The ingredients for Goup are:

• Ground Beef
• Potatoes
• Corn
• Water
• Flour
• Pepper
• Parsley

There’s no real recipe.  There’s an order, but no measuring.  Cook however much ground beef you have.  Add just enough water to cover potatoes that are cut into fairly small cubes.  Cook until potatoes are done.  Add however much frozen or even canned corn (or I suppose carrots or some other veggies would be fine, but then it’s not the same).  Thicken it with a little bit (or more) of flour (depending on how much water you used).  Then you add some pepper.  And a little more pepper.  And a little more pepper.  (I’m a pepper person and not a salt person.)  Add some parsley.  If you want you can add just a smidge (really, a smidge only) of red chili powder. 

I suppose Goup is a poor person’s meal.  That would make sense since we lacked a lot of moola in our coola growing up.  But, man, what a comfort food it has always been for me.  I don’t know if I should make it more so my kids also like it or less because they kinda seem to hate it.  Maybe I just need to find a better name for it.  Something like, "If You Eat This I Will Let You Have Ice Cream For Dessert."

So, 15 years.  I don’t have to do the math because it was just a couple of months after I got married and I’ve been married 15 years.  Some days it feels like I never even had a mom.  There’s this vague idea or fantasy of what it was once like to have a person in my life that would take my calls no matter what time it was during the few times we lived apart (I lived at home until I shacked up with my now husband and only moved away from home a few times and then once she moved away from home briefly).  We became best friends eventually, but it was not an easy road to that. 

My mom said things to me that no mom should ever say to a child.  There were a couple of times when police had to be involved with smoothing things out between the two of us.  I wasn’t an easy child (I know that now that I have children of my own).  But eventually we were great friends.  I could tell her anything.  It sometimes freaked out my boyfriends that she new such intimate details of my life.  It may have even freaked out some of her boyfriends if they knew what she told me. 

My mom became one of my greatest supporters.  She told me what she was proud of and it wasn’t always the typical stuff to be proud of.  Once she told me that she admired the way I treated men the way that they treated women.  That might not seem like a compliment, but I think what she meant was that she felt like I didn’t get hurt by men the way she had she seemed to think I knew what I wanted and went after it (or him).  But she also seemed very relieved when I settled down.  There’s a part of me that thinks she was ready to let go of this world as soon as I married because she trusted this guy I found.  She knew that I was in good hands and found someone that would keep me safe.  Maybe that was something she recognized as the oldest of 8 kids that I was a true "baby" of the family and would always do better with some help than on my own.  She was ready to hand me over. 

I can’t remember her voice.  I can’t remember what her hugs felt like.  I can’t remember how she walked or snored or sang or anything anymore.  She’s as real as the Loch Ness Monster.  I have pictures.  I have my wedding video.  Some place I even have her old answering machine with her voice on it.  But none of those things make me feel like she was just here a second ago.  I have memories and sadness.  I have three kids that have never met her.  I tell them that to know me is to know her.  I ended up being just like her in so many ways.  I wanted kids–especially a daughter–so that I could have a mom in my life again even if that mom was me.  I hope that my kids will forgive my mistakes, know I’m proud of them, and remember they can call me at any hour. 

My Mom & me on the day that we met. 

My Mom & me one Halloween (I’m the one on the right).

Just when my husband is at his hottest I can’t touch him.  And it’s not that I can’t, but it would be pointless.  He’s been so busy with work.  Doing real professional stuff.  Wearing a suit daily.  And doing hot professional stuff.  It’s so professional and so hot that I can’t even say what it is.  And it’s all day every day!  But because it’s all day/every day he’s either not home or asleep!  So, that’s why touching him during his oh-so-steamy phase is ridiculous to even think about. 

And while he’s busy being hot…well…maybe it’s a good time for us to spend some time apart.  Because I have fricken hemorrhoids.  Or at least I think it’s hemorrhoids.  The area that would be responsible for housing such a nuisance is killing me.  But I am absolutely not willing to go to a doctor and have that region examined to find out if it is truly hemorrhoids or not.  I finally broke down and went to Target yesterday to buy ointment for my presumed ‘rhoids.  While there I did some shopping for a baby gift for a shower I was going to.  While hanging out in the baby section and internally oohing and ahhing over little baby things I started chatting with a good looking younger couple that were expecting their first baby.  We talked about the joys of having a baby right before Halloween so they can have their first costume when they are little and squishy.  We talked about childbirth (only good stories).  We talked about the most efficient breast pump to buy.  We finally parted ways when my oldest kid called me on my cell phone from his cell phone to request my presence in the Lego section of Target.  I convinced the boy to wait until next week to purchase the Lego set he really wanted and taught him how to hide the one he wanted that only had two left behind the set that had about ten boxes left.  Then I totally forgot that I promised The Boy a few brand spanking new dollar bills if he would buy my hemorrhoid cream because I was really embarrassed.

I was heading in the pharmacy section and couldn’t find any section that looked right.  Eye Care, Colds/Flu, Anti-itch (that was close), but I was starting to think I was going to have to ask the person at the pharmacy counter.  I didn’t want to buy the stuff myself and I was going to have to ASK FOR IT!?!  Well, in the nick o’ time I did find it.  Turned around and there it was.  And turned a little more and there was the really adorable couple expecting their first baby!  I had to leave.  This couple was too adorable and I did not want them seeing me in the hemorrhoid cream section!  What would they think of me?  That I wasn’t the cool and charming seasoned mom with sage advice or that I lied that having three kids come out of me was so great that here I was needing something to soothe the regions near my regions because of the umm pressure of three kids that came out of me? 

I left.  Went back to the Lego aisle, got my son, wandered around a bit until I was sure that the cute, non-hemorrhoid couple were gone, got my cream and found a check out lane.  Then I had the dilemma of going through the line of the older clerk who might just look at me with sympathy or the very young clerk who might look at me like, "damn you are old if you are buying this and what are hemorrhoids anyway?"  I went with younger, and acted as nonchalant as possible.  I think it worked.  She didn’t snicker or look at me weird or anything.  Then I remembered that I probably could have used my Medical Savings Account Debit Card.  I decided just to skip it rather than have to discuss whether that purchase would be eligible or not.  Why push my luck since I still hadn’t died of total embarrassment yet and why push my luck? 

So, here I am.  Totally hot, totally untouchable husband who is NEVER home right now.  My ass is killing me.  Oh, yeah and now my period decides to start being regular (I used to be every 6 weeks and now it’s more like the typical 4 weeks…this sucks).  All I have to say is that my kids deserve way more than a dad who is really really busy the same week that their mother is in such disrepair.  

Well, the teacher gave me the pattern (and it said Easy on it), some fabric (not the kind the pattern specified), and a poodle applique. No matching thread, no zipper, no clue that I had no idea what to do with a zipper anyway. I decided to go for it. I can sew a straight line, damn it! I decided to make the opening a little bigger and use elastic instead of a zipper. Of course she didn’t buy elastic. I improvised on all of the stuff not included.

I had just enough pink from a random bobbin with the last of the pink thread at my house. I took a piece of elastic out of an old pair of raggedy time-to-throw-them-out pajamas. And I used the plain cotton-y fabric instead of the suggested wool or felt. The hardest part of all of it was sewing the hem on the bottom. Since the fabric was basically one big circle with a circle cut out for the waist, the hem was bigger on the bottom which ended up being the top once I pressed (yes, I ironed) the ends over. Because of the extra material on the bottom (which became the top of the hem part) the skirt is bunchy on the inside/bottom part of the skirt. I shouldn’t have made such a big hem I guess. Whatever.

The teacher offered to pay me. I’m going to tell her that payment is for her not to tell anyone that I made it. Then we’ll be even.

Things changed right around age 4 when he started a Pre-K program at a Montessori school.  Suddenly he was the kid that motivated other kids.  Every other kid wanted to read just like him and undertake projects with him (he and another student finger loomed these little pieces of material to make some long thing that probably could stretch half of a football field just so they could measure it).  He was writing letters to his little sister.  He loved doing math games.  He was making eleborate groupings of words with the moveable alphabet (it’s a Montessori thing) until he made a crossword puzzle type thing begining with the word supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (spelled phonetically, but still!).  Other students wanted to be like him and there were parents who looked at him while their kid was rolling around on the floor and picking lint out of body crevices.  I could tell parents were impressed.  And it made me proud.  And it made me obnoxious. 

Not only was the Boy excelling academically he had game.  We first put him in soccer, but it was basketball that he really loved.  One of my all time favorite memories ever in the world was a weekend at a nearby school yard when the Boy was not even in school yet.  We were letting him play on the play ground equipment and taking advantage of the open sky with a kite that wouldn’t make it far before tangling in a tree or eletric line if we stayed at home.  When we were leaving we walked by a group of Big Boys (can’t remember the age, but probably middle school) playing some basketball.  My Boy walked up and just asked if he could shoot.  The really nice Big Boys said sure like they were gonna throw this little kid a bone and then move on with their day.  Well, my Boy sunk it.  And then walked away.  It was beautiful.  You could tell the Big Boys were very impressed with this runt who came in and "swish" put the ball right where it was supposed to go.  The best part was that he just wanted that one try and he looked so cool walking off after.  It was another proud mom moment.  Another accelorator towards obnoxious on my part for sure. 

As the Boy got older he stopped soccer and alternated between coach pitch baseball and basketball.  I wanted him to fall in love with and be great at baseball.  That’s my favorite sport and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my one goal in life is to have a son that plays major league ball (there I said it!).  But still, it was basketball that the Boy loved and was great at.  He could dribble with both hands.  Shoot with both hands.  He grew his hair long because it made him like Steve Nash, his favorite basketball player.  He was called a "little Danny Ainge" because of the way he moved on the court. 

Then he was sick.  That’s what we call it.  Someone asked once what we call what happened because she knew others who named big events in their lives and so she asked.  Things are either "before the Boy was sick, "when the Boy got sick," or "after the "Boy became sick."  That’s how we track time.  And I’m sure most of you know what I mean when I say it, but on the chance that there is someone reading this that doesn’t I will say what "sick" means.  Sick was when there were lots of seizures, a hospitalization, a brain tumor, a brain surgery, more hospitalization, and to this day still occasional seizures.  And my Boy now mostly resembles who he was "before he was sick," but not entirely.  He didn’t die, even though I thought he might, but there are still times I know that we do mourn the "before sick" Boy.  I should just be happy because he’s nearly who he was before.  But then something happens like a basketball game. 

The Boy still plays regularly on a basketball team made up of kids that he’s played with for years.  His teammates hesitate to pass him the ball.  And for good reason.  He catches the ball and looks scared and passes again really quickly–sometimes to fast to really see who is open.  He hardly ever attempts a layup.  On the rare occasions that he shoots the ball he misses nearly every time.  I talked my husband into us buying a really nice basketball hoop for our driveway so that he could practice more.  Alone he does better, but when he’s playing against others he’s timid.  Like that?  Timid sounds better than he sucks.

Accademically the Boy now seems average.  I should be happy, but he used to be supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, remember?  He went from being great at nearly everything (he skipped a grade right before the sick thing happened) to being average.  And very nearly below average in a few things–according to the standardized testing he did at the end of last school year.  And so now, nearly 3 years after "sick" happened I am starting to either stop being dellusional or start facing facts.  I’m going to be looking into whether or not my Boy needs an Indivdualized Education Plan (IEP) to help him out in school.  Maybe he just needs a little bit more time to take tests.  Maybe he needs to learn to type and get him a laptop for writing.  Maybe he does have some "cognitive" issues (husband’s words) that I need to just accept.  I’m having trouble with acceptance right now.  I’m having trouble watching my kid that was so far ahead start falling behind.  I wonder which me is more obnoxious?  The one that glowed to brightly around others when her kid seemed perfect in every single way?  Or the one that can’t be happy with what is and still dwells in the past when supercalifragilisticexpialidocious was the norm?

Step 1:  Put a whole in the box….wait…no, that’s not it.

Step 1:  Find materials.

Step 2: Get more materials.

Step 3:  Put a bunch of stuff together and get ready to put it all together.

Step 4:  Hang and admire work.

We pinkie promised, so I can give no specifics.  Let’s just say we (4 Mamas + 11 Kids) had a good time!  I think the kids will have some great memories from another summer adventure.  Living in the heat of Phoenix gives few opportunities during summer vacation to just let loose and have a good time, but drive a few hours North and that’s what you will find. 

Opportunities to run in freezing hail.  Opportunities to throw all of your clothes out of a window and try to figure out just how you will get them back (I may have gone against my pinkie promise slightly on this , but I’m not naming names!).  Opportunities to try to fly.  Opportunities to get scabs, bruises, bug bites (maybe even in interesting places).  Opportunities to find opportunities. 

This year we had a cabin for four nights.  Two of us stayed the entire time, one family stayed the first two nights, and one family was there the last three nights.  There was the one evening when it was all four mamas and all eleven kids–ranging in ages 1 to 11.  We let the kids have some freedom as long as either the 10 or 11 year old was "supervising."  Freedom was usually called a hike, but was more like a nature walk within yelling distance. 

Things were different from last year and part of it was some of the mamas and kids were different, we were all older and wiser, and we learned from last year’s errors.  The only error I will mention was the menu planning.  Last year we all were to take turns cooking and the menus were the healthiest eats that could be imagined.  And about a day and a half into it a couple of us snuck off to the closest grocery store and shopped like college students with a serious refer habit.  This year I suggested we cut the crap and just shop how we would really want to eat when stuck in a cabin with 2 or 3 other women and kids in every corner of the dwelling.  That meant we were prepared with a big bag of sugar, several packets of Kool aid, the necessary ingredients for rice crispy treats, tons of root beer, Cheetos, and Oreo cookies.  We did have to drive to the nearest market for more sugar, but otherwise we were way more prepared. 

I will cherish my memories of summer with my kids because of trips like this.  I really hope they do to.  And if they want (or need) to share the more specific details later in life to a trained professional I will try to understand.   

I’m merely procrastinating for a few more minutes before I hit the road.  I won’t have internet and so I think I’m having some trouble breaking free from my computer.  I’ll be fine though.  I’m bringing cards, a book, some craft stuff, and a few DVDs.  I should make it.  Right? 

Off to meet my car pool buddy.  Wish us luck.  This year it’s 4 moms and 11 kids.  A few less than last year, but a lot still. 

See ya when I get back, Dear Computer…

Breathing is important.  I thought I learned that pretty well in the hypnobirthing class I took when I was pregnant with my second actual baby (as opposed to my second actual pregnancy–I’ve been knocked up 6 times all together, but I’ve had a series of unfortunate miscarriages or busting fallopian tubes).  I learned at hypnobirthing class that holding your breath while pushing was stupid.  Duh, you should be working hard to breath your baby out rather than turning blue because you are holding your breath while some crazy people yell at you to PUSH!PUSH!PUSH!PUSH!PUSH!PUSH!  When it came time to actually give birth using my newly learned and frequently practiced hypnobirthing breathing I don’t remember how the hell I was breathing, but it worked.  And it worked again about 18 months later with my third actual baby. 

I don’t remember with either births if I actually did the very slow breaths in and out that I had practiced, but I do remember the visualization of breathing down.  So, for me I was convinced of the power of breathing.  But thinking about it now how could I be so surprised?  I have always been a fan of breathing and oxygen…well, at least since high school.  Two things happened in high school that made interested in breathing.  One was my chemistry teacher, Mr. Hess who used to walk up and down the aisles of desks when we were taking tests and would remind us to breath.  I flunked the class and didn’t graduate from my high school because of it, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t breathing. 

The summer before the first year I tried to pass Mr. Hess’ class I started thinking about how breathing affects our mental and intellectual capacity.  And I was thinking I was pretty darn smart, but I was also thinking other people were not.  So I decided to periodically hold my breath for the betterment of others.  I felt it important when I was around people I felt were particularly in need of a little extra oxygen (like my stupid ass brother) to hold my breath for as long as I could to give the dumber people a little extra.  (I wasn’t counting on needing that oxygen myself later in order to pass chemistry either my junior or senior years at Pueblo High School.)

All kidding aside, I was faced with the realities of the importance of oxygen a few years ago when my oldest kid first started having seizures.  Maybe he was just thinking I needed a little extra oxygen (back to joking for a second…ok done) because he would either stop breathing a little or sometimes a lot.  I began seeing oxygen masks regularly and once I watched as a tube was shoved down his throat so that a machine could help him breath.  When our son has had seizures at home we haven’t had a handy dandy device letting us know how well our son is breathing.  We always relied on just watching and yelling "Breath, son!  Breath!"  (It’s a lot like Run, Forest, run!" now that I think about it.)  It’s always been crazy to hope for the best without the benefit of machines telling us how worried we should be. 

It’s truly difficult for me to see how well my kid is breathing when it’s a small movement of the chest area normally, but a seizure is huge jerks–for our kid anyway–of head, arms, and body.  I keep replaying the last seizure in my mind.  It was about three nights ago now.  I was alone with him (and that’s a lot of pressure by the way).  It was up to me to make sure we were both breathing.  We must have been.  I acted in a calm manner (not at all usual for me) and he came out of the seizure and post-ictal phase* pretty quickly. 

I don’t that what I’m making any sense.  But I just wanted to put it out there that if there was a fan page on Facebook for breathing I would totally become a fan. 

*Google it, it’s 2am and I’m too tired to put a link to explain it even though I’m not tired enough to go to sleep.