The Selkie Returns

For four days I was given back my skin--my Mary skin--and I left all the responsibilities of wife, mother, member of a busy community--and swam free and easy, basking in the sun and floating in the sea.  There is something more delicious than I can even say in this temporary freedom.  The bags under my eyes disappeared, the lines on my face eased, and my cheeks hurt from laughing so hard.  My skin drank in the irresistible and healing vitamin D from the sun (not too much this year, hallelujah, just a touch) and I found a stillness and balance for my life.

Sigh.

And then . . . 

I returned.

Shed my skin and took the shape of mother again.

And what a quick transition--Piper was violently sick while John was picking me up.  We came home to a lovely smell and an hours worth of cleaning (one child can indeed leave a serious trail of . . .).  As I was scrubbing the carpet, holding back dry heaves, nearly passing out from the horrifically late hour, I thought, Ah, yes, this is what I remember.   

This shape, this mother/wife/productive community member, isn't a bad one.  I have lots of warm bodies that love me up and make me laugh.  I have a good life here, one I want to return to.  Only . . . I have my skin, my other skin, tucked away and I plan on slipping into it more than once this year.   I'm already planning the next escape . . . 

Shedding:

essentials for the beach--good book (thank you Celeste! course, I didn't want to talk, swim, eat, or anything except READ!), water, bag, flippies, chair, and a sister or two (or three or four!)

How we guard against the wind (and make sure that sun warms us)--Jayne's ingenious idea.

The Players in this Escape

Making love to the camera:  Anne

sleeping (her favorite passtime):  Jayne

Working it prego style: Barbara

Bathing Beauty:  Doreen

Merry Escapee and possible mastermind:  Me

Producers of the Escapees

Drowsing Daddy

Beaming Mother

The Plan:  Have as Much Fun as Possible

A Perfect Tradition:  Dinner out on the Town

Sleeping, reading, chatting, being at the beach

Jayne Pushing us to our limits:  Yoga in 80 plus

Together time (keeping warm)

Giladreal and Grama (don't ask)

Shopping, of course, The differing Tastes

Spotty, bright, and a little edgy

Pregnant and floral

Conservative and girly (we added a bit of whimsy)

Bright and happy and simple (changed that too!)

Grandma Hippie

Our annual dip in the ocean (just a few moments before I got totally smashed by a wave--I'm still pulling sand out of my ears and hair and . . . )

Another year, looking better and getting smarter

Sisters' Reunion 2010

A Sigh of Relief

So, the poisonous gases will be taken care of and all our other repair requests granted.  

They owners said that they had also had the radon tested and were surprised by how high the levels were.  They can only guess that having the basement totally closed up (how you are supposed to properly test) was what really gave an accurate reading.   

Radon is a naturally occurring gas that rises from the core of the earth--it's in the air.  But some houses are on ground that is easier for the gases to escape.  The gas generally pools and collects in basements, which is why our realtor (blessed Merrilee), knowing that our kiddos would be sleeping there, STRONGLY suggested we test for radon.  Thank goodness we did.  Our reading was 8.5--EPA suggests you install a Radon pump in houses with readings higher than 4.  Yep, twice the amount.  So what the owners will do is get a radon person to come in, drill a hole in foundation and install a heavy duty vacuum that sucks the bad air out under the foundation and vents it safely out into the air (yes, does make you wonder what air we're breathing.

Now, to get that radon pump installed and a few weeks of good air and we're in a new house.  

Sigh.  Sigh.  And long sigh again.  Didn't realize how happy I'd be when this all resolved itself.

Now, I can fly off to be with my sisters, soak up some sun (if the gods permit) and dream of a NEW HOUSE.

Radon

Our new house is full of it.  Ick.  I guess radon cause all sorts of horrible health problems and of course cancer.  It's curable--it just cost money and takes time to actually get the levels down.

We're presenting this information to the sellers, but are unsure how they will react.  

Blah.

Well, if it's meant to be it will be.

If not, there are more fish in the sea?

Sob.  Sob.  Sob.

Free Spirit

Have you ever noticed that bad weeks usually end well?

I had a monumentally bad week this week.  Not anyone's fault, it just was bad.  John was out of town, Finn decided to take a hiatus from sleep, I decided to find the perfect couch, Phoebe got sick, and the weather was pooey.  Everything that could go wrong, did.  I got used to it.  Expected it even.  Food lost all it's appeal--something that hasn't happened in years, and sleep seemed like something that just wound up making me frustrated so why even try.  I moved through my days malnourished and woozy.   

Which was why when I passed my favorite guy standing outside the shop on State Street in Orem,  waving a sign I've never read, in one of his super bright ski suits, his wild white blond hair sticking up in eighteen different directions, singing at the top of his lungs, I shocked myself by laughing out loud.  

My spirits rocketed and I felt lighter than I had all week long.  

Why?

Why would this crazy guy (who is, by the way, is pretty darn cute--in a ski bum, wild way) make me so happy?

Free spirit.  

That's what my mind whispered.  He's a free spirit.  He stands out there, singing with his ipod, waving this sign like crazy, exuding life and energy and a sort of joy that I don't understand.  

But I used to.

And he reminds me of that.  

I was raised to be a free spirit.  My parents are free spirits.  They didn't do anything like they were supposed to.  In the middle of their early marriage, just after they had their fifth child (three more than they were supposed to), they sold their house, packed up their bags and headed off to live in Australia because it seemed the thing to do.  They nearly starved there, had another baby, lived in tiny houses, and ended up joining a radical church that asked them to give up the lifestyle they were used to and believe in miracles and boys seeing God.  They came home different than they left and bought an old house on a hill and raised eight children on next to nothing but love and words like "you can do anything you set your mind to" and "you're so smart" and "I'm so proud of you."  When the school system was failing us, they pulled us all out and became the radical new homeschoolers.   I remember some of the flack they got and yet they didn't budge.  They stood their ground.  Let the children run and be free and they'll end up learning at some point.  Nourish their spirits and their minds will follow.  Feed them well (all natural) and give them the outdoors and they will flourish.

I grew up equal parts ashamed and proud.  Why did I have to be the crazy one living on the hill with a house always half way done, cars guaranteed to break down or stall in the middle of a busy road, religious, and homeschooled?  And then again, why not?  Why should I have to follow all the set patterns?  They seemed so boring (and tempting). 

And that guy, that blond ski suited guy reminds me that I have that free spirit in me still.  When I'm living this supposedly normal life (which still amazes me), off kilter of course because I am genetically linked to my parents, that I am still a free spirit underneath my neat exterior.  I have a history.  

Which made me think, wait, what am I doing trying to follow this ridged pattern I've made for myself to maintain "normalicy"?  It's been a horrid week for all of us, so what the heck, lets watch a movie in the middle of the afternoon.  And who cares if it's an hour before dinner, cookies sound divine.  Let's forget homework for tonight and tell each other stories and just laugh.  Why not play a game or two? Dishes can wait.  You can't. Who cares about stupid test scores.  It's just one way of seeing you, I tell Celia.  You're brilliant to me.  You're talented.  Forget them.  Break down those rules, those norms, and find that free spirit.  Find that strange and beautiful joy that comes from doing what your heart tells you and not what you SHOULD do.  

Not always, but often.

So thank you, wild haired ski suit man.  Thank you for reminding me that inside me is still a free spirit.  And that if I teach them only one thing in their life, I want to teach my kids the freedom and joy that comes from being that person.  If only for just a little while.

Love and Caramel Popcorn

We will begin with Caramel Popcorn.



Before I married John I was what one could term as an extremest healthfoodest.  Meat was not to be consumed often--it was to be eaten only once a month or after extreme blood loss.  I could not fathom why people ate french fries or potato chips (all that OIL!) or consumed things like sugar and ice cream and white flour.  Then, ah, then, I came into the Thomas family where this whole world of delicious roasts and chicken dishes and homemade ice cream, cakes, cookies, and candies were introduced and I fell in love . . . with food.  But most especially with desserts.  The reason I didn't like them before, I discovered (and this goes for meat) is that I didn't know how to make them.  I actually still don't--John and his family make them for me!

But one thing I have learned how to make is caramel popcorn.  So last Friday--movie night, still LOTR--when asked what treat the kids wanted they all chanted Caramel Popcorn! and all our eyes went a little dreamy and our drool began pooling at the edge of our mouths.  Celia got out the air popcorn popper and began the popping as I heated the ingredients.  The house filled with the warmth of popcorn and melted butter and brown sugar.  John got the projector set up and the kids all climbed into their pjs and gathered their blankets (for covering faces when the orks appear) and with cups and bowls, we snuggled down, merrily munching away to an evening of swords, drama, and love.

And now, I will give you this recipe so that you too can have a perfect movie night.

Amanda's Caramel Popcorn

1 c of popcorn kernels popped (its a lot--usually two batches in the air popper).  Place popped corn into a large paper bag.

1/2 c butter
1c brown sugar
1/4 c corn syrup
1/2 tsp salt

place in a glass or microwavable bowl, cover and heat in the microwave for 2 minutes.  Take out and stir.  Place back in microwave and heat for two more minutes.  This mixture will be VERY hot!

Stir and then stir in:

1/2 tsp baking soda

now, once you add this, it will bubble up and become frothy and lighter colored.  This is good.

Now, with the help of someone else, pour this mixture over the popcorn in the paper bag.  It won't seem like much, but with a wooden spoon quickly stir it in the bag so that it covers all the popcorn.  Then roll down the bag and give it ten good shakes.

Then, return bag to microwave for 30 seconds.  You don't want to do it much longer or it will burn.  WE did that last week.  Silly me, I put it in for 1 minute and the whole center of the popcorn was a hard lump of black.  If you do burn it.  Rip open the bag and take out all black parts.  The rest should be fine.

This is how we make ours.  Hum, I wonder if I should make a little batch just to make sure I told you exactly the right directions . . . yes, yes that's a good idea.

House

Our House (it's much prettier than this photo)

Big old yard (lots of room for raspberries and gardens and bbqs)

(the reason we bought this house--Henry can't kick quite this far--yet.)

Entry way (piano room)

Kitchen/family room

Dinning area (kitchen, family, dinning are all one big room)

Family room (better shot)

More kitchen

And more (because, you know, it is the best room in the house.  We have plans of making it modern, but that's off in the future)

My favorite part--gas stove FINALLY

Our bedroom--wall o windows

Not our bed, but where our bed will sit

Master bath

Study

Guest bedroom

more guest bedroom

guest shower

hallways leading to basement (peek into laundry room)

stairs leading to basement

basement other wise known as:  Kid's Realm

Reading nook (toy nook)

Theater room (john declares it is now known as drum room)

Henry's room (bad photo--oops)

Finn and PIper's room (no door at present, but someday . . . )

Kids bathroom

PHoebe and Celia's room

Walk out basement mud room


Crazy, but true.  Now, fingers crossed that everything goes through.  March 1st is our closing date.

March marks a year since we knew our lives would change.  Crazy how much they do.

ahem . . .

. . . was that me complaining yesterday about personal space and time?  And wishing for a smooth ride?


Silly me.


Haven't I learned yet that to wish, yearn, desire with all my heart for something only brings on me a worse case of the problem?


Obviously not.


Because last night I got a taste of the lovely bug that had rendered four of my five senseless and moaning messes.  Yes, I was lying on my bed holding my hand over my mouth trying to stop the perpetual moans out of my own mouth (I will not tell them to hush again!) and was actually convinced a time or two that I was going to expire on the toilet.  I'm not sure if it's right or not, but I was praying for angles to come down and save me from this misery (healing or death--both were good by me).  John slept (well, shut his eyes periodically) on a pad outside the kids bedrooms as he raced from one room/child to the other (often simultaneously) catching the spewing.  Ew.  I just lay there listening to the tumult totally helpless to help at all, dealing with my own misery.


Helpless.


Humbled.


Regretting my whiny words and thinking about how much the littles where suffering and KNOWING exactly how they felt.  And mostly, thinking of the many trapped under buildings in dark small places in pain and fear, dying because there is no help in Haiti.  Or those sick and hurting without water or food, suffering so far beyond me and watching their loved ones grow weaker and being utterly helpless.


My pain and sorrow is nothing (not to me, but in the LARGE scale).


My prayers for help turned to prayers of supplication for those so far away from me.  I prayed for the workers, for the plane flying in, the boats, the doctors, the generosity of all of us.  The angels I was begging for to comfort me, I sent to those suffering in the dark.  


I thought about how much more I should be doing for them and for those around me who need help.  Why was I wasting so much time thinking about ME?  Obviously it got me one place--depressed.  Course, sometimes it does free good to just fester in self pity--but there is a cost.  


Let things go.  Be kind to those around me.  Try hard to say building things and express thanks.  And most of all, forgive myself when I don't meet my own expectations.


Those are the thoughts of a sick-o between trips to the bathroom at 2:30am.  And I find that tonight, better, still weak, but on the mend, they are good thoughts to carry with me and focus on this year. 


Now, I know I should have even thanked the sickness, but I . . . well, that was just a touch too much.  But today, surrounded on all sides by whiny, sick, weak, dehydrated breathed kids demanding everything from me who was in the same state, I kept thinking about those suffering, and found that my frustration and anger had evaporated and in it's place, gratitude.


It's a much better place to be.