Exponential Curves

For those of you who didn't take Calculus, let me briefly explain the exponential curve. Each equal point on the curve is twice the distance of the point before it. How does this relate to ordinary life? For a mother, this means that while two children are twice the work of one, three are four times the work of one, or twice two. When the children are four years apart, or nearly, as ours were, it seems the curve increases.

Let me go back in time, even though this particular memory is uncomfortable and embarrassing for me. It's worth recalling, so it won't be lost in the mists of time. Someone, though I don't know who, once said that everyone has value, even if just to serve as a warning to others. Here's your warning.

I had just produced our third son: Benjamin. He was tiny. He was sleeping. I was recovering from a C-Section, and newly home from the hospital. John was at work, and it had seemed like a long day. Jeremy, not four yet, wanted to go outside to play, but we lived on the corner, and he wasn't allowed to go out unattended. Tighe, at seven and a half, knew about busy streets, and was permitted in the front yard with his friends. It sounded like he was having a grand time out there with a couple of friends. Jeremy was not happy, and was letting me know it.

Tighe was never forced to take along his brother, since I remembered the animosity of my sister when forced to include her "little sister," a whole 17 months younger than she was. This day, however, I needed to get dinner ready for John's imminent arrival, and didn't have any patience left for a frustrated little boy who refused to understand why he was excluded from the fun in the yard. I called Tighe in and told him that it wouldn't kill him to include Jeremy in the fun for awhile. He wasn't pleased. He wasn't amused. He wasn't gracious. He was, however, obedient. 

I listened at the door for a few minutes. I heard the teasing from Tighe and his friends, but felt it was moderate and that Jeremy could handle himself. After all, it was important to let the children deal with their own problems to a certain extent.

As I started dinner, the front door banged open, and Jeremy tearfully ran into the house, lifting his little face to me. "Tighe called me the F Word." 

"What?!?" I ran outside, not wanting to believe what I had heard. I marched over to Tighe. "Jeremy said you called him the F Word. Did you?" Tighe admitted that he did. I looked at his friends. Pointing at each, I ordered them home. "Go home — NOW!" I yelled. I grabbed Tighe by the shirt collar and dragged him into the house.

Some things are simply not acceptable. I had had a bad day. This was shocking and one thing too many. The fighting and sniping were bad enough, but this was simply unacceptable! I hauled Tighe over to the couch, stripped off his jeans and was on about the third smack on his bare bottom when John came rushing in the front door, hearing the screams. At this point, Tighe and Jeremy were both crying loudly. "What is going on here?" he demanded.

Before I could open my mouth, Jeremy yelled out, "Tighe called me a Freak, and Mama's killing him!"

I don't know if you've ever tried wiping red hand prints off an innocent child's bottom, but it can't be done. You also can't really explain to a not quite eight year old how you could make such a mistake. 

That night I learned an important lesson. When a child said he was called the B word or the S word or whatever, I always gave them permission to say the word completely "one time and only one time." 

That evening I skipped several points on my own personal exponential curve, with both feet dragging. I'm not sure I ever completely caught up. I never felt good enough, as a mother, as a house keeper, wife, or anything else. Well, almost anything else. The only area where I really knew I aced every test was the love quotient. I wouldn't have traded my kids for any others I had ever met. I still feel that way. I love my boys, and they are three blessings in my life that have been constant and heart felt. Through trials and triumphs, they live in my heart.

Some day they will understand (and perhaps having a daughter of his own now and another on the way, Benjamin might already have a glimmer of this truth) that I learned far more from them than they ever learned from me.

Thinking Back

I had decided to start posting memories, and was going to start with some of the funny things that happened as a young mother, but I thought I'd better get some of the really old stuff out first. 

When I was a kid, one of the things my dad did was to mangle nursery rhymes. I'm not sure how this got started, or when. I don't even know if they were original to him, but I suspect some were and some were not. I've often quoted my favorites and been asked to write them down, which I've very nicely neglected to do (lo, these many years). So, Sherrie, since you're the one who asked the most often, have fun with these. 

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

And all the King's horses

And all the King's men

Had scrambled eggs for breakfast again.

.-.

Old Mother Hubbard went to the closet

To get her poor daughter a dress.

And when she got there the closet was bare

And so is her daughter, I guess.

.-.

Mary had a little lamb.

Her father killed it dead.

Now Mary takes her lamb to school

Between two chunks of bread.

.-.

Now this one you'll have a hard time believing, but I swear... I was told to learn 'the poem' that teaches the number of days in each month. It was homework. My mom was busy with something, I don't remember what, and I asked my dad. Here's what he taught me:

30 days have Septober

April, June and No Under

31 have all the rest

Except for Grandmother

Who drives a Cadillac.

I got sent home from school with a note saying that I had failed to learn the poem teaching me the number of days in each month. My father wrote back that the poem I recited was the poem as he learned it, and that if she had another poem in mind, she should do the teaching herself. Luckily, I wasn't at that school very long.

Hopefully I'll be able to add to these as the days go by. Right now these are the ones that come to mind, but I know there were more. It's always interesting, though, to see how a person comes to be the way they are. People are always saying things like, "The apple doesn't fall very far from the tree," and things like that. Maybe so, maybe not. It's the nature vs. nurture thing in part, but as you get a clearer picture of how I grew up, I just have to ask: don't I seem more normal now? Don't I? Well, never mind. 

My first Mac

I got my first Mac back in the days when PC users had never heard of Windows. John was still using MS-DOS commands, and argued against me wasting my money, carefully saved from my job at that company in Calabassas. He told me in his best "I am a Missile Design Engineer" voice that the Macintosh was only a toy. I spent the better part of two weeks getting it set up the way I wanted, with Icons lined up and organized by work type, and files spring-loaded to open at a mouse click when needed. Of course, John had never used a mouse. He also never touched my Mac. After all, it was only a toy and he was a mighty engineer.

One night I went to bed first. As I lay there in bed I heard the chimes. Well, I thought, smiling, John's going to try out my Mac! Then I heard silence. Then I heard a mild expletive, followed by more silence. What? Then I heard a somewhat less mild word, having to do with the substance babies put into their pants regularly. I started to worry. More silence. This was repeated more loudly, followed by John stomping down the hall. 

"Somehow," he shouted at me, as if it were all my fault, "I've managed to erase your hard drive!" I jumped out of bed, racing down the hall. All I could think of was the many nights after work, when I'd race through dinner just to spend hours getting things set up the way I wanted. I reached out and grabbed the mouse, double-clicking on the drive icon. It opened up with everything in order. I looked at John and he stared blankly at me. 

"How did you do that?" he asked. It was just too easy. He had been trying to type in commands to make it open. He just could not comprehend that anything could be so simple. The PC mind has struggled with the concept ever since. I love it. 

It's a Mac Mac Mac Mac World

An article I once read was written like a "he said/she said" argument about Macintosh vs. PC computers. Each writer had a say, with the other making a rebuttal and then an additional comment. The final PC comment was that there were far more PCs in the world than Macs. The Mac writer replied that there were more cockroaches in the world than people, but that that didn't make them better. I've laughed about that article for years, and this week really made me feel again the joy of having my Mac, and the truth of that article.

I finally took my six year old Mac in for a tune-up. I have never had that done, but there were a few small problems and I wanted to know for sure if it was a small problem or a large one, and whether or not I could get another year out of the machine before getting a new laptop. It only ended up costing me $90, but the repair was done in Boulder, and meant that I spent a week without my machine ensconced on the special computer table in front of my easy chair.

To make my life easier, so I could still check email and blogs, pay bills, update my iPod and whatever else I needed to do, John brought up his PC laptop and put on my little rolling desktop. I'm really grateful. Really I am. Actually, now that we got my Mac back today, I'm even more grateful.

PCs are so annoying. Why do you have to hit so many keys to make them do simple tasks? Why can't you put a degree mark in a recipe's oven temperature or put an accent mark over a letter in an author's name without looking up its ASCII code?

It seems that in the past ten years Microsoft has spent an incredible amount of effort trying to become as Mac-like as possible while still missing the point of the entire Mac experience. I remember the great decision at our corporation that perhaps the designers should switch to PCs. We did cost analysis studies, made projections, had meetings... Wouldn't it be better if we were all the same? Used the same stuff? After all, everyone else used PCs, so why support these other machines?

We went through everything, checking off the relative costs. At the very end of a three-month study, we contacted the three color houses we used to tell them of our pending decision. What did they all say? Sure, you can switch. We'll still accept your work. However, we will no longer guarantee that what you give us will match what you get back.

Say that again? Yes. When two people who don't speak the same language use an interpreter they never know if the nuances of their speech are quite accurate. So it is with 4-color processing on the PC platform. Windows is a shell that goes over the MS-DOS platform. Macintosh is a WYSIWYG (what you see is what you get) form of Graphical User Interface, which doesn't use an interpreter at all.

So do I own a PC? You bet I do. I use it every year to do our taxes. And sometimes I play a game or three of solitaire if I'm down there waiting for something to print or come out of the dryer.

As I sit here typing this moderate rant, I notice that my nice little laptop realized, without any help from me, that it was time to back up my information. Without bothering me, interrupting me, or slowing me down, it's quietly sending changes made on my internal drive to a remote drive. Isn't life sweet in a Macintosh world?

The White Lie Cake

This morning my wonderful "old" friend, Pastor Stan, sent me a story that was too good not to share with everyone. It's the first time I've received a joke that I wanted to post on my blog. This one I just loved on so many levels. Enjoy...

The White Lie Cake

Alice was to bake a cake for the Church Ladies' Group in her new city, but forgot to do it until the last minute. She remembered the morning of the bake sale and, after rummaging through cabinets, found an angel food cake mix & quickly made it while drying her hair, dressing, and helping her son pack for Scout camp.

When Alice took the cake from the oven, the center had dropped flat and the cake was horribly disfigured. She thought, "Oh dear, there is not time to bake another cake."

This cake was important to Alice because she did so want to fit in at her new church and in her new community of friends. So, being inventive, she looked around the house for something to build up the center of the cake.

Alice found it in the bathroom - a roll of toilet paper. She plunked it in and covered it with icing. Not only did the finished product look beautiful; it looked perfect!

Before she left the house to drop the cake by the church and head for work, Alice woke her daughter Amanda and gave her some money and specific instructions to be at the bake sale the moment it opened at 9:30 and to buy the cake and bring it home.

When Amanda arrived at the sale only a couple of minutes late, she found the attractive, if imperfect, cake had already been sold. She grabbed her cell phone and called her mom.

Alice was horrified. She was beside herself. Everyone would know! What would they think? She would be ostracized, talked about, and ridiculed! All night, Alice lay awake in bed thinking about people pointing fingers at her and talking about her behind her back.

The next day, Alice promised herself she would try not to think about the cake and would attend the fancy luncheon/bridal shower at the home of a fellow church member and try to have a good time. Alice did not want to attend because the hostess was a snob who more than once had looked down her nose at Alice because she was a single parent and not from the founding families of her city but, having already RSVP'd, she couldn't think of a believable excuse to stay home.

The meal was elegant, the company was definitely upper crust and, to Alice's horror, the cake in question was presented for dessert! Alice felt the blood drain from her body when she saw the cake!

She started out of her chair to tell the hostess all about it, but before she could get to her feet, the Mayor's wife said, "What a beautiful cake!"

Alice, still stunned, sat back in her chair when she heard the hostess say, "Thank you. I baked it myself."

Alice smiled and reminded herself, "God is so good."

Good Friends, Good Food

A large group gathered at Matt & Heather's today - we were included. There were Matt & Heather with their 5 kids; Joe & Heather with their 5; Dave & Heather with their four; Marv & Sharon; Aunt Dale and Great Grandma M; John & me... I don't think I missed anyone, but if I did, they were probably named Heather... The new twins were dressed and blessed, and then the feast began.

Food. Everything was marvelous. It seems each of the ladies has a specialty, and there were plenty of requests for recipes going around. I hope the Heather who made that wonderful sweet potato casserole remembers to pass hers along. I have no idea what that crunchy topping was, but it was the best I've had. It was like eating a sweet potato pie. Which brings me to my contribution - I made pies.  

So to keep my promise, here's the recipe for my Lemon Chiffon Pie. It's easy.

LEMON CHIFFON PIE

Make a graham cracker crust. (Massacre 8 graham crackers in your food processor; with a fork, stir in a small bowl with 5 Tbsp. of melted butter and 2 Tbsp. of sugar until blended; press it into shape in a 9 inch pie pan with the bottom of a glass and bake at 350° for about 25 minutes.) Set the crust aside to cool.

1 14-oz can Sweetened Condensed milk (NOT Evaporated Milk)

1/2 Cup Lemon Juice (Tastes best if free lemons are used)

Optional - add a couple drops of yellow food coloring to make it more yellow

1 Cup (1/2 Pint) whipping cream, 

         whipped with 1 Tsp. vanilla & 2 Tbsp. powdered sugar

1. In medium bowl, combine Sweetened Condensed Milk, & lemon juice (plus food coloring if you want to use any). Stir until well blended.

2. Whip cream into peaks. Gently fold into the Condensed Milk mixture.

3. Pour into the baked crust and chill at least three hours to set. You can serve it with more whipping cream if you want, but it's fine just as is. Best served with friends, of course.

Feeling Old

I never thought I'd be feeling old, since inside I still feel like a kid most of the time. In fact, some times just growing up is still a challenge to be faced daily. However... the difference between being fifty and being sixty really shows when you try to keep up with people.

We had the most wonderful visit here from our son Ben and his wife Ruth, bringing our wonderful granddaughter Ashley for her first visit to our home in the Rockies. I couldn't keep up. Worse yet, I got grumpy. I could visualize the clock ticking away on their short visit, while I was so exhausted I couldn't sleep at night. It was little consolation that Ashley seemed almost as weary as Grandma, but not much. 

I knew my condition was made worse by a decision to leave my smoking habit behind about three weeks ago, which pretty much destroys sleeping habits anyway, along with other minor considerations like attitude, patience, ability to breathe, think, reason — you get the picture. I don't know why someone didn't just hit me with a shovel. And I can still say it was a great visit. It needed to be longer and slower. It couldn't be.

They left on Friday, and then on Monday I called my doctor and said, "Hi. Remember how I wanted to quit smoking? Well, it's been 3 1/2 weeks now, and you can either give me something to help me sleep, or I'm done. It's not worth it." He saw me immediately. My blood pressure was way up. My pulse was racing. He said I looked exhausted. He gave me a prescription, a pep talk, and hearty congratulations. Then he said to call at any time, day or night, and to buy some lemon drops.

This morning we'll leave for California. I actually slept five uninterrupted hours last night, so I feel great. Normal for me is only about six anyway, and I've been averaging about two for three and a half weeks, so I'm happy this morning. So, Ben and Ruth, I sure wish I had thought to see my good doctor before you had come, but I just wasn't that smart. I guess I had to get really desperate first. Thanks for coming here. I know how little time you get for vacations, and we really loved having you here. Next time I should be more normal... but still old.