The Queen

Hello there. To all of you who do not know me (and really, dear, how did you let it go this long?), my name is Carolina, and I am the West Highland White Terrier who owns the Halls. The Halls do refer to me in several other Peopletalk words: Carolina Pine Forest, Piney, Pineapple Snapple, and (this next one is new from the little person, Becca) Kiney. I, on the other hand, prefer to just think of myself as "The Queen." We live together in a lovely home in Indian River, though it is not truly a palace, which would befit a terrier of my grace.

I do not come from humble beginnings--my given name is Green Valley's Miss Molly--but did have a rather rough start to it all. It began with my mother, a highly respectable Westie, and was taken home by a couple who--through no fault of mine--decided that they could no longer reside together. I have been told that, at this point in their relationship, the dastardly duo decided I should be put-down, rather than decide with whom I should reside. As fate was my fortune, a kind, frizzy-haired man rescued me, and brought me to meet Eric (the one the little people refer to as "Daddy").

Eric and I made fine bedfellows, living first in a very small cottage.  It had a lovely view, but he had a peculiar habit of putting up a fence for me to climb in order for me to be able to enter the main living area.  There was also an unfortunate incident with this odd contraption that would occasionally make rhythmic noise; I believe the word Eric used to refer to it was "music." This machine turned on one day while Eric was away, doing whatever it was that he did in the human world. I had apparently angered the machine, because the noise was louder than usual. I barked, but this machine was not to be trifled with. Barking did not phase it, so I knew I would have to result to brute force. A bump of my nose, and it became more angry, more loud. Again, I barked and nosed; again the machine grew louder. In fact, now it shook the floorboards with its anger. Well, I was no timid puppy, this machine was not going to win. I backed up, set my eyes square on the machine's jowls, and attacked. The machine screamed. It shook the house and wailed until I thought we might both go up in flames. Then, with one final, tremendous blare, the front of the machine blew forward, and the noise stopped. I had won. I believe this taught a lesson to all other contraptions in the house, as nothing else has given me trouble since.

I was pleased when Eric moved us from the cottage into a modest home in Cheboygan, where there were no odd fences or barriers in my path. In the evenings, I would allow Eric to be in the big bed, where he wrapped the covers around me.  In the days, I would alert Eric each time danger approached--in the manner of an automobile passing by the home--by using my gift of a fine, shrill bark. And so we passed our time together for four years, waiting for something interesting to come along.

Then came Laura (the one that the little people call "Mommy") and Emma. I am sure, if you are reading this, you have met Laura.  You know what a delightful human she is. Well, she loved me at first sight. I made a point to follow her around, sit behind her head when she sat on the couch, give her my bark of approval whenever I could, because I could tell that she adored me. She had clearly been lacking a White Terrier in her life, and I was willing to take that position, for prosperity's sake. I knew, for instance, that she immediately loved me, because she was always speaking to me.  She would say things like, "Carolina, get out of my stinking way," or "Would you please shut up? You are driving me nuts!" Now, I do not understand much of Peopletalk, but I could tell from her loving tone that, in Laura, I had found my pet for life.

When Laura became pregnant with the first small person, the one the people refer to as Ben-Ben, I could tell right away. I became more diligent in my watchings of her, following her heels closely with my snout. When she would sit or lie down, I would place myself next to the growing baby, guarding it with my own life. Occasionally, I would get uncomfortable, as I would have to get deep into the covers at night to lie directly between Laura's legs, but I knew it was my duty as the caretaker of the home. I had to protect my people, even before they were born.

If I did have one complaint about Laura, it would be that she is often tardy in attending to my needs. As my pet, it is her function to ensure that I am fed, that I am let out to relieve myself, that I am groomed and coddled as needed, and that my water is refreshened when I deem necessary. There are just many times that Laura is, well, sitting. It really began when that Ben-Ben was taken out of her womb and released into our home. The least little sound from him would require Laura to pick him up and then promptly sit down in the green recliner with him snug close to her. Often, this happened just as I needed one of my duties attended to. If I attempted to climb into the chair with Laura, I would actually be shooed away (I hate to have to admit this about my darling pet; but, it is the truth.). If I barked, signaling my need for fresh water or a trip around the yard, Laura would not put that Ben-Ben down and attend to me. I know it sounds rude and inconsiderate, but I really have to believe it was due to some maternal hormone making Laura act strangely. There are times now, too, when she just does not seem to understand how important my needs are. For example, again in the green chair, Laura will sit with that Ben-Ben and the new one they call Becca, doing nothing but saying some Peopletalk from things the little people call "books." How something from one of these useless looking items could be more important than scratching behind my ears is absolutely beyond me.

In addition, I do have to mention a second complaint. In the night, I have to occasionally make a guard run, where I survey the front porch and yard to make sure that dangers are not approaching us. When I awaken Laura to open the means of entry and exit, I often have to use a mild bark, a more forceful bark, and--embarrassingly--a high-pitched yip before she will exit her bed. Then, as I am performing my survey, she says words that I can only assume are unkind ("Car-o-li-na, would you just go potty?!" or "Hurry your little white butt up!"), as her tone is harsh. I am certain, though, that, if she could only understand the importance of my task, Laura would return to her adoring self, my favorite pet.

All-in-all, it is a good life. I am well fed, I do get to visit Eric's mother (who truly understands the needs of a queen), and I have my pets. I could have done without the last two, those little people, as they often grab my fur or try to get me to chase after ridiculous items. I know that biting these little people is below me, thus a low growl or a well-spaced snap is all I ever use to warn them. This usually gets them to understand that Lily is actually the dog in this family. Lily will chase sticks, fetch toys, chew rawhides, and roll over to have her belly rubbed. No, this is not for me. It is important that all the Halls always understand that I am Carolina and I am The Queen.

There's No Place Like Homes

A day at the cabin begins with a sunrise and ends with a smile.

I don't know who wrote it.  Eric bought me one of those cute little wooden-box knick-knacks that has that saying on it. I am one of the lucky people in the world to know the truth in that statement.  Some people have to camp in tents or trailers. Some people live in apartments or "the projects" or a hut somewhere in the world and never even get the chance to stay in a cabin. Some people--gasp!--don't particularly care for "Mother Nature" and all she has to offer. But me, I am one of the lucky few... and I am even lucky enough to have had two cabins in my life.

The Promised Land
When I was twelve, my parents and I went to look at a place on the Jordan River, in East Jordan. While I was exploring its mosquito infested yard, checking out what there was to do (not much, in my twelve-year-old opinion), my dad was floating down the river in a camouflage inner-tube, checking out the fish.  He passed by a different cabin on this float, a brown log place with a little sign out front that said, "The Promised Land" over the screened-in porch.  This place was also for sale, so our realtor took us to this new "cabin in the woods."

We walked in the back door to see knotty pine walls, a giant wrap around fireplace, and wooden stairs leading to a loft. Despite the velvet tiger painting above the fireplace mantel, the orange macrame curtains, and the olive green cupboards, my mom turned to my dad behind the realtor's back and mouthed, "I want this." We all did.

The loft upstairs came with two log twin beds, one of which had a mattress so old that I was swallowed into its softness as soon as I laid down. There was a little half wall, so that I could peek out to the kitchen below, but feel like I was in my own world. My best friend, Sheri, and I would play Pictionary, do puzzles, read books, talk, giggle, play darts from bed (it was a pretty small loft), spy on my parents, listen to music, and just be up there throughout my teen years. In the winter, the loft was the warmest spot, and there was nothing more comfortable than getting into my bed, layering on blankets, and hunkering down. I have never slept better any place in the world.

In the summer, we'd canoe, tube down to the bridge (a 15 minute trip), take hikes, walk the dogs in the nearby field, and occasionally fight the mosquitoes to sit in the hammock and read. Swimming in the river was RARELY an option, as the water was frigid.

One summer, we re-stained the outside of the cabin, but lost water from the pump. Since we couldn't shower--and, boy, did we need it--we decided a dip in the river was warranted. My dad went in first, the shock on his face almost enough to keep me out.  As we stood together in the icy flow, Dad whispered, "Don't tell your mother. She'll never get in--and she stinks!"

So, when Mom came out into the front yard and asked, "How's the water?" we both lied.

"It's great," we said, "come on in!"  We made a big play of bouncing around, splashing a little with our blue-tinged arms.

Mom ran and jumped--and screamed!  "Charles Daniel, you are a LIAR!"  She didn't stay in very long.

In the winter, we'd cross country ski, snowshoe, play board games, do crosswords, watch bad TV, read books, and sleep the sleep of the dead.  Sometimes, the road would be so blown-over with drifts that we'd have to load the toboggan with our bags and plod through the snow down the private road.

Most times, when we would get there, it would be so cold inside the cabin that the temperature would not even register on the old-fashioned thermometer.  Dad would start up the hot water register heat, make a fire in the fireplace, and celebrate with a beer when we could finally see the red needle rise in the thermometer's window (forty degrees!).  I would be up in my bed, snuggled under my covers, book in hand, and smile when I heard the tell-tale crack of the can.

One New Year's Eve, my parents got sick and went to bed--their bedroom being the space next to the "living room" area.  I remember calling out to them from my papasan chair (there were two, they were bamboo, and, yes, they came with the cabin, too) "Happy New Year, guys!" Our dog wagged her tail from my lap and licked my face.

A muffled reply came from under the covers, "Happy New Year, sweetie.  Sorry you're out there alone!" Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else.

To this day, when I pull down Thorsen River Drive, I can hear our dog begin to whine in my mind (and my dad smacking him with a ball cap to get him to knock it off).  As I drive down the wooded driveway, trees dragging against my windows, I feel like I am driving into a magical tunnel.  When I open the front door, I smell that woody, slightly musty smell, and I feel that cabin feeling.  I am thirteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty.  I hear my dad laugh, I feel the warmth of the fire on my feet, I see my mom doing cross-stitch in front of the television, I see canoers passing by the porch--I am home.

Clear Lake
As an adult, I waited around and did a grand search for the perfect guy for me. Eric proved to me that he was, indeed, THE ONE, by taking me away for any evening to his grandparents' cabin. Now, don't be thinking all hanky-panky here. At this point, Eric and I were just "frietentials" (friends with potential). We were not dating; he was not my boyfriend; we had never kissed.

Eric invited me to come on a mystery evening. Bring a sleeping bag, a bathroom bag, a sweatshirt, (a used q-tip, an eldelry person, a half-marked BINGO card, and a vial of deer urine) and prepare for fun. At this point, I didn't know whether or not Eric was even interested in me. We went out to dinner, took a four-wheeler ride past Joe Louis' old cabin, played cribbage, took a rowboat ride.  And then, heck ya, I kissed him in the rowboat under the stars.

We were married at that very same cabin, down at the waterfront, the sun shining, the Beach Boys playing, the loon swimming around in the background.

In the spring, the first thing I want to do is go clean the cabin, and stay the night.  Ben gets a little crazy--When are we staying at the cabin? When can we swim?--and I swear I do, too.

In the fall, when the leaves are changing, I love sleeping on the porch, heater going, snuggled under the blankets with my hubby. But in that same moment, I am sad, because I know that, soon, we will close things down, and we'll have to wait until spring again to come back.

Time stands still for my family when we are at the Clear Lake cabin.  We take boat rides, we fish, we swim, we make fires in the fireplace, we snuggle on the couch, eating popcorn and watching old Disney movies. We catch frogs and read books and eat cereal out of those fun little boxes.  We stay away from the rest of the world, and we hang together--us Halls--soaking up fun that we cannot seem to capture at home.

I have nursed two babies in the rocking chair on the front porch, watching the sunrise through the fog over the crystal glass lake. I have read wonderful novels, played countless games of cards, watched my babies go from toddlers who sat in the sand to swimmers who sprint off the dock, written blogs and portions of my novel there. I have learned to row a boat, drive a pontoon, play Hand and Foot, and become a wife--all on the tiniest lake you've ever seen.

Our dog, Lily, loves Clear Lake as much as any of us. She leaps from the car, runs to the shore, waits for someone to throw a stick. When we're all in the water, she'll come and swim past us--checking on us--making loops around all of us. She'll run and jump off the dock to fetch countless sticks, and, when we go on a boat ride, we have to take her with us or she'll just keep swimming after us. The dog can swim forever. Then, at night, she curls up in a little wet ball, and sleeps a deep sleep, dreaming of another day in the lake.

When we drive down Old State Road, my heart beats faster when I see "two trees" (or is it three?). As we drive down the driveway, I can physically feel myself begin the process of letting go of all the stress of real life--school work, the bills, the housework--and the magic of the cabin taking over.  Once we have all of our stuff put away--the fridge stocked, the beds made, the toys laid out--I go out onto the porch and I look through the trees at the lake, our lake, and I am home.

I Prefer to Stand By My Man

My husband left today to go on a trip with his dad and brother.  And, as much as I hate to be one of "those girls," I must admit--I am.  I--a woman who bought and sold TWO homes, who adopted a baby on my own, who lived alone solving all the problems a household entails for many years--am now one of those cheesey, lovey, mush-mush chicks who can't spend a night away from her man.

First of all, I cried when he left.  Not sobbing (not until he was out of the driveway, anyway), but enough to get his shirt wet.  Yeah, part of it was because I am terrified of airplanes and he has to go in an airplane "there and back."  But mostly it was because my heart already hurt at the thought of him being gone for four days.

Second of all, I don't know what I'll do with myself.  Okay, yes, I'll be busy, because I'm staying at the family cottage with not just our three kids, but Chad's three as well.  (And, praise God, my mother-in-law will be coming to help during the days.)  I will be surrounded by children aged 13, 10, 9, 7, 4, 2.  One of whom is potty training.  One of whom could start menstruating at the drop of a hat.  Three of whom will be missing their actual parents.  So, yes--anyway, anyway--I will be busy.  But, who will read me useless fascinating information off the Internet news?  Who will laugh at my jokes?  Who will back me up when I say, "You kids are driving me to drink large quantities of kerosene!"?  Who will sit with me in the swing?  Who will listen to the loon, and take a moonlight boat cruise, and give me a smooch in the middle of the lake?

Third of all, I'm not going to get a lick of sleep.  Sure, I'll be exhausted.  But, after attending a writers' retreat for three nights, I can tell you that I am physically unable to sleep without my husband's back available for me to push my tush against.  I won't be able to fall asleep without talking about my day, laughing, sighing, planning for future days when these children finally get out of our house!  In the middle of the night, I will reach for Eric, to lock my arm through his, or grab just the edge of his shirtsleeve, or to hold hands.  In the morning, I'll wish for him to turn over, lay his arm across me, and go, "Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhg!  YOU wanted all these children!"  (It's true, I did.  But so did he.)

And last of all, I'm going to be one of those sappy chicks who sprints when she hears the phone rings, checks her cell phone for emails or text messages every five minutes, who'll break off a conversation with you in a moment's notice if my man calls.  Eric said, "You don't think you'll have fun with the kids?"  Honestly, I really don't.   Being with Eric makes everything real in my life, makes me grounded in the "dream-come-true" that my life actually is.  If I can't share it with him, it's just not the same.  Given all the scenarios in the world, I would always choose the one where I am standing right next to my man.

Sorry to be "that girl," but I am.

Excerpt from "His Little Hand in Mine": Why Lucy Hates Pregnant Chicks

So I am writing a novel about a couple who is experiencing infertility.  I've decided I want to occasionally include an excerpt I've written and see what people think.

The following is from the middle.  Lucy and Phil have decided to adopt.  Lucy's best friend, Meredith, is pregnant.

“So, have you heard anything from the adoption people,” Mark asks Phil one Sunday when we meet at T Meldrum’s for breakfast.

“Nah,” Phil says, “they like to keep us guessing. We put together these crazy magazine things,” he gestures to Meredith, “you’ve seen them--and then we have to mail them, like, 25 at a time or so. They say they don’t tell us when somebody asks to look at them, so we don’t get our hopes up. So, we’re keeping our hopes down, right, Lu?” Phil puts his arm around my back, lays his hand on my neck under my hair, squeezes.

“It’s all ridiculous,” I continue where Phil’s left off. “We have to sell ourselves; it’s worse than dating. Honestly, I think I put less work into my portfolio for work than I have into this thing. Lied less, too.” Phil and I smile and raise our eyebrows at each other.

“Whaddya mean, ‘lied less’?” Meredith asks through a piece of muskmelon. “You two are the Barbie and Ken of adoption, aren’t you? Why would you have to lie?” She sets the rind back on her plate, cleaned of all fruit.

“Well, not so much lied as, I guess, stretched, I should say. We have to say the things that the profile coordinators say the birth parents want to hear. You know, it’s like memorizing your philosophy of education when you’re interviewing for teaching jobs. It’s just one of the hoops we have to jump through.”

“Well, I think they should have to jump through hoops to get to you,” Meredith says, picking up the piece of muskmelon on Mark’s plate and starting in on it. “You’ll be fantastic parents. They should be fighting each other trying to get your attention.” She nods, takes a bite, and lets the juice run down her chin a bit. “God, I love melon right now. Lu, I’m sorry you never get to enjoy how good some food tastes when you’re pregnant.”

Phil squeezes my leg under the table. Sometimes Meredith just doesn’t know what she’s saying, or that it hurts. I know she’d be horrified if she knew she hurt me.

“You about ready to head out?” Phil asks. We have to clean the house, trim the yard, get everything Martha Stewart special at the house, because our home study lady is coming tomorrow.

“Yup, just need to use the restroom,” I say.

“I’ll join you, hang on,” Meredith says as she scoots her butt forward in the chair, pushes with her hands, and resembles a Weeble as she comes to a stand.

“I’ll never get why women do that,” Mark says as we start walking away.

“Duh, so they can talk about us,” Phil says and laughs. True, so true.

We’re washing our hands when Meredith launches into her inquisition about the home study. “So, what all is she asking you about? Why’s she gotta check the house? Like, are you supposed to have a nursery ready or something? Is it supposed to be all safety cleared and stuff? Geez, I have half a human being hanging out of me and Mark and I haven’t even started the nursery yet. I just think this whole stupid thing is some kind of government power trip. Somebody’s knocked up somewhere, you need a baby, I don’t see what the freaking big deal is.”

A little wave moves across her belly, starting on the right and flowing across. She’s so used to it--the baby must be shifting its legs—she doesn’t even look down, but I am transfixed. Now on the left, the ripple moves up, then down again, and still Meredith doesn’t even notice. I can’t pull my eyes away. My heart stops beating, my tongue goes dry, my eyes sting. The ripple moves back now, from the left back to the right. 

Meredith’s eyes follow mine down to her belly. She takes a step toward me. “Wanna feel?” she asks quietly.

I nod. I’ve never felt it, never known that touch of life before it breathes its own breath. Meredith takes my hand, lays it flat across her belly, slides it with the movement of the ripple. I can feel something hard—is it a knee?—and then the shift, the movement, and now there’s a big flat area.

“That’s the baby’s back,” Meredith says. “Boo-boo likes to lie against my side, but those legs and feet are going all the time.” She smiles at her belly and the light behind her eyes is blinding. I feel as though I may shatter into a thousand pieces at her feet. “Oh, that’s a good one!” Meredith says, and pulls my whole arm over to feel a kick on her right side.

I have to get away. “That was cool, Mere, thanks,” I say, trying not to sound funny, trying not to look at her, trying not to scream. I walk out of the bathroom, hold the door for her, walk toward Phil. I put my hand in his back pocket, stand near him, smell his sweet, Philly smell. It’s comforting. I know that he feels this too, this grief, though we don’t talk about it. I know he doesn’t think I’m selfish or a bad friend or a nasty person, when I hate Meredith—just a little bit—for being pregnant.

But, I do. I hate her. I hate them all. I hate their round, taut bellies. I hate their protruding belly buttons. I hate their full, saggy boobs. I hate the way it takes them a year to sit down, and a decade to get up. I hate the way they constantly rub their bellies, without even realizing they’re doing it. I hate when I see their babies move beneath their skin.

I hate them, because I will never be them. I will never, ever feel a baby move within me. I will never watch a foot go from the left side of my body to the right. I will never rub my belly, and know my child is in there. I will never feel the kick. I will never deliver a baby, be sweaty and joyous, and feel that amazing sense of accomplishment. I will never hold a baby to my breast, feel milk come to the surface, and watch my child nurse. I will not be the first person to see my baby on the ultrasound screen. I won’t be able to decide whether or not I want to know the gender of the baby before it’s born, because it won’t be my baby yet. I will not be the first person to hold my child.

When the baby is born, I won’t be able to speculate whether he has Phil’s dad’s chin or my grandmother’s eyes, because all of these physical characteristics will come from some other family, from strangers, from a whole generation of people who have nothing to do with me. After the baby is born, he will not recognize my voice, because he will have heard someone else speaking for nine months. In his first days, my baby will strain to hear that voice, his birth mother’s voice, when he seeks the comforts of home. The fact of the matter is, my baby won’t be my baby, not at first, and it is this more than anything that makes me hate Meredith, hate pregnant women, hate them all.

Why I Want to Be Khaled Hosseini When I Grow Up

Apparently, my whole life, I have wanted to be an Afghan born man who moved to France, and then became a citizen of the United States. I say this, because, apparently, I have always wanted to be Khaled Hosseini. I have just finished reading--no, devouring-- Hosseini's latest novel, And The Mountains Echoed. Wow.  That is just about all I can say. Wow.

You see, I have never been to Afghanistan, well, not in real life.  But Hosseini has taken me there, shown me around, made me smell and breathe and feel everything around me.  How does he DO THAT?  It's amazing.

And his characters!  Now, logically, I know that these people do not exist.  But, to me, they DO.  They really do.  I care about them.  I hurt for them.  I want to know what motivates them, what drives them, what they are feeling.  When his books end, I want to know what his characters (the ones still around) are doing.  When Hosseini's characters have tragedies in their lives (and, oh boy, do they have tragedies), I am in pain for them.  I cry.  No, I weep, for these people.

This, this passion for people who are not actually real, this is what I want to incite in others.  This is how I want people to feel about my characters.

I am currently working on a novel about Lucy and Phil.  I want you to love them.  I love them.  I want you to cry for them, laugh with them, pound your fists in agony when things don't go their way.  When the book is finished, I want you to think about them later.  I want you to hear a song and think, "Oh, this reminds me of Lucy."  I want them to be real, to you.

So, kudos to you, Khaled.  I know that, once upon a time, you were a young man, and you started with ideas in your mind, a few words on paper.  You put that together and created three fantastic novels.   You have done it.  You have lived the writers' dream.  Thank you, as a reader and fan, for your hard work.  Now get busy, because I'm ready for the next one.

There are many other authors who have done this for me, but today I happened to finish this book and I am missing these characters.  Maybe tomorrow I will read your book, dear reader, and miss your characters.  Most of all, it is my dream that someday you will read about Lucy and Phil, and welcome them into your heart.  It is the greatest compliment a writer can ever get.

Motherhood in Summer, 2013

Mommy: Becca, tell me when you need to go potty, okay?  Bec, okay?  Tell me when you need to go potty and Mommy will run you right in there!

Two-year-old: (No response.  Ignores mother.  Continues playing.)

Mommy: Hey, Bec, tell Mommy when you need to pee, okay?  We'll run right in there!

(Mother leaves the room for a maximum of 3.5 seconds to take laundry into laundry room.)

Two-year-old: Pee!  I peeing! (Stands and pees on the carpet.)

Mommy: (Running back into the room.) Oh, it's okay, sweetie.  Tell your pee to wait, okay?  Can you say, "Wait, pee!"  (Picks up Two-year-old, who continues to pee, and carries her to the bathroom.)  Do you have more pee, Boo?  Do you think you need to pee some more?  No?  Okay, Mommy will clean you up.  When you feel that pee coming, you tell Mommy, "Mommy, pee!" and I'll come running, okay?

Two-year-old: I want deese princess unerpanses.

Mommy: Those are pretty.  (Wipes Two-year-old with baby wipe, reapplies clean underpants.)  Okay, let's wash our hands.

(Mommy and Two-year-old wash hands.)

Mommy: Becca, tell me when you need to go potty, okay? Bec, okay? Tell me when you need to go potty and Mommy will run you right in there!

(Mommy takes wet underpants to the laundry room, cleans up carpet with dry paper towel, then scrubs carpet with cleaner, rinses carpet, then pats it with more dry paper towel.)

Mommy: Becca, tell me when you need to go potty, okay?  You don't want to go in your pretty princess pants!  Tell me when you need to go potty and Mommy will run you right in there!

Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores mother. Continues playing.)

Mommy: Hey, Bec, tell Mommy when you need to pee, okay? We'll run right in there!

Mommy: Bec, if you need to pee, you let Mommy know, okay?  Just say, "Mommy, pee!" and we'll go on the potty.  Then you can get a princess tattoo, okay?

Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores Mommy. Continues playing.)

Mommy: Hey, Booboo, if you feel that pee coming, you let me know, okay?

Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores Mommy. Continues playing.)

(Mommy leaves the room for a maximum of 3.5 seconds to put away a book.)

Two-year-old: Pee! I peeing! (Stands and pees on the carpet.)

Mommy: (Running back into the room.) Oh, it's okay, sweetie. Tell your pee to wait, okay? Can you say, "Wait, pee!" (Picks up Two-year-old, who continues to pee, and carries her to the bathroom.) Do you have more pee, Boo? Do you think you need to pee some more? No? Okay, Mommy will clean you up. When you feel that pee coming, you tell Mommy, "Mommy, pee!" and I'll come running, okay?

And... repeat.

I Love You, Man

You know that feeling when you get just a little too tipsy and you start telling all your friends, "I love you, man.  No, I mean, I reeeally love you."?  That is how I feel, all the time, when I am with my Burs.

The Burs are just, well, they're great people.  That's the first reason.  They are really and truly those kind of genuine, caring, good hearted, conscientious people who take good care of their kids, work hard at their jobs, and do the right things.  We have deep discussions as a group about education, child rearing, work ethic, local politics.  As I am fond of saying, the Burs are "good eggs."

But it's not just that.  They make me laugh.  Not just a little bit.  Not a chuckle here and there, a laugh or two when we get together.  No, no.  I mean deep in the belly, "stop-stop-I'm-going-to-pee" laughing.  We have now been friends long enough (once Brian had finally decided that we, The Halls, could be his two new friends) that we have ridiculous stories to tell and get ourselves going.  Like the time we went to a Tigers' game and, when Bri caught a ball, he yelled out, "I have four kids!"  We can talk about Brian having a hard time picking out a shell at Becca's baptism, about Doniel needing toothpicks to hold her eyes open if she's been drinking, about the time "we" went karaoking (but I was the only one dumb enough to sing), about happening upon live wrestling in Mackinaw City, about the girls always beating the boys at cards, about Brian looking naked in our pictures at the cabin. 

We also have made quite a few traditions.  Annual events, we say.  New Year's Eve (even though Eric can no longer do an impression of Dick Clark).  Going to the Mackinaw City Memorial Day parade lets me know that, yes, it's true, summer is coming.  Walking across the State Street Bridge on Labor Day lets me know that, yes, it's true, summer has come to an end.  On Halloween, we get together to trick-or-treat downtown, then hit BC Pizza together.  One weekend in November, we go to Traverse City (although, maybe someday it'll be Saginaw?) and go Christmas shopping.  We eat out, stay in a hotel, christen the meeting room, pretend to play cards, buy stuff for the kids, and return home rejuvenated for the holidays to begin.  Usually, on these trips, Bri comes up with some sort of music trivia, that even he himself cannot answer.  The Marshall Tucker Band, really, Bri? The first Saturday in December, we stand together, FREEZING, and watch the Cheboygan Christmas parade.  Just this past weekend, we went on a boat ride down the Cheboygan River and Black River.  Doniel said, "Let's make it an annual event!"  I think it'll have to be a little more often than that!

And then there's the fact that, well, they just feel like family to me.  When we're on a trip, Eric and I see souvenirs we'd like to get the Burs (Bri, I almost bought you squirrel underwear when I was in Saugatuck, to go with your "Helllllo, Ladies!" sign!).  When Eric and I have a fight, I want to talk to Doniel about it.  When there were crises in the Bur family, Doniel told me.  I've never had a sister, but I feel like I can rely on Doniel like one: even if she doesn't agree with me, she'll support me and still love me in the end. 

I have been blessed, in my life, to have many exceptional friendships.  Doniel and I once talked about how, as your life changes and you grow, your friendships change.  Friends drift apart, friends grow closer.  I told her how much I seem to always get hurt, when my frirends and I drift apart.  "It's not you," she said.  "It's just how friendships work.  Who your friends are depends on where you are in your life.  It's just that you always love so intensely, Laura Hall."

It's true.  I am a heart on my sleeve kind of gal.  Perhaps someday, the Burs and Halls will have different needs, and will have to drift apart.  But, for now, we're close, and in that, I am so very blessed.  Burs, I hope you know, even when I'm not drinking, I love you, man.  No, I mean I really, reeeeeeally love you.  Both.  Are my eyes all the way open?

Tootin' for Gluten

Jay Baruchel "You don't even know what gluten is."
Seth Rogen "Well, no one does, man.  Gluten is just a broad term to classify bad things you put in your body.  Carbs: that's a gluten.  Calories:  that's another gluten.  That shit's everywhere!"
         -Jay Baruchel and Seth Rogen in "This Is The End"

And so, in my constant need to be part of "the cool kids," I have joined the group of weirdos across the world who are "gluten free."  My nurse practitioner says that, most likely, I have "celiac disease," but to me it doesn't really matter what you call it.  The fact of the matter is that cookies, cake, doughnuts, garlic bread, BLTs, Texas Toast grilled cheese sandwiches, french toast, chocolate chip pancakes, Bosco Sticks, and pizza dough are off the table.  As you can see, I've given this quite a bit of thought.

It all began when I was a teenager, and my mom turned 40.  It seemed so old.  Foooooorty.  So, right around her fortieth birthday, my mom started having all kinds of stomach problems.  She went to doctors, who tried to prescribe her Xanax for anxiety.  I said her only anxiety was that the doctors wouldn't listen to her about her belly trouble.  Anyway, Mom took action (after having both an upper and a lower GI, which she does not recommend), and put herself on some kind of Jane Brody-Good Health-Food Elimination diet.  We ate lovely things like barley soup, tabbouleh, veggie lasagna, homemade yogurt, and fish.  I hate fish.  Eventually, Mom determined that she had Lactose Intolerance and, if she mostly avoided dairy products, she could do fine.  At some point since then, someone invented Lactaid, which helps her a little, but it is not the miracle cure for her that the commercials advertise.  And, truly, there is nothing more embarrassing (or hilarious), than my mother saying to the waitstaff at a restaurant, "Now, does that come with cheese?  I'd like no cheese please.  I can't have any dairy products.  They give me terrible gas and diarrhea, or sometimes I get so backed up I can't poop for months."  If we see my mom starting to launch into one of these talks, my dad and I really try to distract the waitstaff, knock over Mom's chair, start a table fire, something less painful than listening to her story.  (Love you, Mom.)

So, that being said, I've known it was coming.  You know, like you know death is coming.  Every once in a while, you joke about it with somebody, "Ha, yeah, 'cause we're all gonna die," but you really don't ponder it a whole lot.  As the digits on my birthday cake continued to climb, I began to cram in the milk, the cheese, the sour cream, and, ooooh, the ice cream.  I made sure that I got my fair share of ice cream, in case 40 hit and that was the end.

About a year and a half ago, around Halloween, I got this weird pain in my side.  I thought, "Hhmmm, either my appendix is going to burst, or the movie Alien is true."  Eric and I met our friends, the Burs, and their kids to go trick-or-treating downtown. 

Doniel Bur said to me, "Laura Hall, you're walking 'gimpy'!"

And I was.  I told everyone I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and we have all these pictures of me humped over, pretending that I'm helping the kids with their pumpkins, but really I'm just trying to keep the pain at bay.  After we got home that night, I met my mom at the emergency room.

Diverticulitis.  That was my diagnosis.  Which, according to my nursing-student sister-in-law, is an "old person disease."  So, I stopped eating seeds, corn, nuts, I even got a little goofy about nacho chips (sharp edges, ya know).  But, despite avoiding strawberries, blueberries, every tiny little seed-like food, I still had a few more episodes.  A colonoscopy showed nothing.  Forty was approaching... Could it be?

I turned 39 in December, and decided to take the bull by the horns.  In January, I started my own version of my mom's 1987 food elimination diet.  (Of course, I didn't make my family eat anything nasty, except Quinoa, which I do not recommend, and Lentils, which I feel could be used to elicit war secrets from determined spies.)  The results... GLUTEN.

Wha?  I was not prepared for this.  I did not eat enough pizza or breadsticks.  My husband makes the world's best chocolate chip cookies.  I can't go THE REST OF MY LIFE without them, can I?  Eric and I bought some gluten-free flour mix, which had the consistency of Ben and Becca's sand box.  Mmm.  I've tried some of the gluten free cookie mixes.  Crumbly, gritty, with a touch of chocolate thrown in.  My girlfriend, Kim, has been gluten free for a few years, so she gives me advice, support, tells me to stay away from the evil wheat.  However, her alter-ego is acting as my Gluten-Dealer, since she is constantly pinning delicious looking desserts on Pinterest, "Now with TWICE the gluten!"  I think she's secretly out to get me, so she can raise Ben and Becca.  They are pretty cute.

And, did I mention, that now as I avoid gluten like the plague (at a recent retreat, the host asked, "Can I have gluten in the house?"  No, it's airborne!  Aaah, don't pass the wheat field, my head'll pop off!), I have discovered that LACTOSE is also no longer my friend? 

So, basically, I am turning into a 40-year-old rabbit.  I can have celery, apples, the occasional lettuce.  My menu's getting limited because, as Seth Rogen said, "That shit's everywhere."