying me time so I could gather myself before I whispered "Yes! You silly man, yes!" And then of course I apologized for calling him a silly man, which made him laugh. Then we danced to the music and then I realized his poor sister was probably hiding in the bushes somewhere, waiting for the all-clear signal, and then I yelled for her to come out, which was good, because her phone had died. We gathered a lot of the things up, including a dozen roses which were lovely and I hadn't even noticed before. Then I looked at the ring.

Sometimes, one night can change everything. I knew he was going to ask me to marry him, but I didn't know when, and the talking about it and the saying yes are two very different things, let me tell you!! Not in a bad way, but it just surprised me.

Look at the look on his face! Aww. It melts me every time.

Also, a cheesy MV for your delectation and delight.

dragons

You know, I used to think dragons were cool.

Giant lazy lizards that were rich, feisty, fiery, and pretty much impossible to kill. Very few weaknesses, except perhaps one loose scale somewhere and a ridiculous fondness for treasure.

The ones that can talk are even better. Dragons that can change forms back and forth between human and dragon are less cool.

Slumberous eyes, rumbly gravelly voices, gleaming claws and teeth, breath that could shrivel even the most stout of hearts with its fetid potency. [How do dragons kiss, one wonders? Perhaps that's a reason there seem to be so few dragons.]

I even got a dragon for Christmas, I thought they were so cool. Mine is wooden, so he's still all right...but all other dragons, forget it.

Why the change of heart, you ask?

It started with a germ. A germ that my immune system could not suppress before it spread. It lodged in my throat and nose. I don't know what was going on -- swelling, perhaps, from the rapid regeneration of sickly cells? In any case, it felt like my nose and throat were on fire. FIRE!

As my discomfort level rose, so did the frequency of my thoughts about dragons.

I came to the conclusion that being a dragon would be no good:
*  you're a dragon, therefore living a solitary life, probably in a cave, or an abandoned mine, with no company except gold and errant knights, princesses, or trolls...and then you would probably eat the company, which is BAD FORM, so then you'd go back to being lonely. Not fun.
*  your throat is always on fire. Always. Not just when you have a cold. My throat being on fire for even 24 hours for the second time in two months was enough to make me wish I never became a dragon, even in a dream.
*  when you're a sick dragon, you have to drink lots of tea. So your sense of smell and touch and taste is all off, so the likelihood you will burn your tongue on said tea goes up about 1,052%. Then you're even more like a dragon. An irritated dragon with a burnt tongue. [How do dragons not burn their tongues when they belch forth their fiery flames, I wonder? These are the important questions that inquisitive minds demand be answered.]

I mean, really. How do dragons, who are cold-blooded (one supposes), muster the incredible amount of energy it would take to produce a flame? And do they have to keep swallowing flint and tinder in order to allow the strike necessary for the flame to come out? Or is it more like a flamethrowing trick and they just have a little nozzle that looks like an errant whisker at the corner of their mouths?

That would make more sense, and would also make most of this blog post irrelevant.  I sense a science fair project coming on!!

mismatching pjs

It's no secret: I adore comfy clothes. My wardrobe scores greater than 90% on the Supreme Comfort test. (That probably means I can cull at least 10% of my clothes. But I'll write a blog post instead of going on a cleaning rampage just now.)

My adoration of comfortable things has been with me since before I can remember. I spend as much time as possible in the comfiest of comfies: pajamas.

The first pajamas I remember wearing was actually a nightie. It was She-Ra, Princess of Power emblazoned on the front that caught my attention. I had no idea who She-Ra was, but she looked pretty cool, with clouds and lightning bolts and all that.

Perhaps there was a zip-up before then, but it's fuzzy enough that I don't count it.

After that, there was a white nightie with pastel ribbons in a sort of loose plaid pattern. It was so soft. I shared a room with J&V at the time. I remember once I scared J so bad: I  stood, stock-still, a few feet from her bed and just looked at her. I must have been staring pretty intently, because she woke up and nearly screamed because of the apparition-like vision before here: all white, close, in the dark, silent.

Then I discovered that nighties bunch at the waist, and that's just really lame. Goodbye, nighties. Hello, real PJs.

For some reason, it bothered my mom when I didn't wear matching PJs. Really bad. She'd mention it on an ongoing basis. My perverse small self did not like being told that I did not match. I knew I did not match. I did not care. I did not want to care. I wanted to have complete self-expression when it came to whether my to-bed clothes were conventional. I'm sure I felt stilted and that it was a release to be able to defy social expectations in this small way. But no. She just /had/ to insist that I matched, even when unconscious.

So I purposely wore mismatching clothes to aggravate her. Yes, it's petty. But then it became a habit. The idea of matching PJs just seems...odd. Somehow, every once in awhile, it still gives me a small sense of comfort to purposely reach for the most ridiculous "outfit" ever.

Guess when I started with She-Ra, I was unconsciously starting down a path of PJ subconscious power. (Ha. I'm funny.)

Wonder if Mom would start me with She-Ra all over again if she had known.