Tips for the day:

Go Green! Use shish-ka-bob skewers to bake your potatoes. No foil required. Clean and scrub baking potatoes. Poke through with skewers. You can sometimes get 2 to a skewer. Bake as normal.

Did you know that onions stored in the refrigerator hardly ever make you cry? The cold causes a chemical change in the onion that reduces the amount of "cryability" in the onion. Store in crisper drawer.

Yesterday, Kiddo#1 came home with his pre-registration forms for middle school. He had a book with course information and a sheet to fill out. Sitting there discussing his Advanced placement options versus the "on-level" courses, weighing his elective options, and discussing what he felt his strengths and weaknesses were left me with that jaw-dropping feeling parents must always feel when the steady, slow realization that one's child is approaching adulthood settles in. I realized that this is what I've spent these formative years doing: getting him ready to make his own decisions, to take his life's direction in his own hands. Now, some of you might be thinking, "He's going to middle school for pete's sake!"...Is that too early, really, to start directing the ship? No. By middle school, I was already a published writer. I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I knew my strengths and weaknesses. I also realized that the kids who KNEW these things held the most power in their hands for ultimately getting what they wanted out of life. I spent 4 years of high school WORKING...oh, I had summer jobs, but that's not what I meant. I worked toward the ultimate goal of gaining as many scholarships as possible so I could afford to go to college. 4 years isn't that much time in the big scheme of things...and I had to compete with Bubbles the Cheerleader, and Smarty Miss Smarty Pants of the perfect GPA to get the necessary scholarships. I had to BE someone that NO one else was. I had to be able to sell myself and have the goods to back up the sale.

So, I excelled in Lincoln-Douglas Debate, Persuasive speaking, and Journalism. I did charity work nearly every Saturday that I wasn't at a speech tournament. I developed the confidence and the bravado of some big wig hot shot lawyer...why? Not because I thought I was the next best thing to hit planet Earth, but because I KNEW that I had to believe in myself in order to succeed...and if I didn't believe in myself, why would someone else believe in me and fork over hundreds and thousands of dollars to eductate my butt?

And all of that started around the age of 12. What do I have that other kids don't? It sure as hell wasn't money, or cool clothes, or a rockin' stereo set-up. I was gangly, skinny, with hair that never did anything awesome [unless pigtails count as awesome], teeth that made me the target of notorious and relentless taunting, and one year later a hump back that Quasimoto would envy....physically I didn't come into my own until around about 20 when I finally looked like I might be out of my teens and onto the road of womanhood.

So, boy child and I sat there discussing his strengths...which from the perspective of teacher opposed to mom, I'd say are many. I've worked hard to instill confidence and belief in himself....to be able to admit, "Yeah, I stink at that...but I ROCK at this!" And to capitalize on those assets. I always say: "You only have one you...make your you the best you you can be!" I sat there listening to him weigh his options, discuss how much work he was willing to put into one subject opposed to another and reasons WHY. That was most rewarding...not just thoughts spewing from his mouth, but real, solid, REASONS for his thinking.

I suggested speech class for an elective...yeah, so I'm biased. I loved it. I taught it. So, naturally, I'm inclined to encourage it, but I encourage it in him because I know he'd rock in speech class...he has that wit and pull it out of your ass at the last minute ability that is needed to be a natural speaker. If I didn't think he'd succeed in it, I wouldn't suggest it. I also encouraged AP math, though I had to warn that he's already tapped out my math abilities, so any help in this department needs to come from his step-father and from his dad ole Mr. Physics. It's all part of that knowing my limitations things, lol. Anything beyond basic math is all pops and whistles to my brain...I'd do better trying to figure out Russian.

So, armed with notes of questions to ask his various teachers, he was off today to decide which electives to choose and how many advanced placement classes he wants to take. When he got in the car to go to school this morning, with his dad, I heard him excitedly replaying the conversation he and I had last night, and I saw my ex turn and look at me and smile with that same expression of "Wow, this is my kid!" on his face that I must have had.

I'm not cutting any apron strings yet. Hell no, I'm gonna wrap those strings as tight around the kid as I can so each year that passes he has to turn and twist around and around just to get a little more breathing room....I'll know when to cut the strings....when his wings are grown and strong and he can face the wind and storms and rise above them....I've got a while til we get there...but I have no problem letting him stretch and try out his wings as much as he needs to...

Because I'll be flying right under him to catch him if he falters, falls, or just gets tired. Because that's my job. I'm a champion of tiny souls. I'm a nourisher of growing tummies. I'm a motivator of budding dreams. I'm a warrior shielding the vulnerabilty of youth. I'm strong arms, warm words, and full of love for wobbly legs that are growing stronger and going farther.

I'm a mom.

And it's the best damn job in the world.

I did it again. I had a few minutes to spare so I sat down and found myself wandering through the fabric aisles of Ebay....then click click and I was at Hancocks online...why do I do this? I'm addicted to fabric! Specifically vintage or reproduction vintage fabrics...with a heavy usage of 1930-40s cotton...the reds, the yellows, the florals...the pinks, the greens, the geometric patterns....it's exilirating to unfold a crisp new or well worn, soft vintage FQ [fat quarter an 18x22 inch square of fabric]....so many dolly clothes...so many quilts!

But I will spend not. We are saving for the baby. I have crib quilts to be sewing...rooms to be rearranging, clutter and books to clean out for the resale "pay for baby" pile for ebay....I should not be roaming through fabric shoppes salivating over fabric...pretty 1950s stripes...pretty 1930s florals recycled from an old farm apron...teensy polka dots red on turquoise....or my other weakness: 1930-50s kitchen fabrics that can be whipped up in a matter of minutes into spiffy, bold and homey tablecloths...


I love the brightness of the kitchen fabrics...the eccentricity of the patterns...whimsical kitchen views, bold eye-popping florals, or strange dancing vegetables and singing fruits....they're all there in those piles of cast away fabric that I find at so and so's dead aunt Mattie's house cleaning garage sale, god rest her soul.

Stuck under stacks of 1970s Family Circles and crocheted potholders...under the stacks of multi-hued crocheted afghans and macrame plantholders...I find the boxes of wooden spooled threads in brilliant hues -- cottons not that polyster crap they sell today -- and in the water-damaged box under the table of fluffy pink commode covers and golden fillagree kleenex box covers, I find the gold mine: vintage fabric. Sometimes it's an old house dress thrown into the clothes pile...sometimes, and these are glorious times, it's boxes and boxes of carefully folded vintage fabric.

I hold these fabrics wondering what project the old aunt, the old grandmother, the old mom had in store for them...did they mean to sew just one more quilt before arthritis finally claimed their hands? Did they mean to make just one more jumper or pinafore for a much loved grandchild before all the grandbabies grew up and only wore jeans and t-shirts? Did they intend to sew just one more housedress to wear around the house on lazy days? So many prospects.

Usually the family sees no value in these fabrics and threads...I get whole boxes for $1...I've had people go back to the shed, the bedroom, the garage and pull out more boxes, some full of old handstitched quilts, aprons, baby clothes and tell me "Just take it"...glad to be rid of these relics of the past when every woman knew her way around a sewing machine and there was nothing that couldn't be whipped up in an afternoon if it was needed.

It makes me sad sometimes. A quarter for a quilt constructed of carefully saved and matched feed sack fabrics, lovingly stitched by hand in dim light after a long day's work of raising children and feeding the family of hand-washing and hanging laundry...no tvs to blare, no movies to watch, no internet to suck the time away....just one woman and a lapful of fabric diligently transforming the small into something large enough to cover a sleeping baby, a thrashing, yawning child, or a dead-tired husband.

I pile my mildewed scented boxes into my car, waving happily at the family that was oh so ecstatic to get rid of Aunt Milly's boxes of crap...Aunt Milly's boxes of hopes and dreams...Aunt Milly's boxes of warmth and love and hard work and dedication....and I take them home and empty them into piles, wash and iron and fold them...

And sew them into all those items and projects that Aunt Milly didn't get a chance to get to...and I imagine I can see her smiling, happy her beloved fabric didn't end up in a black plastic trash sack in the city dump.

And some day...my children will face the same situation...after the weed through our books and books and books...they'll come to my boxes of fabric carefully ironed and folded and waiting to live as something useful and beautiful...

But just maybe I will have instilled in my daughters and maybe sons the same love that I have for watching an unsuspecting piece of fabric become something wonderful beneath the movement of their hands...and they'll pick up a piece and rub it between knowing fingers and feel the "hand" of it, and envision something beautiful...and take it home...

and repeat the cycle.

So...I push my chair away and turn to my work...knowing that there will be more fabric waiting again for me once babies are toddlers and toddlers are children and children are teenagers and then....adults. And then there will be even more time to collect that fabric, iron it and fold it and put it away.

Last night was night o'disaster.

I save my empty thread spools for Kiddo #2 who is a craftaholic [she has a "knick knack store"...you don't pay with money, you pay with crap to make more knick knacks out of]. Some of the spools were vintage cardboard tubes from the 60s from a sewing factory. They're a little longer then plastic spools with a small hole in the center.

Now, I'm not exactly CLEAR on WHAT was going down, but apparently some sort of strange game was being played wherein tubes and spools were part of the excitment. In this crazy world, somehow, but no one knows exactly HOW, one of the tubes made its way securely onto Kiddo #1's index finger.

Upon hearing louder than normal "Ow"s coming from upstairs, I casually called up the flight, " What's goin' on up there? Who's hurt?" Kiddo #1 makes his way down, with a sheepish look on his face, his porcelain white complexion much flushed. He holds up the tube-finger.

The finger is very red and swollen, evidence of Kiddo #2's insistence that she knew how to get it off. She didn't.

I examined the finger. We tried lotion. Then I whipped out the ice packs. Still stuck. So, icewater in a bowl it was. Eventually I began peeling layer upon layer of very compressed cardboard from a small section that got easier as the water was absorbed...finally said finger popped free.

Kiddo #1 admitted that he was "Extremely embarrassed over this incident". His words. He promised not to stick his fingers into any holes ever again. Which I hope lasts at least until the age of 23. Realistically, 18.

Onto the next event of the night.

Kiddo #2 was given a bear by Chris's grandmother that you warm up for bedtime or sickness or whathaveyou. The past month the bear has been emitting a rather cooked odor upon microwaving. I've been telling Kiddo #2 that she was on borrowed time with whatever was inside Warm-up Bear.

Apparently, the time ran out.

I popped it in the microwave, while turning off lights, and finding slippers, and getting everything ready to go upstairs and prepare the reading/tucking in routine. All the while, talking to Kiddo #2, the microwave beeps, I remove Warm-up Bear and bear by the head, steaming, go to flip on the porch light. The bear REEKED. I looked down at it and said: "Yuck! Look at it steaming..." then..."That's not steam...that's smoke!"...then about that time I hear this shhh shhh sound like something BURNING. And realized the damn bear was ON FIRE from the Inside Out...I chunked bear into the sink and sprayed it down...omg...the stench...not to mention the house was filled with smoke.

Chris refers to it as "Dead Bear Stink" now. Thank god it was 78 outside this afternoon. I opened the windows and aired out the stench of Warm-up Bear Death...now it's in the garage. I, sap that I am, promised to de-stuff the bear, wash and dry him and restuff him with rice and lavendar...until the NEXT time I ignite the warm-up bear I guess.

lol.

All day I've been getting together forms to send for official documents: birth certificates, marriage licenses, divorce decrees, this that and the other. Missouri wants $15 for each birth certificate plus a self addressed stamped envelope. We need 3 copies of everything. Indiana was more reasonable: $10 for the first copy and $4 for each subsequent copy ordered at the same time. I guess Indiana can afford the 42 cents because I didn't have to include a SASE with that order. lol.

We're waiting on the home study packet. I've been told that the homestudy goes faster the more documents and information we have ready. So, trying to get everything ready and sent off for so we can get everything turned in sooner. We do have a baby girl we're very interested in.

All of this document stuff would be a lot easier if I wasn't talking like I had a clothes pin on my nose and could actually breathe OUT of my nose, and not like some busted up UFC fighter. NOT a pretty sight, I am sure.

Okay. I got no writing done tonight. Not squat. There were adoption things we had to discuss. Mostly medical termonology and conditions and extents to conditions and what was what and what was when. It's coming together.

I've concluded that adoption is a LOT like the writing process. Lots and lots of WAITING.

Okay...I'm off to put stamps on envelopes and get things ready to go out in the morning. Night!