Past Jobs

Have you ever had a job that even after years of it being in the past, some of its memories still haunt you? Or make you laugh? Cringe? 

One of my daycare mommies works in a nursing home, and so did I once upon a time... today we exchanged horror stories, funny stories, and sad moments.   I worked at the home less than a year, and everyday I threw up.  I had a tiny apt and after my shift, I'd go home, lock my door, strip off my dirty, germy uniform and go throw up in the bathroom as the tub filled with scented bubble bath to clear my sinuses of the smells of the day.  

I think the stress of it is what made me sick.  I would feel so badly for some residents, dread seeing others.  There was one who had demetia, and everyday she'd say the same thing to me, " I used to have coal black hair just like you when I was young..." Every day, it was like she just met me, and every day, she liked me.

Then there was the blind lady who when I met her, asked me to come closer as she couldn't hear well, and when she sensed I was close enough, sucker punched me.   You only fall for that once.... she died on her way to dinner one night...we thought she was sleeping....

Then there was the handsome younger man who's dignity was stripped by his body betraying him yet leaving his mind lucid and alert to what was happening to him.  He told us he never married, so he wouldn't be a burden to someone,  he was only in his 30's.  We always tried to show our residents dignity, but with him we took extra care, we felt for him so deeply.

Now that I've sufficiently made you depressed and bleak, let me tell a little story to lighten the mood.

There was a lady, whom I believe, was 1/2 crazy, ok, maybe mostly crazy.   One of the first things they tell you is never kneel in front of a chair, you could get hurt by flying feet or knees.  Or get your hair pulled out.  Depends on the resident of course.  This particular gal didn't like me at all.  She's scream when she saw me coming, yelling, " I know who you are!"   I deeply agitated her and I didn't know why. 

Each shift you're assigned a certain area or hall, those are your residents for the day.  I happened to get her hall on shower day.   I was bummed, as she was a very lanky woman, probably very tall when she could stand, which made it a bit more crowded in the shower stall,  and I knew she'd scream, " I know who you are!" the whole time.  Then to top it off, I had a trainee that day.

So off to the shower room we go, I'm explaining procedure the best I can over the screaming lady and those residents who decided to scream back as we passed their rooms on the way to the shower room.  So we go through the shower, didn't get hit, bit or spit on, so so far so good!

I bent over, to put on her circulation socks, and if you don't know they're like a leg girdle, it takes a bit of effort to get them on.  I got distracted, and was trying to answer a question when BOOOM! I felt excruciating facial pain as I felt my body slam into the wall.  It felt like my nose had been ripped off, I couldn't see through the haze of pain, and the wind was knocked out of me.  

The trainee was doubled over laughing, the old lady was cackling, she'd seen her opportunity and took it.  I had bent over the front, I was right in her line of fire and she shot her foot up and hooked her big  toe in my nostril and flung me across the shower room with amazing strength and speed.  

The trainee was gasping for air, tried to ask if I was alright, between fits of laughter, and trying to explain what she saw.  It had all happened so fast.   All I could think of to say was, "This is why you don't bend over or kneel in front of her.  Get me a nurse I think she ripped my nose off..."

Needless to say,  I didn't make that mistake again either.....

Memories

As a little girl, I used to lay in the grass and watch the clouds go by, making up stories for all the interesting shapes that slowly changed as the wind blew them away. I'd sit on the grass, listening to the rustle of the trees in the wind, and it was all so calm, safe.  Occasionally a Whoosh sound and I'd look up and see the wind picking up, the leaves dancing on the branches.  We had a big  Weeping Willow in the front yard and I'd sit under it as the branches gently waved in the breeze and play house or pretend to be invisible.

Now I listen to the trees and think of all the leaves and branches that will need to be raked and when the wind picks up I look to the sky for any dark clouds, wondering if a storm's coming.  I no longer lay in the grass, or the chiggers and ants will have a heyday.  If I've had a hard day, I long for those days of childhood where there was so little to worry about.

These days  I watch my kids running around the yard,  especially Ethan.   He has a special tree he loves to climb and just sit in.  Just hanging out, watching cars on the highway or birds,  it's his special spot, one I know someday he will remember with fondness.  I can hear him talking to himself making up stories he'll tell me later as I tuck him in.  I'm glad he has his tree, like I had my clouds, wind  and weeping willow. 

Where was your special spot, special memory from childhood, revisit it, write about it and feel that warm fuzzy inside, it'll make your day....

Bread Making

One of my favorite things to make is bread.  A few years ago Curt offered to buy me a bread maker, but I told him that'd take all the fun out of it!  Growing up, I watched my mom make Oatmeal bread.  I loved when she made it, the aroma of the yeast as the dough rose and then the mouth-watering smells wafting through the whole house as it baked.  I remember trying to help her mix the flour in and feeling like my arm would fall off! It wasn't easy to mix.  It's a heavier dough, and it makes such great toast!!!

When I make bread, I cheat.  I have a mixer I use to incorporate most of the flour, then I transfer it to my counter.  Then I knead the livin' daylights out of it.  That's the fun part!  Feeling the dough transform under my fingertips, the satisfaction of it taking shape.  Then baking it to a golden brown and so soft in the middle! YUM!   When my kids see me making bread, it usually means cinnamon rolls and they all like to get involved with that! Elliot with his muscles, likes to help roll it out, so does Abbi and we've had to rock/paper/scissors turns before for that part!  Esther loves to brush on the melted butter and  Ethan will try to inconspicuously lick the cinnamon and sugar off the counter til I catch him!

Both boys at younger ages have seen it rising on the counter and couldn't resist eating a raw one. Gross! That has only happened once with each. Elliot realized his mistake after the first bite and put it back in the pan, so when I checked on the rolls later, I saw a half moon shape missing out of the corner one.  He was only about 4 or 5 at the time.  Now, when the rolls are in the oven baking, I have at least two little faces peering through the glass door declaring every minute, "I think they're done now!"  Then we top them off with creamy cream cheese frosting... they don't last long in this house!  The smell of cinnamon seems to stay in the air for the rest of the day.

I also like to make dinner rolls for holidays and special occasions. These are Ethan's favorite to help with, and we eat those little golf ball size rolls with gusto.  He just beams with pride at his cheftism. (I think I just made up another word)  One of my favorite leftover meals  is a ham and cheese sandwich on a homemade dinner roll.  Or turkey, or beef, whatever the meat, the taste of fresh bread and butter makes it special (at least for me.)

Many times with spaghetti meals, lasagna or grilling, I like to make a quick french loaf of bread, that also doesn't last long, it's usually gone by the next meal.   The french bread also makes an excellent bread bowl for soups and chili.  I think the crunchiness of the crust is awesome for dipping in the soups and/or chili.

What ever the meal, fresh homemade bread just brings it up a notch, and adds to that warm fuzzy feeling with its aroma, and taste. A definate comfort food.  As you take the time and effort to make breads, sweet breads, or rolls, I just beg you to not use margarine.  Please, please use real butter.  Let the bread reach its true wonderful potential by using butter.

I love that my passion, baking, also builds fun memories with my kids.  I hope they pass the tradition on someday...  Now, it's the weekend and I'm off to  bake some awesome bread!

Longing.....

I am missing my kitchen.  Not literally, but figuratively.  I miss the time I use to have to go through recipes books, to find a recipe and get excited to make it and be able to run to the store to get what I needed, or for that matter, just time to be able to make a recipe I already have!    I don't want to sound ungrateful for my daycare babes cuz' I love them, and they take ALL my time!!!   I made a cake the other day because I got up at 5:30 to do it.  By the time all the mommies have picked up their kids, I'm exhausted.  Then I ususally have errands to run and miss dinner at least 2  times a week.   Someone made the comment that I didn't seem like myself and I suppose not, as I feel disconnected from my passion.  LOL is that a dramatic statement or what?  I pray that sometime in the near future, I'll have time for more......

The Price of Beauty is PAINFUL!

I  hardly believe it, but the other day I spent over $11.00 on a tweezer.   I stood in that aisle so long debating myself in my head I think the clerk thought I was trying to shoplift.   Finally, I took the plunge and threw it in my cart.  I think a tweezer is a very personal beauty tool, and now I needed it to help get all the pesky,fine white hairs that were showing up at an alarming rate.  My children, however, found my old one very handy for their little needs, such as lifting hot tortillas out of the microwave, and pinching each other.   When I found it bent, they were all innocent in its demise.  So there I was buying a newer, better one that will have it's own hiding spot in my bathroom.

I usually wax, and the first time was when I was in 7th grade.   Yup, Jr. High.  The year I realized, "I'm such a nerd...."  It was also the year the boys at school realized that because of my very dark coloring, I had a slight mustache and reminded me of it every day.  It was the early 80's when salons that waxed you were in places like NY or Hollywood.  At least that's what I thought. So I went and  bought my first waxing kit with babysitting money. 

Carefully I laid everything out and read the directions.  Back then you needed to use a pan with boiling water to heat the wax. They didn't have microwavable ones yet.  I took the heated wax and went to the basement bathroom for privacy.  Using the little plastic applicator, I carefully  applied wax to my mustache, then above and below my humongous eyebrows.  For ease of wax removal, the pamphlet suggested using newspaper to cover the wax and pull it off in one smooth motion.    So I did.  Except there was no "ease of removal" or "one smooth motion".  I pulled and ripped a piece of the newspaper off.... no wax.... I try again, and manage to smear newspaper ink on my cheek.  Horrified, and panicking with mental pictures of me walking into school with permanent wax on my face, spurn me to start clawing at all the newspapers covering my face.  My hands turn black from the newspaper, and smear into my tears of fear and realization sinks in.  I have to open the door and go for help.  The only ones home were my siblings.  I sat on the toilet seat for a very long time pondering the ridicule of brothers vs. kids at school.  Slowly I open the door and with heavy feet, walk up the stairs.  I hear voices in the kitchen and with a deep breath and slightly controlled panic I go in.  The room goes quiet. For a milisecond. Then roars of laughter and my brother Randy is saying, "Where's the camera!!"   My sister Kristi looked as horrified as I did.  "Mugsy, what did you do?!" she asked as she peered at my eyebrows.   Crying I stuttered, "I -I -I tried to wax and now it w-w-w-won't come off!"  In desperation I  grabbed her wrist, "HELP ME! PLEASE!!"  I gotta give her credit, she laughed she did, but tried so hard not to.  The boys by this time were long gone scrambling to find the camera. 

Kristi sat me in a chair and with a tweezer,( probably her own personal beauty tool) she picked at the wax which seemed  and felt like forever.  It was painful, and left an indelible mark on my life.  It was years before I opted to wax again.  A few weeks after this incident, I discovered hair bleach, but I'll save that for another time.......

June Cleaver

Have you ever wanted to be June Cleaver, with the tiny waist, pearls and immaculate house?  Did you ever notice she always wore heels too?   I was pondering this as I wrestled with my curly wisps of wire I call hair.  I was in my (rather Curt's and mine) bathroom and happen to notice that there were little soldiers, firemen and dinosaurs left in the tub, dried toothpaste in a dribble pattern in the sink and someone thought leaving little squares of toilet paper scattered on the floor was a good idea.  On the vanity there were 3 different brushes, ( one which is Curt's which is funny in itself if you knew him, or rather his "hairline") 2 different hair products promising the same results, (liars!) and a used tissue.

Sighing deeply, I picked up the tissue and toilet paper, washing my hands I did a quick rinse of the sink, flushed the toilet "just in case", (didn't want to raise the lid to look) put away the hair products and looked in the bathtub and thought, "Oh what's the use? They'd be back tonight."   I wondered if the Beaver ever left toys in the tub?

Then I thought about how June had a hot breakfast waiting with coffee cups with saucers, eggs and oatmeal and toast. She's perky, obviously the  1st one up in the morning and has lipstick on. My kids get up and fend for themselves with cereal and bagels and juice.  I stumble out of bed a 1/2 hour after them, kicking out whichever one of them happens to be in my bathroom at the time.  I always want to remind them they have a double sink bathroom downstairs, that is UNOCCUPIED!  I'm never coherent enough to get that thought out into actual words at that time, though.  I make coffee, make what ever lunches need to be made, referee what ever arguement is going on, inspect the clothes selected for the day and  have them ready to go out the door by the time the bus arrives, hopefully with lunch money, homework, hair combed and a quick prayer.

Then I enjoy my first cup of coffee, as I apply my makeup and detangle my hair which is where this comparison to June Cleaver began in the first place.   I may not be a morning person, I have dust bunnies and fingerprints on the windows, and the beds gets left unmade more often than not, my waist is not tiny, my pearls are in the jewelry box and wearing heels kill my toes.

SIGH.... I am no June Cleaver, but I am the MOM of this domain, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  It does make me think perhaps, maybe I should hire a housekeeper to come in once a week...

Hang On Tight, Entering the Teenage Era!

My oldest turned 13 the other day.  13, t-h-i-r-t-e-e-n, 10 +3 = 13. one three. Ok, you get the point.  For him, he's been marking off the days since the beginning of the month, and  I suspect he looks for hair under his armpits and on his chest.  Just a suspicion when he sticks out his chest and says, "See, a hair!"    He's been shaving the dark shadow over his lip for awhile now and when I don't notice, I get that scowl and deep sigh I've come to hate so much.

He's hungry all the time! Skinny as a rail, but as empty as a 30 gallon barrel, oh my word he can eat! He's begun to lift weights, taking extra care with his appearance since starting Jr. High.  He's gotten so sassy and not in the fun sense but in the sense of I'm ready to knock him back into next week.   

He fights with his siblings, only to stop mid-sentence to measure his height against his sister with the exclamation, " I grew! I have to look down at her now!" (instead of eye to eye) .  Then he's so happy with that, they actually get along for awhile.

He can exasperate me beyond what I thought possible with his thought process and "logic".  Then at that point where I feel like I have been handed too much, even though God promised He wouldn't, I see glimpses of his heart.   The gentleness in hugging a daycare babe,  the sadness in his eyes when he hears of kids hurt or disabled, and the best, when he comes to me and says, "Mom, can you tuck me in?" and "I love you mom!"

With all his bravado and angst of puberty and teenagerdom ( I think I just made up a word) he still needs me. The woman who almost died giving birth to him, the woman who he dared rolls his eyes at when she reminded him to take out the trash , clean his room, and get his homework done.  He needs me.

Now, we (Curt and I) know we are just entering this era, and we do so with a bit of fear and trepidation, but I think we will do alright, and we've seen other parents come out the other side of this just slightly scathed, we hope for the best, and will work hard to see our son emerge a Godly man on the other side.