For the Love of Murphy!

When you bring your newborn home and lay him in the bassinet that once cradled your father, you know your nights of uninterrupted sleep are over.  What you don't know is that they are over forever. 

My children are 6 and 4, and they have been "sleeping through the night" for years.  Sort of.  Take last night for example. 

The Castrataro household is hosting a nameless virus that inspires unproductive coughing, fevers, and general grumpiness.  My children put themselves to bed at 6 pm last night out of sheer fatigue. 

At 8:30 pm, I gave up pretending to be awake, pulled my twin-sized Murphy bed down from the living room closet (another blog post altogether!), and crawled under my cozy afghans "to sleep, perchance to dream." 

(Insert fiendish laugh here.) 

At 9:30 pm my daughter had a coughing fit and came into the living room.  I got her some cough medicine.  It wasn't grape-flavored, however, so she spit it up in her hair and on the couch.  I admit to being annoyed.  I grabbed the Carbona 2-in-1, cleaned the couch, and put Chinchita to bed, knowing her hair would be stuck solid come daylight. 

I stirred the fire and went back to Murphy. 

At 10:30 pm, my son called out from his room.  He was having growing pains.  (These growing pains are really gruesome, by the way.  He has had them for years and the only solution is Motrin and time...and Mommy's bed.)  I gave him the Motrin.  He was in agony.  I asked if he wanted to sleep with Mommy.  But of course. 

So Ranita and I squeezed into the twin-sized Murphy bed.  My son tossed and turned and eventually slept.  By 1:30 am, I was ready to have my bed to myself again.  He agreed. 

I put my son back in his bed, stirred the fire again, and returned to Murphy. 

At 3:30 am, my daughter awoke to another coughing fit.  I got her some cough medicine (yes, the grape-flavored this time).  She was still coughing. 

I sighed.

Did she want to sleep with Mommy?  Naturally. 

So Chinchita and I squeezed into my twin-sized Murphy bed, with the addition of her pillow.  She periodically had a coughing spasm, I rubbed her back, and she went back to sleep. 

At 6 am my alarm went off, reminding me it was time to get up and spend time with God.  I asked Him for grace and went back to bed.  A half hour later, I awoke with a coughing fit, made a cup of coffee, and sat down with my Bible and my journal. 

I try to tell myself I will sleep when the kids are older, but I realize that is a fantasy.  In their teen years I will be kept awake by nightmares of drunken orgies and unsavory girl/boyfriends.  When they leave for college, I will stay up praying they are not running amok with their newfound independence.  Jobs, spouses, grandchildren . . . all the things I once worried about for myself I will then worry about for them. 

And I somehow suspect that once I have my Murphy bed all to myself again, I will miss the days when one--or both--of my little munchkins were curled up beside me, getting comfort from their mommy. 

What is so Holy about Fish?

One of the most marvelous--and most terrifying--moments in a mother's life is when your six-year-old suddenly calls you out as a hypocrite. 

Ranita did this to me last week (fortunately without using the word 'hypocrite'!).  The issue?  Taking the Lord's name in vain. 

Really.  Those who know me know that using 'God' or 'Jesus' as a curse is something I generally do not do.  I will admit to using a few four-letter gutter words in times of extreme stress, but even those are accompanied with shame and apologies all around. 

So when my son pointed his finger at me during breakfast and accused, "You took the Lord's name in vain!" I was honestly befuddled. 

I mentally reviewed the conversation.  Nope.  No use of the Lord's name at all.  What had I said? 

Holy mackerel!

This is a phrase I have been employing for nearly forty years to express everything from surprise to frustration to irritation to mild anger, confident that it was a, well, holy expression. 

As I began to explain the distinction between the NAME of the Lord and the term in question, I suddenly realized my son's wisdom and my error. 

I've read the Bible through more than a few times, and though I remember lots of fish stories--one swallowed Jonah, another spit up some money, a couple fed a crowd of 5000, and a whole boatload refused to be caught until the fisherman cast on the other side of their vessel--I can't recall any one of them ever being called holy. 

On the other hand: Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty. 

Ugh. 

So mid-sentence I stopped justifying myself and thanked my son for his correction.  I also told both him and Chinchita that mommy had a bad habit in this area and it would be hard for me to break and that I needed their help. 

They were more than willing.  It's not every day your mother gives you permission to correct her speech! 

They have been as good as their word, and slowly I am beginning to catch myself as the phrase comes to mind.  I fear it may take some time: it's hard to teach us old dogs new tricks! 

The up side is that I am more aware than ever of how truly unique God's holiness is, and how I should not minimize it in any way. 

Out of the mouths of babes.

First Comes Pain, Then Comes Love

For millennia people have struggled with the apparent contradiction of the presence of a good, loving, all-powerful God and the existence of pain and evil.  I won't deny it: I, too, have had to wrestle with the issue. 

Because I consider myself to be pretty theologically solid, I usually navigated that morass by relying on concepts such as "free will," "the Fall," and "original sin."  That usually satisfied my brain.  It rarely satisfied my heart. 

I am coming to a place, however, where I am becoming not just reconciled to, but thankful for, the pain in my life.  (No, I am not falling into masochism!)  Rather, I am beginning to sense something of the heart of God in the midst of our sufferings. 

This morning, I read the following passage:

"For you, O God, tested us; you refined us like silver.  You brought us into prison and laid burdens on our backs.  You let men ride over our heads; we went through fire and water, but you brought us to a place of abundance." (Psalm 66:10-12)  

Notice to whom the psalmist is giving responsibility for his suffering?  Not the prison guards or the soldiers.  Not even the psalmist himself.  GOD.  GOD has done this. 

What?  How does that fit? 

All I can tell you is what I've been experiencing in small ways for two years and in a far greater way over the past two months: 

God brings us into pain so we can find relief in Him.  

I would not have known what security in God's hands meant if I hadn't experienced insecurity.  I would not have known the wealth of God had I not experienced penury.  I would not have known the faithfulness of God had I not seen the faithlessness of humanity. 

Most of all, I would not have known the love of our Lover-Creator-Savior had I not known what is is to be unloved. 

For I am now--after nearly 40 years of walking with the Lord--just now experiencing the passion Christ has for us.  I brought my best to the world, and the world counted it as trash.  I brought my broken, tired, bruised self to Christ, and He exulted in it.  He knows my every thought, and He cherishes them all like priceless gems. 

He considers me his treasure, the same person who spat upon Him as he stumbled to Calvary and drove the spikes through his hands and feet and mocked him as I hung dying in my own sin.  This person, he adores. 

I look back over my life and see that the times of ease, though delightful, have not necessarily been the times of greatest growth.  It has been holding God's hand over the slick rocks and the thorny paths and the icy patches and never slipping that has brought me to this place of indescribable, abundant love the likes of which I have never before known. 

I'll be honest:  It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.  But then, who ever said love makes sense? 

Having a Good Day

Do you ever wonder what, exactly, constitutes a "good day"? It came to mind yesterday when my son got off the bus, elated, saying it had been a great day . . . then went to the doctor and got a flu shot which turned it into an awful day . . . and then went to Stop & Shop which (shockingly!) turned it back to a good day. 

Well, I can unreservedly say I know what a good day looks like, because today most certainly was one.  A good day is when you:

• Get to mix business with pleasure by Skyping with your college roommate about a work project
• Acquire a new project doing work you love
• Single-handedly replace the rotor on your washing machine without swearing, springing a leak, or breaking anything 
• Update your CV and LinkedIn profile
• Read stories to your kids
• Help your son build a Lego train
• Give your kids cuddle time
• Stay in your Weight Watchers' points
• Post your first blog entry in longer than you care to think about

Yeah, it really has been a good day.  

What does your good day look like?

On Hiatus . . .

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I must take a hiatus from Storm Songs. 

This does not, however, mean that I am no longer writing.  Au contraire!

There will be weekly updates to the "Publication Credits" page, so please keep following. 

I miss sharing with you . . . but I will be back when the time is right! 

Blessings to you all. 

Do Unto Others

When you're going through a personal crisis, it is easy to get so absorbed in your own pain and needs that nothing matters except managing your own "stuff."  That is normal.  It is even healthy.  Putting our energies into managing our own issues is a sign of maturity.

There should come a time, however, when healing has progressed to a place where you can not only recognize the crises others are facing but also lend a helping hand.

My opportunity to do that came a week before Christmas when a farmer I know called me and said, "We're going to lose our farm to a railroad!"

For the preceding year, the only "cause" I had the emotional, physical, and spiritual energy for was getting my kids and myself through our divorce and its fallout.  And it took all I had.  Some days it still does.

But when I heard those words over my phone, I felt a flame rise up within me.  This was a battle I had to help win in whatever small way I could.

Why this one?

It could be the fact that I have lived my life in the shadow of a farm taken by eminent domain "for the public good."  It could be because my first paying writing job was covering a farmer who also lost his farm by eminent domain so it could become a parking lot for his neighbor's significantly larger business.

It could be because I know at least two other farmers in Rhode Island who have either lost land through eminent domain or through unethical government business practices.

It could be I have finally had enough.

It could be the time was just right.

I don't know.  But in the past weeks I have written letters, posted articles, called government leaders, and spoken on radio calling for our state to prevent this railroad from going through.  I have read good portions of the NEC Tier 1 EIS and discovered that I no longer oppose this project just for my friends' sake . . .  I oppose it because it's just a plain old bad idea for our state.

Through this process, however, something else happened.  I found myself re-energized.  I rediscovered a clarity of thought and purpose that has been elusive in recent months.  I saw the sun shining through the clouds, promising that better things were on the way.

I remembered how good it felt to do something for someone else for no other reason than it's the right thing to do. 

Look for your own opportunity to "Do Unto Others" . . . it's good for you!

(By the way, you can find out more about the railroad plan on my LinkedIn and Facebook pages or by visiting the Charlestown Citizens' Alliance webpage!)  

Going to the Dogs

Before my kids were born, I had dogs.  I grew up with German Shepherds . . . and one little dopey beagle.  When I moved out on my own, I adopted a Sheltie who became my constant companion and best bud.  Six months into my marriage, we adopted an Australian Shepherd puppy.  A year later we adopted a Newfoundland cross. 

When my marriage ended, I kept the kids and the dogs. 

As much as I love my dogs, I have to admit there are times when they are an awful lot of work.  Today was such a day. 

I was helping Ranita "excavate" a Tyrannosaurus head on our kitchen table when I suspected he had had an accident.  Nope.  It was our Aussie.  Disgustingness all over my kitchen floor. 

I wondered what was going on, but didn't wonder too hard.  I mopped the floor.  I cleaned her.  I went on playing paleontologist. 

Several more times throughout the day, the scene was repeated, including the moments immediately before the new President took his oath of office. 

By 4pm, I was getting worried.  She was looking lethargic and was obviously feeling punk.  In the back of my mind was the fear that she had eaten parts of the dinosaur dig and was being poisoned.  (The comment on the label regarding "formaldehyde Phase 2" didn't alleviate my concerns any.) 

My vet was closed for the day.  I called the expensive emergency animal hospital, hoping they'd tell me to wait it out.  They told me to call Poison Control. 

For a fee of $65 Poison Control told me I should immediately get my dog to a vet. 

Ugh.  With all the upheaval of the past year, there isn't a lot of extra cash for discretionary vet bills. 

In fact, last month we were stringing popcorn and cranberries for the Christmas tree when we found one of the strands missing . . . with the needle still attached!  That call to the expensive animal hospital gave me a minimum quote of $1,500 by the time they got through with x-rays, exams, and scoping.  Add another grand if they had to do surgery. 

In another lifetime, I would have spent the money.  This time I asked the vet for home remedies.  He said to feed them bread.  Each dog got an English muffin.  We prayed . . . hard.  I watched them like a hawk for signs of sepsis.  They were fine.  Praise God!

I asked for home remedies today.  No such luck.  If it was poisoning, home remedies wouldn't do it. 

Our dogs don't get separated often, so the Newfie was frantic at being left behind.  I crated her, knowing my house would not be the same if I didn't.  The kids and I went to another neighborhood vet we had been to once before. 

Aussie messed on the floor the second we walked in the door.  In the exam room, she threw up . . . on my son's sneaker.  The personnel were amazing, though.  My kids watched the dog get a mini-bath in the back room, patted the feline mascot Arlo, and checked out a Dachshund curled up in a crate.  They also left with fish-shaped face cloths.  Good day for the kids!

It ended up being a pretty good day for Mommy, too.  The dog was suffering from something she ate, but it was nothing some probiotics and antibiotics wouldn't cure.  The bill was significantly less than the animal hospital would have been.  The vet even gave me a prescription for amoxicillin and a discount coupon to boot. 

That did lead to me having to set up a CVS account for my DOG, which was very weird. 

Pharmacist: "Is there a chance your dog is pregnant?"
Me:  "Really?  Nobody ever asks me if I'm pregnant before filling a prescription!" 

It really is a dog's life, Charlie Brown!

The Cheerful Giver

There are moments as a mom when I watch my children and am moved to tears by their spontaneous acts of mercy, sympathy, and love.  (There are others when I am moved to tears for much different reasons, but this post is not about those!)  Today I experienced such a moment with my son. 

The kids and I are fortunate enough to have a couple of Sunday School school teachers who help me out with childcare pretty frequently.  My kids love them.  As the husband said today, they have 40 years of kids toys in their house.  It is toy heaven! 

More frequently than I care to admit, one or more of the toys leave their sanctuary and take up residence in my home.  It always makes me uncomfortable when my kids get "treats" just for showing up somewhere.  My family of origin did gifts on Christmas and birthdays.  Weddings.  Baby showers.  Period.  Seeing my kids lavished with stuff stirs up visions of spoiled, ungrateful brats, something I am determined not to have living under my roof!

So today, when Ranita asked if we could "buy" a handmade, wooden triplane from his sitter, I cringed.  The cringe turned into a wince when the sitter informed me they were "getting rid of it," and Ranita was welcome to it. 

I was trying to be a gracious recipient while also trying to gauge where my son was falling on the Spoil-O-Meter when his little voice penetrated my thoughts. 

"Mommy, I want to give this to J for his birthday.  He loves planes a lot more than I do.  We can play with it when I go to his house."  J is his cousin.  J's birthday is a month away, the fact of which my son was completely unaware and about which he honestly couldn't have cared less. 

What he did care about was giving his cousin a present, a present that reflected an awareness of and concern for the interests of someone else. 

Spoil-O-Meter vanished with a poof! 

I would be less than honest if I did not admit that my son is currently playing with that triplane as if his life depended on it.  It has flown over the backyard and the front yard, carried a Little Person and an array of cargo, and I suspect is hiding under his covers in his bed at this moment. 

But I know my son.  When the time comes, it will again be his idea to give the plane away, and he will do so with great joy and satisfaction.  Chances are, he won't be able to wait for J's birthday, either! 

Bring on the Barbies

Do you remember what it was like to play like a preschooler?  Unless you have a couple (or more!) living in your house, chances are you have forgotten.  In fact, I fear one can forget even with little ones in the house. 

How is that possible? 

Parents have lots of "important" things to occupy their attention: bills, emails, jobs, legal gobbledy-gook, self-improvement, service in the church . . . name your poison.  Because of that, when those little voices switch into "pretend" gear, it's easy to tune them out and divert your energy to other things.  An experienced mom can subconsciously distinguish between play fighting and real wars, ignoring the former and interrupting the latter.  "Happy" requires no intervention. 

Another reason we can miss the actual play even when it swirls around us is that we perceive it as an interruption rather than the raison d'être.  Take this very moment, for instance.  

It is nap time in the Castrataro residence.  We have had a delightfully laid-back day with a minimum of squabbling and an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility.  Truly a golden day.  After reading two Curious George stories to the little ones, I tuck them in for the obligatory rest.  I have a plan to toss a load of laundry in the washer and write an article. 

Enter the voices. 

Through my monitor, I hear a narrator and about six characters enacting some kind of drama.  The yammering is such that an article will not be easy to write.  Task-oriented Mom would put the kibosh to the folderol in the interest of generating an income.  Today's Mom sits and listens (and exchanges an article for a blog . . . plenty of time to work tonight!).  

I hear them discussing various characters and their backstories.  I am transported.  I see my sister and my brother and me sitting on a floor with two Ken dolls, eight Barbies (one of whom had a chewed foot and another with an after-factory crew cut), ten plastic horses, and a village built out of Lincoln Logs.  We staged Westerns with kidnappings and daring rescues.  We enacted romances that would put Harlequin to shame.  We created domestic dramas modeled after our daily lives.  

I can't begin to fathom how many hours we spent like that, creating our own worlds and loving every minute of it.  

I do remember that I played with my Barbies and horses long after most of my peers had abandoned them.  Was it because I had a younger sister?  Was it because we moved my freshman year of high school and somehow the role playing brought me comfort?  Was it my indefatigable love of "story"?  I can't say.  

I can say that I take great joy in the role playing of my little ones.  I love hearing them create new stories from the ones they've read in books, seen in movies, or lived themselves.  The latter can be a little hard when I hear things like "Mommy and Daddy," but there is also a sense of gratitude that they are able to process their joys and disappointments in their own way and in their own time.  

In their play they are growing.  They are learning.  They are healing. 

Perhaps we could all use a few hours with Barbie and her friends. 

Carving Memories

Monday I took my kids to my parents' farm for "fall fun."  We took a wagon ride driven by Grandpa J.  We ran around in the corn maze (where we found 2 of the 4 "stations").  We picked pumpkins out of the pumpkin patch.  (We would have picked apples but for the April freeze that decimated most of the New England tree fruit crops this year.) 

For her pumpkin my daughter chose a little green one, not quite soft but a little "flexible."  My son chose a large, perfectly orange, endearingly crooked one.  They wanted to carve them.  I was strongly encouraging painting. 

This afternoon I yielded, and we carved Ranita's pumpkin.  (Chinchita was angy; I promised we could do hers tomorrow!) 

As I made the first incision around the stem, I was suddenly flooded with memories of one October two decades ago at Wheaton College in Illinois.  It was my sophomore year of college, and some friends invited me to their dorm to carve pumpkins.  I'd never carved pumpkins before, but we made this an adventure!

The others made very cool Jack-o'-lanterns.  Mine was different: a nose, an eye, a mouth all on different sides.  (I knew I wasn't an artist; at least I could be unique!)  We dried the seeds and then ran around in the dark throwing pumpkin innards at each other.  (Could that have been my idea?  We used to throw rotten tomatoes at each other at the end of tomato season on the farm . . . very well could have been!) 

How we laughed! 

We divvied up the seeds in plastic bags.  When we went to snack on them the next day, they were not crisp.  They were soggy.  We called each other to figure out what to do.  Over to my room they came, and my hairdryer went into action.  Very effective!

The pumpkin, however, did not last long.  It created a bit of a spiritual dilemma for one of my roommates, so in solidarity we tossed it.  (Really, can you blame her?  A nose, a mouth, and an eye . . . not even in appropriate places?!  Even I found it a bit weird!) 

That was the first, and last, time I carved a pumpkin.  Until today.  My son helped separate out the pumpkin seeds (which I dried to perfection) from the guts.  We had planned on our own pumpkin fight, but the cold was prohibitive. 

When it came time for designing, I was relieved to hand the marker to him and let him draw to his heart's content.  Then I carved.  It is perfect!  I told him about my last foray and assured him that he was a much better designer than his mother, though he insisted I was "the best pumpkin carver in the world, Mom!"  Gotta love my babies! 

Then, because I fell victim to the moment, I found a small candle and lit it inside.  A few moments later, my daughter reached for the open mouth of the pumpkin.  I knew she couldn't reach the flame, but I yelled, "Stop!" all the same.  And then another memory. 

My mother has a picture of my brother, my sister, and me when I was about my son's age.  I am sitting on the floor with my sister on my lap, half-suffocated by my embrace.  My brother is sticking a finger into a lit Jack-o'-lantern.  By the expression on my face, it is clear that I am yelling "Stop!" 

I find it funny that a woman who has a total of 3 Jack-o'-lantern memories suddenly saw her entire life summed up by a pumpkin, some seeds, and a small flame. 

And she found it to be very good. 

Rest, Soldier!

I'd like to share a dialogue I had today.

Me (in a slightly whining tone): "I am just so tired.  Between my various jobs and the housework and the kids and the counselors and the legal stuff . . . I'm beat."

Drill Instructor (loudly and unsympathetically): "Stop your whining, Soldier!  Who do you think you are?  Do you think you're the only single mother in the country?  Suck it up!  You've got it easy!  Your ex pays the child support, doesn't he?  On time?  Do you know how many women would be thankful for that?  Man up, already!  And give me twenty!"

Okay, so I don't really have a drill instructor.  (Me in boot camp?  Not in this lifetime!)  But the conversation was real all the same.  I had just discovered a crack on the inside of my living room window (which is a whole other story for another time) that needed to be replaced ASAP.  As there is no such thing as replacing any window ASAP, I did the next best thing: I patched.

First, on my sister's suggestion, I lined the inside with cardboard and held it in place with duct tape.  Then, because I am neurotic about my kids' safety, I grabbed some of the shrink insulation my ex is so fond of and began my first foray into winter-proofing my windows.

I don't know if you've ever undertaken such a task with two young children underfoot.  If you haven't, DON'T.  It is guaranteed to devolve into chaos.  I began with the cautionary warnings: Please don't touch the plastic or the tape.  

I might have saved my breath.  As I was trying to cut the cardboard to size, I heard rustling.  I turned to see Chinchita skating across the floor on a giant piece of plastic.  Probably should have been a funny moment.  Was not funny in the moment.  I already had dollar signs flying around my head as I contemplated the window.  I only saw more as I imagined the tears being made in the plastic.  I reprimanded her and confiscated the plastic.

I finished with the cardboard and began applying the double-sided tape to the frame.  I heard cutting sounds.  I turned to see Ranita attempting to cut the cardboard with my scissors.  (Have I mentioned I'm a little safety conscious?)  I took away the scissors, warned him about the dangers of sharp objects, and returned to the window.

I got the plastic up more or less smoothly and turn on my hairdryer.  I have a slightly perfectionistic tendency, so I carefully heated, starting in one corner and delighting in the ever-tauter plastic until I could not observe the faintest ripple.  (I would like to say the pleasure in a job well-done superseded my irritation at having to do the job in the first place, but that would be a blatant falsehood.  I was pretty miffed.)

Job done, I turned to the kids on the couch and gasped.  Chinchita had unrolled the remaining length of double-sided tape and expertly created a knotted ball of epic proportions.  Torn pieces of cardboard littered the floor.  I banished both children to their room.

It was at this point I engaged in the internal dialogue above.

People close to me have described my drill instructor's words as "harsh."  I have never really viewed them that way.  Honest?  Motivational?  Spot on?  Painful?  Yes.  Harsh?  No.  Haven't you heard that sometimes the truth hurts?

Truth is a funny thing, though.  It is not always one-sided.  On the one hand, my drill instructor is completely correct.  Compared to many in the world, my situation is NOTHING.  I'm not imprisoned or beaten for my faith.  I'm not homeless.  I'm not out of work.  I'm not without family or church or friends.  I've got it good.

There is another voice in my head, however.  His is harder to hear.  He doesn't yell.  He whispers.  He doesn't blame or condemn.  He comforts.  He woos.  He says, "Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Rest in the Lord.  Wait patiently for Him.  Be still, and know that I am God."

Not only are His words truth; He is truth.

So I wrestle with the dichotomy of work and rest.  (Maybe another version of faith and works?!)  I have to do.  There are children to love, bills to pay, property to maintain.  It is a heavy burden, yes; but it is mine.  And a part of me admits to relishing the challenge . . . on the right day!

But there is also the need for rest.  Emotional rest.  Physical rest.  Spiritual rest.

How do you get rest without forsaking responsibility?

Today I thought about some ways to incorporate rest into our daily life.  I say "our" because I suspect my children are in as much need of soul-rest as I am.  And let's face it . . . we spend a great deal of time together!  Here are some of my ideas . . . I'd love for you to comment below with things that have worked for you:

• Reading together
• Watching a movie together
• Playing in the leaves in the backyard
• Coloring together
• Playing trumpet while the kids "accompany" on "percussion"
• Mini yoga sessions 
• Blowing bubbles
• Playing Pollyanna's "glad game" (Don't think this clip reflects my views of Sundays . . . the kids and I love our church!) 
• Singing silly songs . . . or praise songs . . . or just plain singing!

We're going to start tomorrow.  I'll let you know how we make out! 

Blogging with Ranita

I was working on an article today when my son got up from his "nap" and came over to take a look.  With his arm snuggled around mine, he put his head on my shoulder and began to "read" what I had written.  It went something like this:

"I really like writing about farms.  And I really like articles.  But I don't like when they smell like manure.  My mother likes to look at farms because they look so pretty.  And she likes doing articles on the farms."

While it was not exactly what I had written, much of it had the ring of truth to it!  He wanted to help me write my article.  I didn't think that was the best idea.  So instead I asked him if he wanted to help me write my blog.

Of course, he said yes!

So what follows is a blog straight from the lips of my four-year-old, Ranita:

"I had some fun with my Sunday School teacher.  I went fishing.  I did some crafts.  I learned about Jonah.  And I love going to Sunday School. 

I forgot my Sharptooth stories that are pretend.  Chopper was going too fast and somebody grabbed the swing backward and it pushed him forwards and he shot into the air.  He fell onto a rocket, and the rocket blew up the garage.  And I have ten more Chopper Stories.  

Chopper was a smart little dinosaur.  He always liked playing with his friends Littlefoot, Cera, Ducky, and Petrie.  Well, Cera is a three-horn and she likes banging into hard things.  Littlefoot is a longneck and likes whacking things with his tail.  And Petrie likes to fly around, throw little things at big rocks, and explode them.  Ducky likes to swim really fast.  Ducky is a Parasaurolophus, and she likes swimming very fast.  That's it.  The End."

For those of you who do not live with us, I think a few explanations are in order!  His Sunday School teacher had them "fishing" while learning about Jonah today.  (Although he has gone fishing before . . . and is very good, I might add!)

His Sharptooth stories are taken from the movie The Land Before Time and its sequels.  The rocket blowing up the garage probably comes from watching Hatari! and Toy Story.  (He says, "I really get a kick out of Hatari!") 

Ranita's assumption that Ducky in The Land Before Time is a Parasaurolophus fits with the company's advertising materials, but the drawing more closely resembles a Saurolophus.  There's actually a debate about it, if you can believe such a thing! (http://landbeforetime.wikia.com/wiki/Dispute_over_Ducky%27s_species)

Also, my son typed "The End" himself.  I just assisted with the shift key.  He was very proud of that!

I won't have him guest-blogging often, but I thought supporting his burgeoning interest in writing was a good thing.  Hope you enjoyed! 

The Party That Wasn't

Last night we had Chinchita's third birthday party at our home.  Or, to be more accurate, we tried to have her birthday party.  We had all the things you should have: a homemade princess cake, a homemade princess piñata, princess paper goods, and 28 friends and family (11 of whom were under the age of 13). 

October birthdays are a bit unfortunate in my family to begin with.  My parents, aunt and uncle, and sister all work in plant-related industries that generate a great deal of the year's income in the fall.  Most notably Columbus Day weekend, where Chinchita's birthday falls. 

To accommodate family as much as possible, we pushed the party back a week.  And made it on a Friday night.  Not perfect, but the best we could arrange.  Starting a party at 6pm for a girl who goes to bed at 7pm is a bit sketchy to start, but I figured my girl could handle it. 

Yesterday also happened to be her three-year exam . . . complete with flu shot.  No problem!  We did the doctor thing in the morning, both kids were wiped out and took long naps while I decorated the cake, and I let them watch Hatari! while I finished cleaning the house.  (The movie is almost as long as my cleaning endeavors, so it was a good choice!  It's also one of my all-time favorites!)

I was just finishing up washing floors when my ex's parents arrived.  Chinchita, excited to show off her princess paper goods, slipped on the wet floor and fell on her back.  A little crying, and she was off to explore the bike that came in with Grammy and Pop.  I put the dogs in my bedroom--my sister-in-law and niece are highly allergic--and the barking commenced. 

By the time my neighbors arrived, the dogs were getting on my nerves with their incessant barking, so I banished them to the barn.  It was well past start-the-party time and over half the guests were missing, mostly due to an expected freeze that necessitated extra covering of plants and produce at the farm.  We corralled the four kids who were present for supper--sort of--and then set them loose again. 

The house quickly turned into mayhem.  I pulled out Twister.  (Have you ever played Twister with four kids under the age of five?!  Pretty funny . . . especially since they are not physically large enough to simultaneously manage "right hand: red; left foot green."  They were quiet while trying, though!) 

Finally the rest of the kids arrived, and we pulled out the piñata.  I had located one of the kids' plastic baseball bats, which is perfect for piñata-pummelling.  Unfortunately, between the time my ex's parents arrived and the kids arrived, I had lost it.  Couldn't find it anywhere.  That's okay.  I found a stick Ranita had left on the patio, and we used that. 

Kids had a blast. 

It was getting late, so I decided to move things along.  I called, "Where's Chinchita?  Let's do presents." 

Just then I saw her standing next to the couch wearing a distressed expression.  I dropped on my knees and asked, "Honey, are you okay?  What's the matter?"

She put a hand on her stomach, and in the smallest possible voice said, "My stomach hurts."  Then she explosively vomited all over me.  I am so not exaggerating!  From my shoulder to my feet: covered in grossness. 

Naturally, I swept her into my arms and brought her into the bathroom.  I set her in the tub and started stripping her for a shower, as she also was rather gross.  She says, "I so sorry, Mommy, for throwing up on you!" 

What a sweetie!  I assured her that it was okay . . . you can't really call yourself a Mom until you've been puked on by your kids.  After cleaning her, my sister whisked her out so I could clean myself.  I stood in the shower yelling, "Sis, can you grab me some clothes from my room?" 

I forgot until getting into bed later that night just what a tall order that was.  In addition to my bedroom set, my little bedroom was also housing a box of "I Support RI Agriculture" license plate covers, our punching bag, a basket of clean laundry, and my Dyson.  And no light switch . . . just two lamps you must first navigate said mine field to utilize.  And she still got me clothes that fit.  What a gal!

By the time I emerged clean and nice-smelling, my mom and my neighbor had cleaned up the vomit, the kids were outside playing with adult supervision, and my daughter looked ready to puke again.  I called the doctor and took my little one to her bedroom.  While I lay comforting her, somebody played hostess and distributed cake.  (No one was in the mood to handle ice cream, so I have LOTS of ice cream in my freezer!) 

My daughter fell asleep in time for me to crawl out of her bunk and wave good-bye to my guests.  Except my parents, who stayed to help clean up a little longer.  The doctor finally got back to me and confirmed it sounded like a reaction to the flu shot.  At least we weren't headed to the ER for CT scans! 

As my brother-in-law was leaving, I gave him a hug and said, "Well, at least you can say a Castrataro party is never forgettable!" 

He replied, "Oh yeah.  I sure won't be forgetting this one!"

Yeah.  Me neither!

Get Planting

During my marriage, our side yard was converted into a nursery for young plants too small to survive in the "landscape."  (Read: Doomed to certain death by lawnmowers, deer, rabbits, mice, and woodchucks.)  Over the past seven years, the nursery has become, by any estimation you care to use, crowded.

Some of these plants are now nearly 6 feet tall.  Many are 3-4 feet wide.  We're talking somewhere between 20-30 plants in a VERY small space.  Lots of digging, my friends.

The sheer magnitude of the project is compounded by my relative ignorance of woody ornamentals.  I don't know what half of these things are, how big they are expected to grow, when they prefer to move, whether or not they have tap roots, or how to wrap a root ball.  For a while, my fear of doing the wrong thing paralyzed me and I did . . . absolutely nothing.

Finally I realized the plants were so constrained that if I didn't move them now they would all be garbage come spring anyway.  I might as well try moving them to more suitable locations and save some rather than lose them all.

I started with the area housing my little beech tree, three smallish bushes, a magnolia that should have been moved last year, a very established rhododendron, and my garage.  Out came the bushes.  Out came the beech, which promptly turned brown and made me think I'd killed it.  As it's been a couple weeks, the buds are still firmly attached, and the trunk is still green, I think it might actually survive.  Yay!

I have plugged away, moving 1-2 plants a day nearly every day.  In the past few weeks I have moved five small trees, around ten small shrubs/dwarf varieties, two giant clumps of grasses (one with the help of my burly--and very generous!--neighbor), and ten ground-cover types (sweet William and phlox mostly).

I also planted a butterfly bush my dad reluctantly gave me.  "Do you honestly think you need any more plants?" he asked.

"Of course I don't need any more plants!" I responded brightly.  "But I've always wanted a butterfly bush!"

It's going to look fabulous in the front yard near the Heptacodium: lots of gorgeous fall color!

To be brutally honest, no real plantsman would think I should be attempting this project.  It's not my thing.  I don't have the training or even the physical skills to do it successfully.  Sometimes I doubt the wisdom of  the undertaking.

What I lack in skill, however, I make up for with sheer grit and determination.  And darn it, the plants so far seem to be doing pretty well!  Aside from the beech, none of them are showing any signs of transplant stress.  Pretty impressive considering the vast majority of them were bare-rooted.  (I mentioned my inability to wrap a root ball, right?!)  I'm staking the trees with three well-placed stakes, and they all look straight . . . or as straight as they can look when they've been crunched so tightly that most of them have at least one flat side!

And if my design works as planned, each plant will have just enough room to reach maturity without feeling trapped while simultaneously enabling me to reduce my mowing significantly.  (Anybody have some wood chips they want to unload?!)

So here's the point.  (There really is one!)  Sometimes we can become paralyzed by fear: of failure, of embarrassment, of ridicule, of insufficiency.  Our perceived inability to "do it right" keeps us from doing anything at all.

My friends, I pray better things for us!

Let us not sit idly by, watching our precious gifts being overrun by weeds and brush, becoming so crowded that they become misshapen and useless.  NO!

Let us, rather, stop worrying about doing it "perfectly" and get to the business of doing.  Get the shovel, put on your gloves, take a deep breath, and dig.  Put your gifts out there for all to see.  If you find there isn't quite enough sunshine--or too much!--move them.  If they look like they're too small--or too large!--to thrive where they are, move them again.

And if, after a year or two, you find that the plant you thought would be so gorgeous has turned into a gangly scarecrow of a thing, RIP IT OUT!  Start over.  Put something else in its place.

There is no such thing as a failed garden: they are all works in progress.  The only failure is in not planting the garden in the first place. 

The Pink Princess Piñata

I am big on "tradition."  At Christmas we string popcorn and cranberries just like my mom taught us when we were little.  We eat lamb at Easter.  Thanksgiving is all about turkey, root vegetables, and pies, pies, pies. 

While I love my old traditions, I am also making some new ones with my family.  As Chinchita's third birthday quickly approaches, we are in the midst of one of my "new" traditions: the birthday piñata. 

The Castrataro piñatas started as a whim.  I was looking for something fun and kid-centered to make our family birthday parties extra-special for the little ones.  Who doesn't love a piñata?  I found some easy directions at WikiHow and thought, "I'll bet I can do this."  (Remember: this is the girl who found art class more threatening than a term paper!) 

My first attempt was a year ago, for Chinchita's second birthday.  I asked her what she wanted for her piñata: a butterfly.  No problem!  With a great deal of trepidation, the butterfly took wing. 

I was feeling pretty good about my piñata skills until a few months later when Ranita announced that he wanted a T-Rex for his piñata.  WHAT?!?  How in the world was I going to pull that off?  After scrounging around in the basement burn box, I found a couple fiber berry boxes and thought, "Hey, that would make a great head!"  So the T-Rex was born.

Note that the kids help with design decisions such as COLOR!  I was thinking green . . . my son thought that was boring.  Since I already had all the crepe paper from Sister's butterfly, I wasn't complaining too much! 

The problem with having early successes at such projects is that people (read: kids!) expect you to keep surpassing yourself.  My daughter is no exception.  This year she requested, of all things, a PRINCESS piñata.  Really.  In pink, of course. 

I received advice to make just the head of a princess, but I personally felt that was cheating.  At this moment, I have a stuffed (over-stuffed, I think!) pink princess drying on my (unlit) wood stove.  I am including a picture here, but don't judge her yet.  She has yet to have her flowing dress, pink hair (I mentioned the kids help with the color scheme, right?!), and gold crown.  She's going to be stunning.  I hope. 

At least I have a PLAN for her.  As for the princess birthday cake . . . that is actually haunting my dreams.  (No kidding . . . I have literally dreamed about it for the past 3 nights!)  Good luck, Mama!

It's Potty Time!!

Potty training can be a nightmare.  With my son, it has been a 2 year process.  It is also an area where he expresses stress . . . notably by regressing.  We've had a lot of regression lately. 

When Ranita started potty training, I thought it would be a breeze.  He was eager, interested, successful.  We bought him his own seat and made a big deal about everything.  I read books on the potty.  We watched "Elmo's Potty Time" more times than I care to count.  We were on our way. 

Then one day he quit.  Cajoling, bribing, arguing, begging . . . nothing worked.  The kid refused to use the toilet . . . any toilet . . . for a YEAR. 

My pediatrician finally told me it was time, so I followed my sister's advice and tried the 3-day potty training technique.  It's pretty simple.  You clear 3 consecutive days in your schedule, put the kid in "big kid underpants," and clean up urine and feces for 2 1/2 days.  By day three, the child is trained. 

It worked.  Mostly.  Aside from aforementioned regressions. 

Enter Chinchita.  This one is a whole different ball game, and I could not be happier!  (As regards potty training ONLY!  They are both fabulous in their own ways, and I wouldn't change their uniqueness for anything!) 

My daughter, you see, potty trained herself.  Really.  She had watched Ranita's potty escapades and, like the go-getter she is, refused to be left behind.  She used the potty when she--or more rarely, I!--thought of it. 

I was not thinking about it much.  I frankly have had too much on my plate over the past 10 months to concern myself over my 2-year-old's potty habits.  My son had taught me not to rush things . . . they all potty train in their own time. 

Her time has come. 

One day she refused to wear anything but big girl pants.  We have had accidents: in the church nursery, at auntie's house, at the Sunday School teacher's house.  But dealing with the embarrassment of an accident was less of a hassle than trying to get her into a Pull-up, so deal we did. 

It seems like a surprisingly short period of time--2 weeks, maybe?-- but perhaps it's been longer.  I've been noticing this week that her accident-free days are becoming more frequent . . . and require less attention on my part. It wasn't until this morning that I knew I could declare her potty-trained. 

The three of us were working in the yard moving plants around.  (I'll write more about that another day!)  The kids were wandering from me to the sandbox and back again.  Suddenly she came running up: "I just peed on the potty!" 

"You just peed?" I replied.  "Did you have an accident?"

"No!  I peed on the potty."

"What?"

Oh yeah.  Six days shy of 3, the child stops playing, goes into the house, uses the bathroom, and comes back out to inform me.  All in about 4 minutes. 

THAT, my friends, is potty training success! Glorious day!! 

Good Grief

Most of us are familiar with the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  We expect grief when a loved one dies.  Perhaps we are wise enough to anticipate it in a divorce, which is after all the death of a relationship.  Do we also expect it in other traumas: abuse, a job termination, a serious illness?

I think we should. 

Over the past 10 months I have becoming well-acquainted with grief, sometimes without even realizing it was grief sitting beside me.  One thing I am unhappily discovering is that each event owns its own grief.  You cannot shorten the process, no matter how you may want to.  Neither can you dictate how to grieve....the process drives you, not the other way around. 

Some people may experience mostly anger, some mostly depression.  You may handle one situation in a completely different manner than another.  My recent experiences with grief include my divorce and another family trauma I am not at liberty to discuss at this time.  

(This second is also the reason for my suddenly-sparse blog entries.  Please be patient with me as we work through this!  I look ahead to a time when I can again blog meaningfully and prolifically!)  

With these events I experienced a short bout of denial, a poignant attempt at bargaining (mostly of the "why didn't I do X, Y, or Z to avoid this situation?!' variety), an intense period of anger, a significant depression (primarily marked by unrelenting fatigue and irritability), and finally peaceful acceptance.  

At least, I had come pretty close to the acceptance stage as far as my divorce was concerned.  I wasn't angry.  I had stopped playing the "what if" game.  I was feeling happier, working more efficiently and joyfully, and looking forward to my new single mom life.  I had even grown thankful for the unexpected "benefits" of divorce: a few hours a week to rest, work, and do home maintenance while the little ones enjoyed Daddy Days.  

Then the boom got lowered.  

Had I pondered the issue before, I might have concluded that a person undergoing separate heartaches simultaneously could somehow morph both griefs together, suffering "once for all," so to speak.

No such luck.  

Suddenly I find myself back in the grieving process, this time mourning not only some long-held expectations and dreams but also some of my newly-acquired ones.  

For the past few weeks, I've been berating myself for my sudden fatigue, wondering why I was dealing with the emotions I had felt at the beginning of my divorce.  Why was I not past this already?  

It was just yesterday that I realized my emotions are to be expected in light of a new trauma.  The fact that it is occurring at the tail end of one grieving process does not suggest that it could--or should--be folded into the other and easily dismissed.  Nor does it mean I am backsliding in my post-divorce healing. 

No.  

Just as my divorce claimed its own time, so does this new event. And it makes sense.  Would I want my lawyer, for example, to put less time or energy into my divorce because she was also concluding another?  Not hardly.  So it is with grief.  Each trauma deserves to be recognized, acknowledged, named, and grieved on its own merits, not shortchanged because the timing is inconvenient.

I am finding this to be both comforting and a little disappointing.  

On the comforting side, it's nice to know I am demonstrating the normal responses to abnormal situations.  I don't like it, however.  I am normally a high-energy, up-beat person.  I was starting to see glimmers of her returning, and to feel as if she has retreated into the shadows again is most annoying.  

I have the tools to handle this second blow, though.  My counselors, my family, my friends, and most of all my God are loving on me and my children in amazing ways.  And I am letting them.  I am taking the offers of childcare so I can temporarily work at jobs that require less mental flexibility than writing.  I am taking rest when I can.  I am snuggling with my little ones and working in my gardens.  (Look ahead for a post on that!)  

My fellow grievers, follow my lead.  "Be gentle with yourself," as my counselors say.  Listen to your body, your spirit, your mind . . . and obey their commands.  Give yourself license to grieve.  Do not burden yourself with recrimination.  

And when God occasionally blows you a kiss--a funny comment from your kids, a pumpkin pie from your neighbor, a caring email from a distant friend--grab hold of it.  Breathe it in.  Rest in it.  Even if you must do so with tears. 

Driving 101

I've been doing quite a bit of traveling lately and, quite frankly, I think it is time many of my fellow drivers take a look at the old driver's manual again.  Now, I should preface by saying everyone has an off day now and again.  We can all recall, usually with a wince, a near-miss or two that would have fallen squarely on our own shoulders in the guilt column. 

Having said that, there are a few matters of driving etiquette I'd like to discuss.

1. Red Lights.  Folks, these are NOT suggestions.  Nor are STOP signs.  Do I really need to tell you why barrelling through a light after it has turned red is a bad idea?  We all have the occasional "it was yellow when I started under it" moment, but that really should be a rare occurrence if you're actually paying attention.
2. Blinkers.  I don't get the general aversion to using blinkers.  Perhaps people just don't like feeling as if they are required to communicate with perfect strangers?  I don't know.  I can only say that there are few driving peccadilloes that annoy me like people suddenly jamming on their breaks in the middle of traffic to take a left turn I didn't know they were about to execute.  For those of you who really have an issue with your blinkers, I have a suggestion: use your middle finger to tap it up or down and tell yourself you're flipping me off on the sly.  You'll feel like you told me off; I'll know what you're doing on the road; and we'll both be happy!
3. Tailgating.  Riding the bumper of my Subaru will NOT make me drive faster.  It will, however, make me stubborn.  As for flashing your highs while riding my butt . . . I am more likely to get beside some big tractor trailer truck and park there than to speed up . . . especially if my kids aren't in the car.  (I don't risk road rage with my kids for anything.)  Just be patient.  I'll move over when I get the chance.  I promise!
4. Driving over 80 mph.  Unless your wife is in labor and about to start pushing or you wear a badge, plus 80 is just plain ridiculous.  Out in Nevada where there's nothing for miles, maybe.  In Rhode Island?  Give me a break.  And in a Honda nonetheless? 
5. Motorcycles.  I like motorcycles.  I grew up riding my dad's old Honda Trail 70, and I never felt cooler than zipping around the farm as fast as I could without spilling.  (Or faster than I could without spilling, as the case may be!)  It behooves all drivers to be aware that motorcycles can easily get lost in a blind spot and to keep an eye peeled for them at all times.  HOWEVER, a motorcyclist riding up the breakdown lane and weaving in and out of traffic at speeds in excess of 80 mph (see number 4 above) while wearing cutoff shorts, sandals, and a tank top (without a helmet!) CANNOT blame the poor driver who hits him.  Respect goes both ways.  (No, I have NEVER hit a motorcyclist!  I pray to God I never do!  Biggest driving fear next to hitting a child on a bike or a skateboard.)  
6. The Horn.  I like my horn.  A lot.  I use it to say goodbye to my kids when I leave them with a sitter.  I use it to say hello to my friends when I drive by their houses.  I have even used it on a flock of arrogant geese who refused to let me out of a farmyard.  I do NOT use it to tell someone to drive when they are stuck at a red light (see number 1 above) . . . or behind a person turning left on a busy road . . . or because I've had a bad day and feel the need to take it out on someone I don't know.  We're all doing our best out there.  Unless someone is in danger of crashing into you or someone else, take it easy on that thing in the steering wheel.  
7. Blue lights.  I admit they look cool, but they KILL my eyes!  Unless you're a police officer, I just don't get the need for them.  
8. Waving people through.  This is a tough one, because I admit to appreciating a wave-on when trying to get out of Dunkin' Donuts at coffee hour.  However, I have also been tail-ended when someone in front of me waved someone out and the person behind me didn't notice.  In addition, I've had well-meaning Samaritans try waving me into oncoming traffic and then blare their horn at me (see number 6 above) when I neglected to take the bait and become responsible for being broadsided.  In most cases, just keep driving.  I'll get out eventually. 

So there you have it, the big things that make me crazy when driving.  I won't swear at you.  I won't flip you the middle finger, even when using my blinker.  I may toss you a business card with my blog address and this post highlighted on it! 

Drive Safely! 

When Come The Locusts

Joel 2:25 reads: “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten—the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm—my great army that I sent among you."

While thinking about this passage--and the past 9 months--I wrote this poem: 

 When Come the Locusts

They blow in on the west wind

A couple weeks before the harvest. 

In ones or twos they appear,

Few enough to dispose of underfoot,

Satisfyingly,

With a

Crunch.

Pop. 

Negligible. 

All at once the air is black with them:

The sight of their winged bodies swarming,

The sound of their winged bodies buzzing,

The feel of their winged bodies assaulting,

Relentlessly,

Man.

Beast.

Crops. 

Inescapable. 

They do not remain long.

Like bombers on an evening run

They race in from the darkness

To ravage everything in their wake.

Ravenously

Chomping.

Tearing.

Ripping.

Inexorable. 

In an instant they are gone. 

Behind them lie despoiled

Acres of wheat and rye

And hollow-eyed peasants

Incredulously

Staring.

Praying.

Weeping. 

Inconceivable. 

So begins a season of want,

A season of penury,

In which there is no cash for luxuries,

In which all things become luxuries

Seemingly:

Food.

Clothing.

Heat. 

Pitiable. 

This is not the end, however.  

Among them are those who persevere,

Who scrape together enough

To start over once again.

Heroically

Sowing, 

Growing,

Reaping. 

Invincible. 

"Good-Enough-to-Wake-Up-For" Stir Fry

I know I promised not to turn this blog into a food blog, and I won't, but tonight I made possibly the best stir fry I've ever made and thought I'd share it.  (Mind you, stir fry was one of the few things I cooked that my ex actually complimented!)  And tonight my daughter woke up from a late nap just long enough to eat supper before going right back to bed.  I think that's a commendation . . . !

I don't really use recipes for stir fry, but I generally start with a few basics.  (I used to julienne everything, but once the kids came along I found bite-size pieces to be preferable.)  They are:

• Kielbasa (You simply CANNOT go wrong with ANYTHING made with kielbasa!)
• One onion 
• One red pepper (or any color but green . . . I almost NEVER use green peppers)
• One clove garlic
• Mushrooms (I usually use canned mushrooms because I can have them at-hand without wasting them.  Tonight I used Maitakes I had frozen courtesy of the guys at RI Mushroom Co.  SO AMAZING!!!)
• One can of beans (The kids requested black beans . . . good choice!) 
• One stalk celery
• Olive oil for sautéing (I've been known to use almost any kind of oil except vegetable . . . go figure.)
• A heavy splash of Worcestershire sauce (Again, I generally throw in soy sauce as well, but tonight I went bare.  The mushrooms spread through everything and were flavor enough.)

I have been known to throw in frozen string beans, corn, and/or carrots, but not tonight.  My ex liked stir fry over rice, but I'm not a huge rice fan, so I don't make it.  As long as I toss the beans in I figure it's a complete one-skillet meal.  And who's going to complain over less clean-up?!

I also tend to leave the veggies a bit al dente.  I like there to be just enough crunch to feel like you're eating FOOD . . . and I appreciate each element retaining some of it's own texture, making each bite a little different. 

I eat my stir fry with a fork.  (I also use chop sticks, but I don't bring them out with the kids because I hate seeing my food dropped on the floor!)

My son is a different story.  At first he was leery of the Maitakes.  (I think it's the texture . . . my kids are big on texture.)  I told him the idea was to eat a bunch of different things in the same bite.  True to form, he decided to eat stir fry as a sandwich. 

He started with a celery piece, layered it with Maitake, and topped it off with a black bean.  The part of me that is trying to inculcate good table manners wanted to remonstrate.  The part of me that wants my kids to eat healthy food was glad he was eating.  The latter part won. 

Naturally, Ranita's approach takes longer than using utensils, so I was finished while he still had quite a ways to go.  I wanted seconds.  Seeing as I have now practiced yoga two consecutive days and am already feeling results, overeating didn't seem like a good idea. 

So I had dessert instead! 

Oh, yeah.  One kiwi, cubed, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with rich, chocolaty Ovaltine.  Can I just say that fresh fruit and whipped cream (and ANYTHING with chocolate!) is the best treat ever?!  Are we surprised that my son asked for a second kiwi? 

This supper probably won't find its way into a cooking magazine, but it's awesome comfort food . . . without the comfort food guilt.  (Some may think kielbasa "unhealthy," but I say all meat is good.  Besides, the beans help counteract the cholesterol, so it evens out!) 

Happy supper!