In only a matter of hours 2008 will come to a screeching halt.  Yikes.

These last twelve months have been good to my family and I’m so very thankful for the opportunities and experiences we’ve shared this year.  There were, of course, just a few of those stomach-dropping roller coaster dips in our path.  You know what though?  We buckled up, held on tight, and here we are, all the stronger for having endured.  If there is one thing I’ve learned for certain it is this:  I believe whole heartedly that God uses those dips to mold us.  To make us stronger.  Capable.  And more faithful.  It certainly doesn’t feel that way in the midst of the molding, granted.  But if you put your faith in the right place, you come out equipped to face far more than you ever thought you could.

Not that I’ve personally faced anything that shook me to the core this year.  But I have watched helplessly from the sidelines as someone I love very much went through a huge transformation.  And just when she thought she was broken beyond repair, she found the window God had opened up after many a door had been slammed.  God rocks like that.

As I say my last silent prayers of the year tonight, I’ll give immense gratitude for all the ways in which we’ve been richly blessed.  I’ll ask that God grant wisdom to the newly elected leader of our country.  I’ll pray for those who’ve been hit hard by changes to the economy.  For those without jobs.  Without shelter.  Without hope.  I’ll pray that God make himself known to those with doubtful hearts and stubborn minds.  I’ll pray for my children and for their teachers, their friends, and their future spouses.  I’ll ask that those nearest and dearest to me enjoy strong health, happy hearts, and successful days in 2009.  I’ll ask for a compassionate heart so as to gain an understanding of  those with whom I have grievance.  I’ll pray selfishly for my family that God grant us a year even better than 2008.  And I’ll pray unselfishly that it will be, only if it is His will.  In the end I’ll hand over all of it, knowing that we’re in good hands.

For you my friends, I wish and pray for a blessed New Year.  That what you seek, you will find.  That what you earn, you will receive.  That what you need, you will have.  Wishing you happy days and healthy hearts.  Warm homes filled with those you love.  May 2009 wash over you with a tidal wave of that which brings you joy.  Hang on and hang ten my friends.  It’s sure to be a wipe-out!

Twice each year the girls go off to visit their dad and while I absolutely miss them like crazycakes I try to make the best of the time by enjoying a much, much slower pace with just Jeff and Jayce.  We tend to do a lot of shopping and eating out seeing as how those things are greatly complicated when you add three more kiddos to the mix.

They’re only gone for seven days this time.  And wouldn’t you know that both Jeff and I have been sick and confined to the house for the last two days.  Figures doesn’t it?

On the bright side, Jeff works for a wonderful company that recognizes the entire week between Christmas and New Years as holiday time.  So we’re hanging out at home watching movies and blowing our noses in unison.  Lovely, no?  But at least he’s not having to take any sick time off of work.

You know me, always looking on the bright side right?

So, I just wanted to check in and let you all know that I haven’t disappeared into a post-Christmas funk.  I’m alive and well.  Looking forward to this nasty sickness passing.  Hope all is well in your little corners of the world.

Yep, we still live in the desert of southern Arizona.  And yep, that is snow right there in our backyard.  Not exactly a white Christmas, but we’ll take it.  Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got cocoa to make…

Proof positive that even someone with Type A tendencies like your truly can put perfectionist ways aside for the good of the children…

Remember how I told you I enjoy torturing my family?  Oh, come on.  Don’t scoff at me.  We all have our quirks.

So last night during dinner I excitedly volunteered an idea for a new game.  The game would involve me planting a stray hair in one person’s food each night.  The “winner”, after discovering the hair, would win a free dessert pass, meaning he or she would not be required to finish the meal to get dessert.

And no, I wouldn’t really do that.  It was a joke.  Ha ha.  I may enjoy torturing them but even I have my limits.

My idea for the dinner game gave us a little chuckle and some inspired conversation briefly before we moved right along and forgot about it.

At least I thought we’d forgotten about it.

After the kids went to bed I went into Kennedy and Cassidy’s bathroom to put away clean towels.  Stuck on the wall, next to Kennedy’s mirror, I found this:

And I thought I was the one providing comic relief for the family.  Go figure.

Ever have one of those weekends that leaves you thanking your lucky stars that the kids and hubby will be headed off in their own separate directions come Monday morning?  Yeah?  You too huh? 

On Friday, Jeff and I indulged in one of our monthly date nights.  And speaking of date nights, you know how being the mother of a teenager has a tendency to send mothers screaming into the hills?  Well, if there is a redeeming aspect of having a teenage girl in the house, it is the built in babysitter benefit.  Not that I take advantage of my exploited appreciated 14-year-old.  I’m sure she would completely disagree (honestly though, there’s nothing new there) but not only does Torri earn a hefty monthly allowance, she also earns decent money babysitting her younger siblings once a month while the mister and I step out.  Everyone wins really.  She earns the big bucks and we hang on to those last shreds of our sanity.

So, as I was saying, Friday was date night.  We thoroughly enjoyed a fine Mexican (surprise surprise) meal at our favorite new restaurant find her in the desert.  And after our spicy fajitas we headed off to knock out the rest of our shopping list.  A fun time was had by all.  Okay, okay.  A fun time was had by me because I’m way more into shopping than Jeff is but still, it was fun time.  Much more fun than changing dirty diapers and cleaning smooshed pasta off of the booster chairs at home, kwim?

Saturday brought a day of errands in town.  And after a satisfying meal at the Cracker Barrel (are we country for choosing Cracker Barrel as often as we can???) we were off to the zoo to admire it all lit up with thousands of green LED lights.  Not green green.  Well, actually there were some green ones but what I meant was green as in eco-friendly green. 

And then today, I didn’t even leave the house.  It was baking day for me.  Baking day for me equates to dishes day for Jeff.  I’m lucky though because he didn’t complain a single time in spite of the mountains of dishes I set before him.  Surely his willing compliance had nothing to do with the fact that come tomorrow morning he’ll look like a hero at work when he marches into an early morning meeting with enough baked goods to feed an army.  Surely not.

So my friends I leave you with images of some of the fruits of my our labor.  Oh yeah.  And the fat jolly guy in the red suit.  We made time for him too…

You know those women who hold out hope that on Christmas morning there will be a Tiffany box waiting under the tree?

Yeah, um, I’m not one of those.

I know there won’t be a Tiffany box waiting under the tree.  And I’m cool with that.  Not that I wouldn’t be happy with a Tiffany box, but because Jeff and I don’t exchange gifts, I know better than to expect any box, Tiffany or otherwise.

We’re not anti-gift by any means (and I’m happy to forward my address if you happen to be in a giving mood).  It just doesn’t make a ton of sense for us to give each other anything because the $$$ is all coming from the same place.  So instead of going out in December and buying robes or slippers or flannel pajamas, we pretty much buy what we want (and can afford) throughout the year.

I know that some women would be appalled at the thought of her husband not buying a gift, but it works well for us and I actually prefer it that way.

That said, I still dream big.  And I certainly wouldn’t complain if a generous and indulgent Santa found his way down the chimney at my house.

And just in case he’s a fan of this little blog of mine I thought I’d put together a wish list.  Not a realistic one of course.  Like I said, this is one indulgent Santa.

So as not to scare my dream Santa away, I’d start my wish list off with a fairly reasonable request…

To replace the current, ugly dining room fixture that came with the house.  And then I’d ask for something sensible.

To motivate me to finish all the laundry in one day instead of leave it lingering all week.  And since the first two items on my list were so reasonable, it wouldn’t hurt to throw in something outrageous would it?

Because I’ve never had a designer handbag (after paying the price I’d have nothing left to put in it!).  But if Santa would be so kind…this would surely be the one.  And I’d need a snazzy new techie type item to go inside don’t ya think?

To help me stay connected on the go.  But since I’m not always on the go, Santa could help me out at home too.

To make the time I spend in the kitchen oh-so-worthwhile.  And what better to add stlye to the apron I’ll be wearing than a pair of these…

To satisfy my little blue box desire.  And for good measure, Santa could toss in one of these…

To make my house sparkly.  Without me lifting a single finger.  I’d be too busy, after all.  Doing this…

Because I’ve been a good girl.  I have.  I’ve worked so hard all year.  That’s why Santa would treat me to this…

Because the overworked elves wouldn’t have to toil away in hard labor.  Just slip a deed to the newest Disney Vacation Club into my stocking and I’d be one happy girl.

So if you happen to run into Santa at the mall this weekend, be sure to direct him my way.  My list is just a click away!

Cassidy had a dentist appointment today.

A dentist appointment doesn’t seem like that big of a deal really.  And for most kids it probably isn’t.

This dentist appointment was  a big deal though.

Two months ago when she went in for a cleaning the dentist suspected a cavity.  I say suspected because he couldn’t verify it with x-ray because Cassidy wouldn’t dream of letting him anywhere near her mouth with that big, scary x-ray machine.

The dentist also recommended the extraction of four stubborn baby teeth that were clinging to life, refusing to let her permanent teeth come through.

We made the decision to allow the dentist and his team to put her under general anesthesia to facilitate the extraction of those four teeth, the taking of the x-rays, and the filling of that cavity.

It was the first time any of my babies were put under general anesthesia and I was a little beside myself.

I know.  I know.  It’s not that big of a deal.  Not like open heart surgery or something.

But I held her as the anesthesiologist administered that shot in her arm that initially knocked her out.  I held her as she went from adamantly refusing a band-aid, to talking gibberish, to completely unresponsive.

Once she fell asleep they asked that I step back into the waiting room while they went to work in her mouth.

Jeff was waiting in the front room.  I tried to tell him about how Cassidy went limp in my arms, but I couldn’t make it through the story without crying.

There’s just something about holding an unresponsive child, my unresponsive child, that doesn’t sit well.

The procedure didn’t take long at all.

Before I knew it they were calling me back to the recovery area so that I could be there when she woke up.  The idea being that she’d never know I’d left at all.

The waking up was scarier than the falling asleep.

She woke up yelling.  Or crying maybe.  Basically she had outbursts of a yelping sound.  Her eyes were unfocused.  Her mouth gaped.  Her lips were crusted with blood.  Her skin was mottled, splotchy red.  She seemed to be awake but she wasn’t herself.  She was far from herself.

After having just signed a consent form that informed me of the possible risks (to include hospitalization and death no less) you can see why I was concerned.

I had momentary flashes of a catatonic Cassidy, trapped inside a body I’d consented to have irreversibly damaged.

I was scared.  And very, very regretful.

Within fifteen minutes she began to wake up more.  She recognized me but couldn’t get the word “mommy” to come out right.  She whimpered and clung to me.  She flung her body around haphazardly, presumably trying to get it to respond the way she wanted it to.

Even when the doctor told us that her condition was temporary, and completely normal, I couldn’t let go of those ugly flashes in my head.

Within twenty minutes of leaving the doctor’s office she began to return to her normal self.  She started forming real words instead of those gibberish yelps.  And when she insisted on watching Monsters Inc. on the DVD player in the minivan (and stopping at Starbucks for a frappuccino btw) I knew she was going to be just fine.

She’s resting at home now, watching Monsters Inc on the couch as I type these words.  She’s groggy, but completely fine.

Experiences like this one remind me how blessed I truly am. 

I sometimes sink into those “why me” moods when I wonder why my baby girl was born with a disability and has to struggle so hard to do and learn the things that come so naturally to her siblings.

Those moods don’t last long though; something always happens to snap me out of it.

Something like what happened today.  Something that reminds me that despite the hurdles in her path, this little girl of mine is a miracle.  We’ve been so richly blessed in that Cassidy is far more alike a typical child than she is different.  Seeing her in that strange in-between state today reminded me that even when she is driving me crazy with repeated questions and won’t-take-no-for-an-answer requests, I need to choose gratitude. 

I need to be thankful that she has the wherewithal to be insistent.  Thankful that she has words to express herself.  Thankful that she has the energy to bounce off the walls.  Thankful that she has the will to do all that she does.

Everyone needs a reminder from time to time.  Mine came today.

Have you heard about blue zones?

One of Dr. Oz’s doctor friends has been studying longevity in people around the world for quite some time now and he recently unveiled what he called “blue zones” on Oprah (and yes, I still TIVO Oprah in spite of our significant differences of opinion on many things).

Anyway…

Dr. Oz’s doctor friend identified hotbeds of centenarians (my SAT word of the day – someone who lives to be 100 years or greater) and traveled to their homes to try to uncover common denominators amongst them.

I didn’t see the whole show but one theme I did pick up on was that centenarians typically share the fact that they have purpose in life.  Many of them live in multiple generational families and even the oldest members contribute to the daily activities and chores that keep things running smoothly.  Most of these centenarians live in underdeveloped countries where it takes an incredible amount of effort just to get food on the table each day, especially for a large household.  The women rise with the sun and prepare tortillas – from scratch.  The men go out and clear underbrush with big, heavy machetes so that they can gather fruit from the trees.

All this to tell you that one of the keys to living a long and fulfilling life is to wake up each day with a purpose.  With a job to do.  A place to go.  Someone to see.  Tortillas to make.

If that’s the case, I’m in good shape.

I have a tendency to create work for myself.

Lots and lots of work.

Take the from-scratch Thanksgiving meal I recently labored for days over for example.

Or the fact that Jeff and I spent the entire weekend painting Kennedy and Cassidy’s room.  And assembling new bunk beds for them.

Yes.  In the midst of the busiest season of the year.

No, I didn’t get to the holiday baking.

Or the sending of the cards.

Or the wrapping of the gifts.

Don’t worry though; I’ve got all of it on today’s this week’s to-do list.

I’m all about longevity.

There were a number of years in my life in which no meat passed my lips.  Not because I am partial to animal causes, but because meat kinda grosses me out.

It started when I was eleven or twelve.  We stopped at Carl’s Jr. after a day on the boat at the lake.  I ordered a hamburger.  When the food came I opened the top of my hamburger to place french fries inside and I saw something on the meat that completely grossed me out.  It wasn’t something that didn’t belong there, like a cockroach or a fingernail.  It was just part of the meat, gray little swimmy things that had gone unnoticed before.

I didn’t finish that hamburger.

I went for many years eating poultry, but abstaining from red meat or pork.  My mom never liked fish (and never cooked it) so it wasn’t something I had to make a decision on.  And while part of me missed the taste of my dad’s bbq’ed tri-tip, overall the absence of beef from my diet didn’t faze me.  I just went along happily opting for chicken when possible and making a meal out of meat-free side dishes when not.

That is, until one Thanksgiving dinner when I helped pick the meat off the carcass after the meal.

Oh friends.  I was thoroughly and completely disgusted.

It’s not that the fact that there was a carcass was a surprise to me.  It’s more that I got up close and personal with aforementioned carcass.  My fingers were greased with its fat.  I stripped meat from bone.  Bone that, not long before, had been the inner structure of a real, live bird.  Again, it’s not an animal rights thing.  It’s a matter of just being plain grossed out by the fact that I was eating something that had eaten too.  Had peed.  Had pooped.  Had bled.

Ick.

After the turkey cleaning incident I swore off meat completely, though I did still eat eggs and had no problem drinking milk.

My stint as a vegetarian didn’t last long though.  It was interrupted by a pregnancy.  Considering I was already “at-risk” based on my age at the time, my midwife urged me to resume eating meat because the baby and I needed the protein.

Suprisingly it wasn’t hard to pick back up where I left off.  I just banished the turkey carcass from my mind and I’ve been consuming poultry ever since.

But only a certain kind of poultry.

It has to be dry.

Really dry.

I tend to overcook meat because only when it is free of juice can I convince myself that it has been thoroughly cooked.

My family is not fond.

When I plan the weekly menu I tend to avoid meals that include large pieces of stand-alone meat.  I opt instead for dinners that incorporate meat, but don’t let it take center stage.  Chicken tacos, for example, are ideal while baked chicken with rice is not.

Every once in a while I get tired of the standbys and a stand-alone meat meal slips through.

Such was the case tonight.

We had baked chicken and rice.

Midway through the meal I noticed that everyone at the table was unusually quiet.  I looked around and saw that it was because they were all involved in some serious chewing maneuvers.

Because I get great pleasure in inadvertently torturing my family I had to laugh.  Out loud.  As I watched them struggle to produce enough saliva to swallow the chicken I laughed so hard it brought tears to my eyes.

I know what you’re thinking.

And yes, you totally missed out by not being born to a mother like me.

Back at the dinner table a conversation ensued about my admittedly freakish meat fixation.

I’ve always known that Jeff takes issue with the dry meat I so proudly serve.  But until tonight I didn’t realize the kids even noticed.

I guess I should have clued in when, years ago, they started drowning their stand-alone chicken in a bath of Ranch dressing.

Much like the way Jeff smothers his in Tabasco sauce.  Or salsa.  Or pickle juice if it’s all we’ve got.

I have noticed that, at Thanksgiving, he doesn’t go overboard with the gravy.  And tonight I realized why.  I go to great lengths to brine the turkey for 48 hours before roasting it so as to infuse it with moisture and flavor.  I do this because that is what the women in the know do, not because I’ve ever given great consideration to how I want my particular turkey to turn out.

I’ve also noticed that I’ve never cared much for the turkey I’ve made on Thanksgiving.

Now I know why.

It’s too moist.  And too moist, in my subconscious mind, equates to one thing: too close to life.  To close to a time in which feathers graced it’s backside and it walked around on those scaly, scrawny turkey legs with that wattle wiggling to and fro as it pecked at its feed.

I’ve really got to stop now.  If I continue along this train of thought my family will go from complaining about dry meat to complaining about no meat at all.

Because I won’t be cooking it.

Don’t ask how I got to be such a spaz.

My mom swears she has no idea.

Just lucky I suppose.