Life with Momma Buns

My mom's slippers in the photo should give you a glimpse into what my mom, Bunny, is like. She has never fit into the cookie-cutter mold of moms, which has suited her fine and made our life interesting.  Those slippers of hers would've come in handy when we moved to Minnesota and she'd walk outside barefoot in the snow.

Mom thought everything was funny when I was growing up (no doubt fueled by the endless Erma Bombeck clippings plastered on our fridge.)  She'd chase me around the house with my younger brother's wet diapers, telling me they'd soften my skin.  She'd purposely send Amy, our slobbery bulldog, into the living room if I was sitting on the couch with a boyfriend, knowing full well Amy's gassy fumes would fuel any boy to leave the room within a minute of Amy's entrance.

She filled our home with music and laughter... and I had no idea every child wasn’t as lucky.  Of course I thought her rules were constricting, her concern for my safety, overbearing (as their only daughter, my parents now agree they went overboard.)  After graduation, on the day I turned eighteen, I moved out.  My parents had given me a suitcase for my birthday—I thought they were happy with my decision. Years later, mom said she was crushed by my decision.

Once I moved out, I thought their influence on my life was over, my need for them, history. Oh, how clueless I was! If anything, I needed my mom even more as an adult.  There have been times in my life I’d call my mom, crying so hard I couldn't talk.  In-between my sobs, she'd ask how she could help me.  And she did.  Every single time.

Mom could lead Do-gooders Anonymous; she’s been a constant volunteer for years, always doing for others and asking for very little in return from her family.  Nothing materialistic—just our time and respect.  And she’s about the most down-to-earth person you’ll meet.  Trusting, honest, and funny when she doesn’t mean to be.

Recently, I mentioned to my mom that my older brother, who is a genius (a constant surprise to me!) defied the statistics that babies who are nursed are smarter than bottle-fed babies.  “Oh, I nursed Chris,” mom said. 

“I thought you said you didn’t nurse us kids.”  

“I just didn’t nurse you, Jill.”  

Well, that explains why I’m not a genius.

My parents recently put their home up for sale.  While my dad was out of state, some strange man knocked on their door, asking mom about their house.  Even though they had it listed with a realtor, a sign clearly posted in their yard, my mom welcomed in this potential murderer-thief and showed him all around their home.  I didn’t waste my breath scolding her for being too-trusting.  It’s mom—that’s how she rolls.

  

Years ago, I worked in the loan department for a bank that got taken over by the government.  In all the stressful chaos, our secretary/receptionist quit.  So my extrovert mom volunteered to fill in until they could hire someone, thinking she could just visit with customers.  During that time, they brought in a new bank president.  One day he asked my mom to do some typing for him.

My mom informed him, “Oh, I don’t do typing!” 

Clueless, he came to me.  “What’s up with our receptionist?  That lady told me she doesn’t do typing.”  

Embarrassed, I told him that “that lady” was my mom, and to just give me the typing.

It wasn’t the first time my mom embarrassed me.  It won’t be the last.  I’m good with that—that’s how Momma Buns rolls. 

Remembering Erma

The woman who could make us laugh until we wet our pants, died eighteen years ago on April 22^nd, and life for most of us has been a little less hilarious since then.

​If you're under the age of oh, maybe forty, you might not recognize the name Erma Bombeck (and who could forget a name like that?) ​If you aren’t familiar with her writing, do yourself a favor, go pick up a copy of her book, Forever Erma.  It will make you laugh, cry, think, relate, and look at the world in a whole new way.  It is a perfect collection of her many newspaper columns spanning more than thirty years.

​I grew up with our fridge plastered with cutout articles from Erma's weekly newspaper columns.  She kept my mother somewhat sane, along with most of the other mothers in the world.  And she died way too young, at sixty-nine.

Erma was an imperfect mother—something every mother is; only Erma was brave enough to admit it to the world in her witty, relatable way. Erma was your typical “housewife” in the late 1950’s, starting a family, relinquishing her career as a journalist, and focusing all her time and energy on her three young children and husband. 

When she reentered the writing world, Erma’s weekly columns were eventually published by 900 newspapers in the U.S. and Canada.  And her books were as touching (I Want to Grow Hair… a book about children with cancer), as they were humorous (The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank.)

She was an inspiration to so many, for so many different reasons.  For me, reading that Erma failed most of her literary assignments and was rejected for her college newspaper, I realized if she’d have let that be the end of her writing career—the world would’ve enjoyed a lot less laughter.

I could list so many great Erma quotes, but I’ll end with one of her weekly columns that has graced my parent’s fridge for more than thirty years. 

The column is titled “The Listener” from February 26, 1977, and is about an elderly woman trying to strike up a conversation with Erma while waiting to board a flight to Chicago.  Erma writes how exhausted she was---all she wanted was to relax and just read her book.  But the woman kept talking, Erma kept mindlessly nodding… until the elderly woman says “My husband’s body is on this plane.  We were married fifty-three years…”   

Erma writes:  “I don’t think I have ever detested myself more than I did at that moment.  Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than the real-life drama at her elbow.  All she needed was a listener.  No advice, wisdom… just a minute or two for someone to listen.  It seems rather incongruous that in a society of super-sophisticated communication (this was in 1977!) we often suffer from a shortage of listeners.”

So, in honor of Erma, let’s all put our phones down, spend a little less time on social networking, and LISTEN to the person next to us – whether it is our spouse, our child, a neighbor, a stranger. 

Erma would be so proud of us. 

   

Do you have a favorite Erma quote or column?  What is it?

  

Unforgettable... that's what I'm not!

My husband has a poor memory, and is well-known for it. I used to think it was just things I told him that he’d forget.  Then I learned he's been this way since he was young; probably from one-too-many hits to the head during his football playing years.  As frustrated as I get when he doesn’t remember something I said, I'm glad of one thing:  he doesn't remember the exact details of every single thing I’ve said and done.  I'd never win an argument if he did!

I recently watched a program about the very few people who are "gifted" with Hyperthymesia—a condition where the person possesses an extremely detailed autobiographical memory of everything—whether they want to remember it or not.

I’m thankful I don't know anyone with that "gift".  I don't want the cold hard facts of my words or actions played back to me.  Those times when a throbbing headache might have made me a crazy woman over some random little thing, or a time when I thought I was saying something witty or clever and instead it sounded nasty.  My glaring “bad days” would flash like a strobe light in my loved ones brains.  Think about it… who of us is so perfect that we want every single thing in our life remembered?

My children are now in their early thirties, but I can still look back at their younger years and wish I’d have said and done a few things different.  What if they could remember, in great detail, all those mom-flubs of mine?  Would they readily forgive them even if they couldn’t ever forget?

In the TV program featuring people with Hyperthymesia, one was a boy about twelve years old.  It showed a conversation with his father, talking about his son.  “When he woke up the other day, he said ‘dad, this is a sad day.’  I asked him why, and my son said ‘we had a fight on this day last year and you yelled at me.’”  How sad! I felt awful for both the father and the son.  I definitely do not want anyone who knows me to have a steel-trap memory like that.

Imagine having an argument wreck a certain date for you each year, like a festering boil that never goes away.  Yes, I realize the pendulum can also swing the other way, and wonderful events can bring rainbows and sunshine to that particular date too.  But, because I’m a worry-wart, I choose to focus on the bad “what-if’s?”

So far, I have many wonderful memories from my life.  Am I remembering the events the way they really happened?  Probably not.  I’m sure the words are skewed, the pictures in my head, a little off.  But because they are my memories, I can remember as I want—without the “facts” getting in the way.

How are your memories?  Sharp and splendid?  Vague?  However they are, I hope they've become sprinkled with glitter, a little distorted and softened around the edges... memories that bring warm fuzzies ~ and unforgettable happiness. 

Moving On

I watched their faces, looking for any chink in their armor as my parents led my husband and I through what will likely be their new home at a retirement center.  I observed their quiet movements, listened to what they said.  And what they didn’t say. 

My brother’s and I have been “strongly suggesting” our parents move out of the home they’ve live in for nearly forty years, while they’re both still in decent health and of sound mind. I’m lucky—most people in their mid-50’s have already lost one or both parents.  I’m also a worrier.  Their current home with slippery steps leading to a cement floor basement has caused my overactive imagination to run wild every time I can’t get ahold of them, certain they’re lying in great pain on the basement floor while I’m hours away.

So they’ve agreed to take this step, and being the optimists they are, I knew they’d have a “Gee, this will be great!” attitude.  And they did.  Yes, the retirement home will mean no more mowing grass, no more shoveling snow, no more worrying if their pipes will freeze if they’re gone for a few weeks in winter. 

Yet they, like the rest of us, love their home.  We all have experienced that aaahhh feeling when we walk into our home after being gone awhile.  Everything is familiar and comfortable, because we’ve built that nest over the years, layer by layer.  It smells, feels, sounds, and is a reflection of us. 

It won’t be easy for them as they carefully sort through their accumulation of nearly sixty years of marriage, determining what to keep, and what to give away.

Back at their house, my mom and I go through a few things.  “If you see anything you want, take it.”  She says.  My husband and I don’t have room for “extras” as our family is growing every year with more (fantastic) grand-children.  The last thing we need is some small family heirloom too tempting for them to not touch.

Every family treasure mom shows me has a short story, and I see a look of sadness in her eyes as she is well aware they can’t keep it all.  I take a few small things, items I’ll cherish every day, even though I don’t need the family possessions.  What I really need is to know my parents will be happy and safe, so I don’t worry about them so much.  Somehow, our roles have been reversed.

We all have different chapters in our lives, times where we feel like we’re closing one door and opening another—with no guarantees for our future.  As my parents weed through their possessions to start the last chapter of their lives, I’m happy to know they’ll be able to bring with them the one thing that’s most important:  each other.

My trip to the Oscars

Sunday night, many of you will sit in front of your TV, eager to watch movie stars walk the red carpet, dressed to the nines, while they celebrate like its prom night.  And some will walk up on that stage and accept an Oscar for a performance that would likely dim in comparison to any outstanding performance you’ve given over the past year.

For years we’ve all lived vicariously through movie stars.  That’s about to change.  I’m not just watching—I’m joining in.  They already get paid wild amounts of money for the roles they’ve played.  Yes, they’ve done a great job. So have we.

Think about it.  If I was asked to dance with Bradley Cooper (Silver Linings Playbook), I wouldn’t expect any money… much less an Oscar.  Seriously, that’s a dream, not a job.

Same goes for canoodling with George Clooney in the space shuttle, (Gravity). Believe me, I’d do it for free... with no award required to live out a fantasy of mine. 

Look at your life.  All the times you’ve had to “grin and bear it.”  You probably deserved an Oscar for hiding your true feelings.  The time you kept your silence as your boss patted himself on the back for something you did.

Or when you gave birth.  Suffering through all that pain and anguish and acting like you never thought once about strangling your husband.

The time you pretended you absolutely loved your best friend’s boyfriend, even though he made your skin crawl.

Or the time your feelings were hurt by someone important to you who forgot your birthday, and you managed to act like you barely remembered it yourself.

The time your child stood on stage during his first grade school play and did nothing but pick his nose, yet you sat in the crowd with a smile pasted on your face as if you’d never been more proud.

All the disappointments.  Time’s you’ve been passed over for a promotion, not getting picked for a team, a committee… whatever your yearning might be.

Think of your children, or grandchildren.  I can vouch that every single grandchild of ours is worthy of an Oscar.  They can go from giggles and gut-busting laughter to full-body-drenching waterworks in the time it takes you to turn around.  And they can evoke such strong emotions from us (love, frustration, happiness...) just by "playing" themselves.  Clearly they’re doing a great job to bring that kind of emotional response from us to the surface.

Haven't we all given performances worthy of an Oscar?  I’m going to the Academy Awards and strutting down the red carpet—one way or another.  I’ve earned it—I bet you have too.

Remember to rehearse your acceptance speech, and keep it short.  You don’t want the orchestra to play you off the stage.  You want to be invited back next year.  I know I’m counting on it.

Olympic-size Dreams

As the Olympics draw near, I’m reminded of an old Glen Campbell song (stay with me, you'll see the comparison.)

In Glen's song, “Dreams of the Everyday Housewife”, the lyrics from the 1968 hit, “Such are the dreams of the everyday housewife, you see everywhere any time of the day, an everyday housewife who gave up the good life for me,” make me think of all the dreams and goals women have given up over the years.

We all grow up with dreams for our future.  They might be as simple as having a certain number of children, a dream job, living in endless sunshine, becoming a professional athlete... something, somewhere along the line, becomes a dream of what your life will be like when you "grow up."

Then “life” gets in the way.  Yes, some dreams are achieved, but many fall by the wayside. And even if we are able to pursue our dreams without a hundred obstacles getting in the way, one little thing can derail us in a second.  A heartless comment.  A bad day.  The gnawing feeling of failure.  It can all make us second-guess why we think we can succeed where others have failed.

Now, think of the athletes from every country competing at the Olympics.  The elite.  The best.  And all but one in each event could easily perceive themselves as a “loser.”  It’s hard to believe they’d think that way, yet many do.

In a study, Olympic silver medalists are generally less happy than Bronze medalists. Crazy, right?  It's the way they look at the results – the silver medalist just missed first place, while the bronze medalist is happy because they received a medal at all.

How can someone who has worked so hard, given up years of their life to hone their athletic skill, feel that way?  These are people who don’t give up.  “Quit” is not in their vocabulary. And they’ve done everything possible to reach for their dream.

That in itself is success. We also have people who’ve fought for the future even though they themselves won’t benefit.  Look at the upcoming Olympics.  There wouldn’t (finally!) be a women’s ski jumping event if it wasn't for the women before this, fighting for equal rights in sports. Canada's Katie Willis is one of the many women who fought for the sport to become an Olympic event.  And although she has retired from the sport (at the ripe old age of twenty-two) she’ll be cheering for the women who will make history this year in the event.

In life, we all feel down at times.  We have a bad day, things look like they’ll never be “up” for us again, and it’s easy to throw your hands up and say “I give up.”  Or, we do succeed at something, and then we keep setting the bar higher until our expectations are unrealistic.  When do we look at ourselves as a "success"???

And at what point do we give up on our dreams?  Have you given up on yours?

What is YOUR "ski jump"?  Mine is writing.  I can't stop—nor do I want to. What about you? Have you given up on something you wish you wouldn't have?  What stopped you from achieving your dream?  And is it too late?

 

Losing a best friend ~ in honor of mine

My best friend, Donna, passed away two years ago tomorrow, and her struggle with life in her last few years is what inspired me to start writing my first novel, THE TO-HELL-AND-BACK CLUB.

If Donna was alive today, she’d have been well-qualified to join that fictitious club!  Below is a condensed version of what I read at her funeral.  I’d like to share the kind of person Donna was—the person I was lucky enough to call my best friend.

I met Donna thirty years ago when our husbands played on the local men’s softball team.  We were both new to our small town, and instantly connected.  We shared the joys of motherhood, the sadness of leaving our girlfriends behind from where we’d moved, and our feeling overwhelmed at times in our mid-twenties with businesses to run and young kids to raise.  Donna became the sister I never had.

I remember when she first got Leukemia, twenty-five years ago.  I got a call at work, telling me Donna would likely not survive the day.  Hah, those Doctors didn’t know Donna!  As bleak as her outcome looked for a long time after that, what pulled her through were their young sons.  She didn’t want anyone else raising them and fought like crazy to get better.

Donna had many good years after that and we had a lot of good times.  Not only did we take trips as couples, going fishing, snowmobiling and even to the Cayman Islands, but Donna and I went on well over two dozen trips with our friends Sandy and Sharon.  Those trips cemented a bond between us four like nothing else could. 

Donnas’ determination and strong will could be frustrating at times, especially these last years when she was suffering physically and emotionally.  Many of us felt upset that we couldn’t help her—she wasn’t admitting she needed help and sure wasn't allowing us to help.  That determination of hers showed through right to the end though when her husband was trying to feed her the night before she passed away.  Even though Donna could no longer open her eyes, had trouble moving, and was fading in and out… big surprise, she insisted on feeding herself.  I watched her husband put the spoon in her hand and hold the bowl up to her, allowing Donna the little bit of control she had left of her life.

That same night, when I walked in the bedroom to visit her, she said weakly, “Well, Jill, I have some good news and some bad news.” 

I laughed through my tears and said, “Really, Donna, what possible good news could you have at this point?” 

“I’m still alive.”  She replied.  Positive to the very end.

When I think of what drew me to Donna the list is short but important:  She had a good sense of humor, was nice, thoughtful, a very loyal friend and a great listener. And she was a great cheerleader, always encouraging me to do things even if she couldn’t make herself do them.  Friendships usually have their ebb and flow times, but in the end, I always think of a particular situation I had with Donna years ago when three of us couples went to the Cayman Islands.

There was a storm brewing one day, and the beach was clearing out quickly.  The dark waves got bigger and bigger, and although just about everyone else had the common sense to leave the beach, the six of us were young and foolish.  I’m pretty sure it was the men’s idea to try swimming into the gigantic waves.  So we did.  The men went out as far as they could, Donna, our friend Denise, and me stayed closer to shore. 

It didn’t matter.  Those rolling waves and undercurrent knocked us down time and time again as we tried holding hands and standing up.  We had sand packed into every crevice of our body from the strong force of the storm but it didn’t bother us, we were having fun.  I was a little nervous since both Denise and Donna confessed they weren’t exactly strong swimmers. I can’t tell you how many times our legs got knocked out from underneath us, and I had one of them on each side as I tried to drag their laughing, sorry, bodies closer to safety. 

Just as I was thinking we’ve got to stop this before someone gets hurt, a fierce wave knocked me down, sucked under and away from Denise and Donna as the undercurrent pulled me out. I was sure that was it for me! Suddenly I felt arms fumbling around me, reaching for me and dragging me to safety.  Donna and Denise, the not-so-strong swimmers, had managed to get to me and pull me in.  Just like friends do, reaching for each other when they're down, when waves of life threaten to destroy us, girlfriends have a strength that rivals the ocean to reach out and keep us from drowning, lifting us back up when we need it most. I’ll always wish I could have done that more for Donna.

  

Resolutions - Horton's Way

     When I think of making New Year’s resolutions, I can’t help but think of Horton the elephant, from the children’s book “Horton Hatches the Egg.” 

      For those of you who’ve never read the book, Horton is tricked into sitting on a bird nest by the lazy mother (who ditches Horton and her egg and flies to Palm Beach.)  Horton sticks it out, despite many obstacles, often chanting “I meant what I said, and I said what I meant” (an elephant’s faithful one-hundred percent.) And when the egg hatches, the creature emerges as an “elephant-bird” and goes to live happily with Horton in the jungle—Horton’s reward for sticking to his word—while the lazy bird ends up with nothing. 

      Which is what happens with our resolutions.  If we put nothing into them, we'll end up like the bird with nothing to show from our lack of effort.  Statistics show that only 40% of Americans even bother with a New Year’s resolution.  And of those, only 8% succeed.  For Pete's sake, people, an elephant has more determination than we do!

      So are we better off saying “eh” to the whole idea of making resolutions?  Psychologists warn that making—then breaking—a resolution will damage your sense of self-worth.  And who in the world wants to have that happen?  I’m already well aware I have no self-control when it comes to snacking.  Why make myself feel worse?

      Years ago I made a resolution to not eat chocolate before 10 a.m. So guess who was shoveling chocolate in with a pitchfork at 10:01?  Likely eating more than if I’d allowed myself that first morsel at, say, 8:00 a.m.

      Researchers tell us it's better to bite off a little less when it comes to making our resolutions.  Why write a laundry list of ten things knowing full well it'll take a small miracle for you to achieve even one?  We also need to be very specific in those goals (which, in my defense, I was—10:00 a.m. and not a second before.)  But apparently it would’ve made more sense if I worded my resolution as "I'll keep my daily chocolate intake to under four candy bars."

      What I find most shocking in these studies is they state the success rate higher for people under age fifty, than those of us over fifty.  I was sure the older we got, the more resolute we were—especially when one of the other top resolutions is to spend less money—something I thought we’d have figured out by the time we hit fifty.

       As a "good Catholic" high school girl, my list every year usually involved giving up swearing and eating junk food.  Right.  A teenager who doesn’t eat junk food (or ever swear.)

      After losing weight, self-improvement is next on resolution lists.  We all know what we should do… volunteer more, drink less, spend more time with our family, complain less, make someone happy every day… in my case I need to work on my patience.  Or lack thereof.  Really, it’s true.  Just ask my husband.  It needs a little tweeking... or hatching.

    So if in the near future, you can't find me, I'm likely sitting on my nest, developing my patience-egg.  Because I meant what I said and I said what I meant… my patience needs working on one-hundred percent!

       Happy 2014 to all of you! 
And if you make a resolution – keep Horton in mind!

Clueless at Christmas

     During the holidays, bookstore shelves groan under the weight of “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus” type books telling us what we already know about relationships. Men and women have a slight communication malfunction. And when it comes to holiday gift giving, that miscommunication can be magnified. A lot.
     Women, it just might be worth it to print this out and tape it to the front of the TV for your significant other to see. It could make this season run a little smoother for all involved.
     Speaking from my experience, men who can easily understand a friend’s grunt while hunting to mean “there’s an 8-point buck 50 yards to your left.” Or get what another guy means when he says “dude,” misunderstand when their significant other says, “Don’t get me anything for Christmas.”
     I’ll admit I was the martyr who uttered those crazy words years ago. Selflessly thinking of our growing family, I offered up that noble thought to my husband, trying to save us some money. Ultimately, I blame my mom. Fifty-seven years ago she told my dad that he didn’t need to get her flowers for their first anniversary.   She hasn’t received an anniversary present ever since. Martyrs run in our family.
     It took me a few years of singing the “I-don’t-need-anything” song to my husband (who is a very thoughtful gift-giver when given free reign) before I realized how unfair I was being to him. Here’s my theory: How can I expect him to get into the spirit of the holidays if I deny him the shopping experience?
     Muzak pulsating the season’s songs into his blood, while frenzied bargain hunters strung out on sugar-cookie-overload clip the back of his heel with their heaping carts, as he’s surrounded by screaming children demanding their presents early… I would hate to begrudge him that experience.
     Honestly, how will men ever understand why we build up the family savings every year by shopping bargains if they don’t experience it firsthand? According to my mathematical calculations, when I buy a coat that was originally $150 and it’s on sale 50% off along with my favorite little sign above the rack telling me to take an additional 75% off the sale price—well everyone knows that 50% and 75% equal more than 100%. I’m pretty sure that coat is mine now along with a 25% kickback! See, if they don’t do the shopping themselves, how will they ever appreciate how much money we "save" by shopping?
     Sometimes men have a little problem understanding the word “gift.” That might be where our miscommunication comes in. Some smart women I know say they have to be very, very specific in what they consider a “gift.” We could all learn from them.
     I know a woman who received a package of dusting wands, another woman was blessed with a vacuum. Yet another was given a toaster. A four-slicer… but still. Apparently we are sending out the wrong signals.
     Don’t get me wrong. I totally understand the true meaning of the holidays and also that it’s better to give than to receive. Honestly, I get it. I’m just saying that if we want to receive something that makes us feel appreciated and loved, something men put more thought into than picking their fantasy football team; we might need to send out a little more detailed signals. Over the years I’ve discovered “I promise to read your mind” was not one of our wedding vows.
     Guys—I guess what I meant to say is we’ll be thankful for whatever you take the time to shop for. Just remember—make sure it’s on sale!!!

Chaos and Cranberries

Please bear with me to the end (before judging me!) :)

My husband and I are empty-nesters, and love it. We are also parents to six awesome adult children and a growing number of loveable grandchildren, and live on a lake in Minnesota… so we have a lot of “visitors”, especially in summer.

Our house can go from sixty decibels to double that in a moment’s notice on many weekends. Sometimes the house feels like it’s pulsating with a heartbeat of its own… the grandchildren, TV, grown-ups trying to be heard above it all, barking dogs… and a lot of laughter. And sometimes it can get a little crazy.

The cleaning, food prep, laundry, before/during/after is daunting (and yes, they are all great about helping out!) and I think it's the switch from easy to hectic that gets me every time. I know, it sounds like I'm complaining--and I'm not, because I know that every single piece of effort I just mentioned is worth it. I know that.

But sometimes, when I’m escaping out the door for a quick trip up town for more milk and bread, my feet crunching on dropped cereal on the floor, and scouring the cluttered-with-everything-under-the-sun counter for my car keys, while gingerly handing over a sleeping baby and maneuvering around a sword fight between grand-kids, I find myself breathing a calming sigh of relief in the peace of my car as I head to town.

On the short trip, I appreciate the quiet, already looking forward to crawling into bed that night, even though it might only be 10 a.m. And just as I start to question my sanity, I drive by homes in our small town where I know for a fact, people are sitting inside… all alone. And wishing they had a little chaos and company to fill their lonely days.

And I remember. I think back to years ago when I felt lonely—in a house too-quiet and too-clean. Never again do I want that daily solitude, I remind myself, never again.

I also think of the main character in the book I've written. I made the poor woman so lonely! I killed off all her friends while dragging her through an empty nest and divorce. (Mean of me, I know!) SHE would have loved to be a guest in our chaotic house, reveling in the noise and clutter.

So, give me cereal crunching under my toes, chocolate hand-prints on the windows, endless laundry and total exhaustion. It reminds me I've been blessed with people I care about and am lucky enough to have in my life. Nobody sang it better than Barbra Streisand ~ "People who need people are the luckiest people in the world."

For this upcoming holiday season, my wish for you is this: A little chaos with your cranberries, and maybe a fallen piece of pumpkin pie squished between your toes.
Then I’ll know you've been truly blessed!