That was mostly what we heard.  It was a question; (what is) that?  (can I have) that?  It was a statement;  What would you like?  That.  It was an exclamation; (look at) that!  If you had to choose one word, I guess that is a good one.

About the age of 2 and a half, shortly before Sarah was born, Timothy began to read out loud.  I say “began to read out loud” because thinking back, I suspect he had been reading for a few months before he worked up the courage to actually speak the words.   It happened all at once, reading and speaking.   I remember the day very clearly.  It was December, shortly before Christmas and Timothy and I were on our way to Allentown to do some shopping.   At the store, perched in the red plastic cart seat, Timothy pointed and announced “EXIT” very matter-of-factly each time we passed a red EXIT sign.   I thought he was remembering the word from Sesame Street’s exit, exit, exit clip.  On the way home, a little voice said “Till-gah-man”.   He read the street sign.  Phonetically.  I said something like “Yes!  But it’s pronounced til-man“

It was like the floodgates had opened.  Timothy started to talk in full sentences and read every thing he saw.   The only glitch was pronunciation.  Instead of hearing the words, he sees them and says them like they “sound”

When Timothy was about 3, we all got the flu.  He tried to tell us he was sick too.  He said “Mom, I have a stomach”.  Only what came out was “Mom, I have a stom ach” (“ach” rhymes with “hatch”).  We corrected him, asking do you have a stomach ache?  “Yes,” he replied, “a stom ach ACH”.

He still does this.  He was relaying a factoid to me the other day about a pop star who was caught lip  cinching.  I knew what he was trying to say…lip syncing. He still slips and says he has an ach and not ache. 

I don’t think quite so… well… literally.  If I read a word I have never heard pronounced I might pronounce it wrong, but if I hear it, it sticks.  Timothy is consistent.  No matter how many times he hears it or  we tell him it’s not ach, not cinch, he says it.

My neighbor once asked me if I wondered what Timothy’s though process looked like.   I have never read “Thinking in Pictures” (by Temple Grandin), but I suppose that must be what it’s like.    Every word  on a flash card in his mind, flashing like exit, exit, exit,  to be said exactly as it is spelled.

I know he is a very smart young man, but I fear his pronunciation will color other people’s perception.  Timothy is growing to be as tall as Gene… at almost 13 he can look me straight in the eye and wears the same size shoe as Aldo.   I look at my boy, the baby who was, and it makes my heart ach.

I meet a lot of true Artists who hide their talent like that.  They have fabulous paintings, beautiful needlework, fantastic photography or breath-taking hand crafted furniture around their homes.   When asked, they are modest.  It’s got an imperfection here, you see? They might talk about it among close friends, or maybe on-line, but for the most part, their talents are hidden from the world.

Crafters are, on the whole, a different bunch.  They seem to flit  from one “art of the moment” to the next.   They have a room full of puffy paint tubes, glitter spray, bedazzlers, needle craft items, beads,  felt, pom-poms, wreaths, fabric, yarn and the holy grail of Crafters, The Glue Gun.  They talk about it.  They have forums and groups that meet on alternate Wednesdays.  They have whole fairs dedicated just to them.  I think a lot of crafters are like myself… artists with a small “a”.   The Art is in the Heart but not in the Hands.   It’s so easy to cross the line from “folk art” to ticky tacky kitsch of the moment.

Yesterday, I brought up the Christmas decorations.   Aldo says I am not very organized, but I disagree.  At least when it comes to Christmas decorations.  I have all of the things  in neat boxes, labeled clearly with a black Sharpie.  “Small Lights!” proclaims one.  “Big Lights” says another… although I am not sure why I ever felt Small Lights needed an exclamation and Big Lights did not.  Perhaps I felt Big Lights was an exclamatory statement all on its own.  But I digress…

I brought up Small Lights! and Garland, Stockings & Unbreakable Ornaments.   I hung up some Small Lights! and garland,  and that is where I stopped.   Under the stockings and coils of glittery garland are a few cigar boxes.  The  flip top boxes of unbreakable ornaments hold more than the faint smell of Aldo’s grandfather’s cigars.   When I opened the first box, I cried.

Nan’s pom-pom doves holding  tiny olive branches and Gramma’s beaded gold and silver bells with  little tiny beaded clappers inside greeted me.  Clothespin reindeer cuddled up with felt elves.  Cross stitched Santas and lace angels peeked around miniature green and red bead wreaths and hand tatted cotton  snow flakes.   Some of these were Crafts of the Moment, some were things these ladies had true talent for.  Gramma’s bead work and Nan’s tatting were always perfect, highly detailed miniature works of art.   I never thought these little keepsakes would be such a strong reminder of what has been lost.

So, I cried and put them back in the box.   I will put them on the tree this weekend and try to rejoice in the love that went into each item, but for right now it’s too much.  I will finish the set of snowmen ornaments I am making to give with each gift and hope that one day years from now they will bring someone a flood of happy memories and the reminder that I loved them.

And, just for the record, I do not own a glue gun.

I admit it’s a little like a vacation.  I have not watched the news in two days, opting instead to watch decorating shows and  chick flicks late into the night.   The kids and I have had Thankful leftovers for dinner, and I let them have pumpkin pie and hot chocolate  for breakfast.   Cleaning seems to be much easier with one less person in the house.    The dogs seem to enjoy the extra room to lay on the bed with me.   I have enjoyed the quiet.  Who knew it was my husband who made so much racket?

Even when we are both home I don’t see him every minute.  We have what I think of as a fairly large home;  it’s easy to be separate.    Aldo withdraws from the family during the day.    He goes away from the chaos to lay quietly upstairs and read.   He goes outside to sit on the porch and smoke.  I often think that we are “together” but we don’t spend much time with each other.

But I hear him.   One would think I would not sleep as well without him.  The last two nights, I have surprised myself by sleeping until morning… something I nearly never do.  I realized this morning that it was because I did not hear Aldo snoring or fixing himself a late night snack or talking to the news commentators.    I did not  get up to turn the lights, radio and TV off, or to make sure the doors were locked because I knew no one else touched them after I did.

When I turned off the lights to go to bed, the darkness was complete save for the greenish light cast by the digital clock.  The children slept  soundlessly.  The dogs sighed a few times and cuddled up on the end of the bed.   I laid on the freshly made bed that no one had rumpled during the day and listened to the big clock in the kitchen.   In the silence of the night,  all the way upstairs I could hear it tick.

One of my favorite stories is from my mother’s family.  Mother’s family has been in the country for a long, long time.  I am the descendant of  trappers and traders,  Native Americans, farmers and original land grant holders.   This story is from when western Pennsylvania was the wild west, the edge of civilization.   The story is supposedly about my crazy grandmother’s grandfather.  There are many, many stories that are very similar, so even though  Grammaw had a knack for tall tales, there is little reason to doubt a good portion of it.

A long time ago, there were some farmers on the edge of the wilderness who heard awesome things about  Free Land of Plenty for the Taking just over the mountains to the west.  A lot of people were packing up their families and possessions and hitting the trail to bigger skies and opportunities.  I come from a long line of joiners, so of course a good portion of my family were swept up in the excitement.  My Great-something-Grandparents packed up their two lovely daughters and left as the snow was melting.

They did not go far, just to where the Ohio border would be, when they were attacked by Indians.  I suspect, being my family, that they most likely initiated the fight.   When they were soundly beaten, horses and daughters stolen, food pillaged and wagons burnt, they gave up the dream of Free Land of Plenty  for the Taking.   On the long walk home, they concocted a story about how they were just driving along innocently when they were bum-rushed by the Wild Savages.  They fought bravely, but there was no helping what happened.  The two girls were gone, most likely scalped and dead.

Years later, a French Trapper was hanging out with some Iroquois.  He went down to fill his water skins at the river before heading back north when he was approached by a pregnant young white woman dressed as an Indian.  The woman explained that she had been kidnapped along with her sister.  The Trapper took pity on the woman, and convinced the Iroquois to let the women go with him.  He then  helped the woman and her sister return to their family, where the woman was quickly married to her sweet heart (who had been pining away for her lo these many years) and gave birth to a baby boy.  The sister fell in love with the trapper, and ended up going to Texas where she became one of the wives of a famous guy who has a city named after him.

So, that’s where the family tree branch thins.  Was the baby really Iroquois?   Grammaw certainly looked Native American.  Way back in the day before Teen Mom, illegitimacy was hidden.   Should I go on with the family tree based on the husband, who may or may not be my true relative (he did do some awesome stuff, including founding a town that still bears his name, so that could be cool), or should I end it?  Was the woman really kidnapped or did she see her chance and run away with the Hottie Indian Brave?  In any case, this story has a place on my tree.

But they aren’t and they don’t.

I have complained about  gifts I feel are inappropriate, but really in the grand scheme of things how does that even matter one tiny bit?  At least they think about me enough to give me a gift.  I have complained that they never visit (with the great exception of my SIL Em, who thinks nothing of driving all over the place at the drop of a hat)… but really do I want them here all the time? (that answer is NO.)

It’s me.  I am the bad In Law.   I have issues.  I do not go to the giant  parties Em is fond of throwing that involve any sort of gift giving.   It comes down to money, or rather my lack thereof, and my growing misanthropy.  If it were up to me, if it weren’t for my kids,  I would bow out of Christmas with my In Laws completely.   I feel like everything they do is so over the top, so far out of my experience and reach that it makes me uncomfortable.

This year, my “little” SIL is getting married Thanksgiving weekend.   Her wedding will take place at a medium scale hotel two hours away  on a Saturday night (that’s another thing I don’t understand… what is with this family and doing things at night?  The bridal shower was at 8 pm!) (no, I did not go to that either).  There are a block of rooms reserved for guests to stay in, and there will be a very fancy sounding dinner served.  I am sure it will be beautiful.

Before we got the invitation, I was all for going.  I thought we could drive down in the morning, go to the wedding,  then come home.  I thought, being in a chain hotel, how fancy could it be?   Saturday night, black tie, $200 rooms (with the bridal discount)  is how fancy.   I did not RSVP.   Aldo wasn’t even asked to be in his own sister’s wedding, I cannot afford to suit us all up and buy a gift (or Christmas gifts for them in that case, all of us attending would eat up my whole gift giving budget for Aldo’s entire family plus some), why would I RSVP?  I told Aldo he can choose… give them the gift of our presence or give them a present.  Or, he can go alone,  sans tux, stay for the celebration, give them a smaller gift and come home.

Aldo’s family is very, very upset with me.  Of course they don’t understand.  I want to put a note in with the cash gift (because I checked the registry and cannot afford to give them anything more than one very nice, very plush looking  towel and what kind of gift is that even though everyone  should always carry a towel?) (and not panic) that reads “I wish you a life of love and happiness together.  I wish you a life full of plenty.  I wish you never, ever, ever have to choose between paying your bills and attending someone’s celebration”. But that would be tacky.  I’ll just sign it “Love, Aldo, Laura and family“.   Better for them to think I am just horrible.  I hope they never have to understand.

Michelle  always struck me as a little dramatic.

Obviously I am not an author.  I did think about it for perhaps two fleeting seconds, not long but maybe  longer than I fantasized about becoming a princess when I was 6.  I do not have the drive, the ambition, the focus to actually write a whole book.   I get self-conscious thinking someone I may know, someone I might see every day,  might read what I wrote.   NaNoWriMo freaks me out.   Short stories appeal to me; drabbles, six sentences, blogs, bits of prose.    I tell stories to myself  like viewing snapshots.  Sometimes I write them down, sometimes I  turn them over and over in my head for a few weeks as they slowly fade away into half forgotten ideas.

Michelle, on the other hand, became an author.  I picked up her book during the Summer of Chick Lit and Pink Covered Books.  The smiling face on the dust cover looked  familiar,  but Michelle  is such a popular name for my age bracket.   Even her last name was fairly common for the area.  But, no doubt, it was her.  I like to think that I may have inspired her over those two days over 20 years ago, put the seed of writing real life snapshots into her heart.

I may not be an author. .. but part of me is always  in words.

I was going to write this awesome closing blog about how motivated I have become over the last month and how blogging every day is just super awesome and cathartic… but…

There is a huge bowl of candy in my living room being steadily devoured by two make-up smeared children.

There is still insulation in my sun porch obstinately not in the attic where it should be.

The dust bunnies are forming a hostile take over.  I think I hear them muttering under the bed at night.

The Amazing Race is on, followed by Desperate Housewives and if I don’t hurry up during the commercial someone will change the channel and claim the remote is lost until the news comes on.  Priorities people.

I’m feeling unmotivated, so I’ll do the meme that I’ve seen on a few other NaBlos.

Things I hate that everyone else seems to love:

• Beer.  Blarg.
• Nascar.  Just never understood it.
• Televised sports.  Yawn.
• Most reality TV.  I get enough drama in my real life, thank you very much.  I do enjoy the Amazing Race, though I am not sure if that falls into “game show” or “reality”.
• Almost all chain restaurants.  This comes from having a cook for a husband.
• Black Friday shopping.    Maybe it’s a lot more fun with a credit card and a high tolerance for rudeness though.
• Automatic-everything cars.  When something goes wrong, it screws up everything and costs a mint to fix.
• Lawn ornaments.  In my yard, that is.  They are just dandy in other people’s yards.  Although I did see some skeleton flamingos I thought were really cool.

My father would laugh at me and say that I was born in the wrong decade.   If he could see me now, he would shake his head and wonder how I could live like I was straight from the Stone Ages.  When I tell people I don’t have a cell phone, they look at me like I am crazy.  We don’t get a reliable signal from here anyway, or so  I’ve been told by visitors.    If  my mother hadn’t given us a microwave we would still not have one (she got into a snit about boiling her water in a teakettle for Heaven’s sake what is wrong with you, I can’t believe you don’t have a damn microwave one chilly morning.).  Same for the cordless phone and answering machine (that was from my FIL who got tired of letting the phone ring while we were outside or unmotivated to answer) and an assortment of small appliances I apparently can’t live without.

Without a doubt, the microwave and cordless phone have come in handy, and if they broke I would more than likely go out and get replacements.    Ditto for the computer.   I still have my powder blue  Princess phone though, just waiting for a phone line to be run upstairs.

When I was small, my mother would sit for days hunched over her sewing machine.   She made all of my costumes, and a lot of my clothes (and curtains, and all sorts of other clever fabric craftyness).   I remember going to the fabric store, wandering amongst towering bolts of fabric (I was about 4.  Everything seemed to tower),  pressing my face against the fancy fabrics, smelling the poly blends,  hot sewing machine oil and dust.   I remember looking at the tracing paper puzzle pieces, wondering how they would fit together to make the drawn picture on the packet.

One year I was a  princess.  The fabric for the dress  was shimmery satin with an over-lay of silver star  strewn sparkle netting and lots and lots of itchy, rustling crinoline underneath to give it optimum princess poof.    The hat was transformed from stiff felt interfacing to a perfect cone of white with a long shimmering train of silver threaded floaty gauze.  It was awesome.   Another year I was a clown.  I wore a polyester jumpsuit with a hula hoop sewn in the waist and pom poms around the cuffs .  The dark green fabric was  replete with  giant white polka dots.  I remember the dots were smooth, hand sized iron-ons,  and not part of the fabric.

My mother would get almost as excited as I would.   After a rushed dinner, she would paint my face with poster paints and we would hit the streets with a mass of other kids.  There seemed to be a lot more kids trick-or-treating then, walking in herds of 25 or so, standing in line on the sidewalks to score a bit of candy.  By the end of the night, my poster painted face would be aging, cracking and peeling away to reveal candy smeared pink skin.

Now I am the mom, and while I do have thread and needle, sewing machines have a habit of bursting into flames when I am near.  When the kids were small, I dressed them in really cool hand-me-down, pass-around costumes from the other La Leche group kids.  As they got a little older, I would pick up a few things after Halloween on deep discount, throw it in a box and let them have at it to create whatever the following Halloween.

Last year, I picked up a really cool, sufficiently poofy princess dress for $2,  four sets of fairy wings (one each in green, orange, pink and purple) for 50 cents each, and  a few random wands and two masks for 10 cents each.  The princess dress did not make the cut this year, as it is still two sizes too big for Sarah, but one of the masks did.

Sarah is going to go as a black cat (headband with cat ears, eye-liner whiskers, black dress left over from a thrift store witch costume, black leggings and a black scarf tail).  Timothy is going to go as a scare crow (pumpkin head mask, old ratty flannel donated by Aldo with raffia “straw” hand sewn on by moi, jeans and a big straw hat).  I did buy the raffia and hat today… so this year’s costumes work out to about a half an hour of my time sewing “straw” along the cuffs and holes and $7 cash money.  Not too bad for “home-made”!  The kids seem nearly as excited as I used to get