Things I Take for Granted

Every now and again, life smacks you across the face and says, “See how lucky you are?!? Now stop complaining!”

Over the holidays, I helped FireDaddy and his fellow firemen collect donations for a family who lost everything in a house fire a week or two before Christmas.  This family was low income, to say the least, and had NO insurance.  None. They lost it all and were on their own.  American Red Cross is very helpful to families like these, but this is only a start.  This single mother needed a lot to help give their family (her son and mother) a jumpstart. 

As I drove around one afternoon, collecting items from friends and shopping for gift cards and such, I talked to my girlies about what I was doing.  I want them to know what their Daddy and I believe is right – helping others.

Last night, it happened again.  This time, it was an apartment building across the street from the school in which I teach.  Six of our families are displaced from their homes and starting from scratch. They have the clothes on their backs and, gladly, an empty apartment, hastily made ready for them by complex management.  The American Red Cross has them set up in a hotel for three nights and, at this I’m truly amazed, the local Ruby Tuesday has granted these families FREE MEALS for as long as they need it!  The road ahead is still very long for these families, though. 

 

But, that’s really just one thing I take for granted…

I also take for granted that my husband will go to work everyday and come home safely at the conclusion of each shift.  I must admit that, fairly recently, haunting thoughts have run through my mind as I kiss him good-bye as he leaves for work.  I always give him a big hug and tell him to be safe.  There’s a little, frightened voice in my mind, only about an inch tall, that whispers to me, “What if this is the last time?  What if today is the day something happens?”

Morbid, but true.  It could happen. 

Friends ask me how I stand it.  How am I not worried ALL. THE. TIME?

 

I answer them honestly: I don’t think about it.

 

Until the nights when I stay up to watch the late news after his evening call home, recounting the excitement of a good fire.  I proudly watch for his face on the television.  And, then I hear the details he cleverly omitted from his reporting…

“…live rounds exploding…grenades found in the home…”

Or like the night I heard about the shooting turned car chase turned hostage stand-off.  Yep.  He was there for it all.  What I found out later was that he was pulled by the SWAT team to go in closer with them as their medic…or something like that.  I’ve blocked most of it out. 

It is always after the fact that he reveals the true danger – and his fear.

Even simple, “innocent” stories he tells me remind me of how aware he is of the risks.  I hear it when he tells me about arriving at a call, realizing “something isn’t right” and calling police to the scene.  It’s not just the element of risk from accidents or fire – but the element of CRIME. 

 

And then there’s the other thing…him.  Even if he comes home alive and in one piece, he isn’t the same. 

I asked him something recently.  It occurred to me that when I see those “Drive Safely” signs on the side of the road, I think to myself, “Someone died there.”  When HE sees those signs, does he remember the night they died? Does he still see the wreck?

Yes. He does.

Every time he drives past this corner or that pillar of an overpass or that tree, he relives that scene. 

Every time he drives past that house, he remembers that call.

Every time he eats at that restaurant, he remembers the man that choked.  He remembers working on him, spread out in the middle of the tables, as families and diners sat watching, stunned and helpless.

Every time he drives past that parking lot, he remembers the young man that died there, a bullet in his head.

Every time.

Every time.

Every time.

 

He told me this summer, “You’d think it would get easier.”

I think it’s rather the opposite, in fact.

 

I take for granted that, since he came home safely in one piece, life goes on as normal.  And, since he doesn’t talk much about these things, especially right away, I often never know what is on his mind.  I am thankful for the days he comes home and says, “We had a bad call.”  At least then I know. 

 

On September 11th of his first year on the department, FireDaddy was on duty.  I met him at a local remembrance ceremony in which his department participated.  I stood by the ladder truck with all the guys on his shift and watched interpretive dancers and other such performers take their turn on the stage of the amphitheater.  We talked and joked and enjoyed the beautiful weather as the American flag, perched atop the erect ladder beside us, waved in the ocean air. 

At the end of the night, the dancers brought roses over to the firefighters and shook their hands in thanks.  They saw me standing amongst them and the lead dancer asked, “Are you a wife?”  I replied with a smile and a nod.  She hugged me tightly, presented a rose and thanked me, too.

At the time, I laughed and said, “Don’t thank me!  I don’t do anything!  They’re the heroes!”

I still think that, whole-heartedly.  But, after being the wife of a firefighter for nearly a decade, I also realize I sacrifice more than I think about.  More than I care to admit.

 

And then there are the good days. 

“I saved a life today,” he texted me last week.  CPR conversions are rare.  When they happen, it is a celebration. 

The call toned out CPR in progress at a doctor’s office.  They arrive on scene and none of the three doctors in the room were touching the patient…and it was apparent they hadn’t yet.  One of the three offered their help once the firefighters arrived, but it was refused. 

FireDaddy and his guys got busy immediately.  Thank God the woman let out a sudden gasp after a while and she, shockingly, “came to”.  FireDaddy later told me that he’d never seen anything like it.  In the case of those fortunate successful conversions, the patient is usually still very much altered.  This woman, though, was fully alert.  On this day, they walked in the office men and walked out heroes.  They saved her life.  They truly saved her life.

If there were only more days like those.

 

There is so much I take for granted.

Cold.

Even in Florida, it has been darn right cold outside this week. The kind of cold that makes you crave pajamas. Sweat pants. Big, squishy, crew socks. Hoodies. Blankets and quilts. Blazing fires in your fireplace and hot cocoa -- or the “grown-up” version of cocoa, hot lattes.

My bed has taken quite good care of me each night; a quilt, and sometimes a throw blanket, layered on top of my coverlet. Even with the assistance of a crow bar, I would still struggle to pry myself loose from its warm embrace. My personal bed heaters, Bo and Daisy, have risen to the occasion beautifully. Bo dutifully curls up by my feetsies, keeping my sock-clad toesies warm. Daisy wads her balled-up self under my arm and, on occasion, moves to my pillow in the night, molding to the top of my head like a canine stocking cap.

My kitchen, this week, has pumped out comfort food: crock-pot chicken with dressing, pork chops, chili, spaghetti, and, coming soon, asparagus & green pea risotto. For this weekend, I’m planning a roast, cooked over the course of the day. On Monday, we celebrated a successful first day back to “the grind” with a fresh batch of fudge brownies and tall glasses of skim milk.

Ironically, this week (by far the coldest week in recent memory) BigGirl’s homework included star gazing. Star gazing. In freezing temperatures. So, she and FireDaddy bundled up in their warmest winter gear, and spent time in the dark night yard, searching for constellations.  Orion, Cassiopeia, Lepus… The Lollipop. They shivered as they came inside, sporting red noses, rosy cheeks, and excited smiles.  They talked loudly and with renewed energy as they told BabyGirl and I their every observation.

Each night this week, the girlies have prayed for snow, wishing against all odds that the magic of inside-out jammies would bring a winter weather miracle to Florida. BigGirl has gone so far as wearing three layers inside out…an undershirt, and two layers of pajamas – all inside-out. Each morning, BabyGirl has crept straight from sleep, eyes filled with hope, to the sliding glass door to check for snow. Each day, these hopeful girlies have been disappointed only momentarily, realizing they can try again tonight, and maybe tomorrow will be different.

While much of me is tired of the frivolous annoyances brought on by the cold – covering plants, dripping faucets, the weight of extra coats, bundling up protesting children, searching closets, drawers and hampers for weather-appropriate clothes for the girlies, starting the car early each morning and carrying blankets to warm my Drama Princesses on the way to school – I must admit that much of me has enjoyed it.  In some ways, it is a fun, refreshing change of pace.  It’s fun to wear scarves and hats and gloves and tights and boots.  Create a new look, a new “cold weather you”.  It’s fun to cozy up in the big bed together, shivering between cold sheets.  It’s such a treat to enjoy a warm fire (especially living with FireDaddy…but that’s another post) and feel your heart flutter at the prospect of future flurries. 

The cold has returned pieces of my childhood to my mind.  The smell of snow.  Counting marshmallows in my hot chocolate.  Watching the way those marshmallows slowly soften and get bubbly as they melt into my warm treat.  My Mama relentlessly prodded and stoked the fire.  Daddy, in his Wellington boots, stocking cap, brown jacket and gloves, replenished firewood from stacks out back.  I remember how cold my feet were as they walked on the tile in our Texas home, and how, as I played outside, my fingers and face stung long before I confessed my chill to anyone.  A gray winter sky hung low above brown, dormant yards.  Barren gray trees stretching from cold red clay to touch heavy clouds.  Freezing cold air carried the smell of burning wood to my nose.  I hear the crunch of snow under my feet and remember stiffly walking in my heavy winter jacket and boots.  One year, the lake froze and I stood fearful on the safety of the back law, watching in awe as my crazy uncles walked out onto the ice, playing and goofing around like a bunch of overgrown boys.  One year, the unexpected sight of snow in the morning as I woke up at a friend’s house made me homesick.  You should be at home when it snows, I thought.  I missed My Mama and My Daddy and my brothers.

I’m a little homesick today at the thought of it all. 

Hello there, Winter.  I’ve missed you, too.

 

Photo credits:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/elifayse/ / CC BY 2.0

I closed my eyes.

I’m usually not concerned about germs when I visit a doctor’s office.  Call it blissful ignorance or denial, but it isn’t usually something I worry about too much. 

At recent visits to my girlies’ pediatrician, I’ve noticed the ginormous bottle of hand sanitizer sitting out at the sign-in sheet and again at the checkout window.  I’ve taken advantage of those opportunities for added precaution.  But, I didn’t really worry.  Until today.

I visited my own doctor’s office for a back “injury”.  (I say “injury” because, yet again, I have no idea what I’ve done to myself.  When I think more about why I don’t know or remember anything I’ve done to hurt myself, I conclude that I injure myself so frequently that I just don’t even pay attention to them for long anymore.  Except for when I cut off the top of my thumb…but that’s another post.) 

I noticed the lady behind the glass window handing the little old lady signing in before me a mask.  A mask.  Then, my eyes caught sight of the sign sitting on the counter, “Our masks are for your protection.”

 

Eww!  OK.  Now, I’m completely creeped out.

As I step up to the clipboard, I glance down at the two pens on the counter.  One attached by a short chain to the clipboard, the other, a black Paper Mate that has long ago lost its cap, lying nearby.  A little voice in my head reminded me of a warning I’d heard on television, or from a friend, or passing someone in the hall…”Always use your own pens.  Do you know how many people touch those pens?”  

Then I heard my own voice reminding me to calm down.  “I have a killer teacher/mom immune system and this is all just paranoid thinking.”  Plus, I didn’t want to look like a jerk/idiot rifling through my purse that desperately needs to be cleaned out and reorganized looking for a black pen.  Well, looking for any pen that isn’t pink, purple, lime green, or orange.  Or a highlighter.  Or a marker.  (I’m always prepared.)  So, I took a deep breath (and held it), chose a pen, and signed the board.  It was like the office supply version of Russian Roulette. 

 

As I took my place in the waiting crowd, strategically chosen to be equidistant from all the other waiters, I sank four inches into the seat of a chair that had obviously been a popular choice for a while.  I scoped out my fellow waiters…and began to feel very young and very healthy.  Every other person in there was well over 70, frail,…and wearing a mask.  Well, with the exception of their caregivers.  They might pass for mid-40s or greater.  My eyes darted from mask to mask, sizing up the wearers.  Were they sick?  Did they think I was sick?  Should I be worried about catching something, or should I stand up and announce, “Don’t worry.  No germs on me!  I’m just here for a bad back.  You know how it is when you pass 30…it’s all downhill from there, right??  Ha, ha!” 

I needed to consult an expert. 

I texted FireDaddy.

 

Me: they have masks for u to wear in waiting room. it’s creepy.

FireDaddy: it’s going around.

Me: should i wear 1?

FireDaddy: it’s up 2 u

Me: what would u do?

FireDaddy: i’ve been vaccinated

 

And just like that, he left me high and dry.  It was like the dream where you show up somewhere naked, or arrive at an event or work an hour early because you forgot to change your clocks, or when your friend gives you a gift even though you both agreed you wouldn’t exchange gifts!  How could he do that to me?  He scoffs at me for getting the flu shot every year – and then he goes and gets vaccinated for the swine flu?  How selfish is he???  Doesn’t he care about his own wife?  The mother of his children?  THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE AND THE BEST FRIEND HE’S EVER HAD???

 

The blonde lady behind the glass called my name again.  It was time for me to update my forms, so she handed me a *gasp!* clipboard and form to complete.  This time, I dug into my purse and found my own germ-infested pen to use.  (Let’s face it.  Those pens are used frequently by my own nose-picking, finger-licking, germ-carrying kiddos.)  After all, the germ you know is better than the germ you don’t know, right?  I busied my mind as I completed the redundant form.  Unfortunately, it was an unusually short form - front side only with only two signatures on the back.  That’s it?  When I don’t want to do this kind of stupid paperwork, there’s like five pages of it – asking me questions I practically have to call my mother’s mother to find out the answers to!  Today I get one stinkin’ page – and like a third of the page was “N/A”!!!

I crossed the room carefully, holding my breath, to return my assignment.  As I turned back towards the sinking chair, I noticed the end table with magazines.  Ha!  Not on your life, germie-poos!  I’m not falling for THAT old trick!  (Today…)

And so, I sat.  I brought a book, but couldn’t bring myself to read it in that moment.  I sat and held my purse in my lap, looking like a frightened little ol’woman, I’m sure.  “Please call my name. Please call my name. Please call my name.”

Finally, they called my name.  I moved as quickly as I could with this darn aching back.  (Getting up is really hard these days.)  As I came close to the door to the back of the office, I silently wished the nurse would open the door wider so I didn’t have to get so close to her to pass through the threshold.  I followed her to the scale.

“Don’t you think we could just skip this part today?  After all…it’s right after Thanksgiving…which came on the heels of a month or more of gluttony for me.  Don’t you think?   Please?” 

“Ha. No.”

I shed my shoes, dropped my purse, opened my mouth for the thermometer (telling myself those flimsy plastic covers really can protect me from the creepy germs inside other people’s mouths), stepped on the scale, and I closed my eyes.

 

 

Photo Credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/julep67/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Projects: Past, Present, and Future

As a teacher, I totally "get" the idealistic thinking behind assigning projects to students. I completely understand the lofty goals that accompany the standard "Dear Parents" letter, detailing the project guidelines, due date, and scoring information.  After all, projects are authentic learning.  They give students choices.  They close the gap between home and school.  They are directly linked to standards.  The possibilities are endless when you truly unleash your little learners and say, "Go!  Be free and LEARN!!!"

As a student, I often shared my teachers' glorified visions of excellence.  I'm sure I secretly (or perhaps not so secretly) strived at times to be the best:  turn in the fanciest diorama, write the longest report, or build the biggest balsa wood Aztec dwelling.  I do not doubt that I (at least internally) wanted my speech to get the most laughs, my science fair project to win the blue ribbon, and my work to receive the highest honor.  I WANTED that 100/A+!

Now, enter phase two of my life...parenthood.  In many ways, projects are a curse.  They take over my life.  They cost money - money for which I had plans.  Plans that didn't include buying jiggly eyes and felt.  My evenings are quickly consumed by cracking the whip over BigGirl while repeatedly turning BabyGirl away.  Trips to libraries to hunt down juvenile nonfiction books.  Hours pouring over the internet researching the topic and sifting through websites looking for age-appropriate and applicable content.

However, projects as a parent aren't all bad.  With each project, I fall in love with BigGirl's love of learning all over again.  I am continually amazed by the wheels in her head.  Her inquisitive nature and knack for piecing together random knowledge with memories is unbelievable.  I love the time we spend together and, inevitably, I learn something new.  And, for that, I'm always a better person in the end.  It is during the hours of toiling away over these school projects that I am reassured - she will be OK.  She will succeed in this rat race of a world.  She will rise to the top like cream in milk.   This girl of mine, she's going somewhere.

I also am reminded by my friend that these moments are memories in the making.  Just as I will never forget the night I stayed up till "the middle of the night" (probably 10:00!) with my parents creating the greatest solar system model of all time, she will never forget the hour we spent interviewing a couple in Scotland via Skype.  I will never forget how cool it was to use that awesome leftover silver metallic wallpaper (No, it was not from my own home. Daddy was a custom homebuilder.) to cover the outside of the moving box that housed my painted styrofoam planets suspended by fishing line.  And BigGirl will never forget painting paper plaid and pleating it into a miniature kilt.  Just as I will remember with a smile the pride I felt walking down the fourth grade hallway and seeing my solar system stand out in the row of models, I'm sure she will never forget the awkward pride she felt as her class watched her VoiceThread, and listened to her own voice teach her classmates about her heritage.

This project is not the first we've done together, nor will it be the last, I'm sure.  We've made a gingerbread girl, a leprechaun trap, costumes for literary parades, a Hopi doll, and - the first projects ever - family books.  (A tradition at our preschool.)

My heart swells as I compare these moments with my budding student to the moments from my own childhood.  My diagram of a flower received special praise from my fifth grade teacher (the meanest teacher in the world) because I outlined everything in black to make the edges stand out.  (I'm 99% sure she hated me and that was the only praise I received from her all year.  That's why I'll never forget it.)  That was also the year My Daddy helped me build the balsa wood Aztec dwelling.  The next year, my mother drove me around to shoe stores searching for the perfect pair of lace-up ankle boots to accompany my Laura Ingall's Wilder era project.  To be honest, I really don't remember that presentation, but I'll never forget the costume or the time spent preparing it with my mother.  And I'm pretty sure she returned the boots immediately afterwards.  We didn't have the money to be spending on those boots right then.  Believe me.  My mother helped me again soon.  She helped me write an "award winning" speech in sixth grade, just after we moved to Florida.  I even went on to the semi-finals - which was a big deal for "the new girl", who, prior to that point, was mostly known for talking with a Texas Twang.

At some point, probably high school, the time working with parents began to fade...as it rightly should.  Projects became my own procrastination, and the memories changed.  I can recall sitting in my bedroom for hours memorizing poems in French for Le Congrés, building my repetoire, line after line after line.  My senior year, I remember sitting at my desk, staring at my bulletin board, searching for the inspiration for yet another speech. This one was about my great grandmother.  I remember clearly the moment my eyes stumbled across the words from this Nike ad* (circa 1990) hanging there.  It all fell into place.

"You don't have to be your mother unless she is who you want to be.  You don't have to be your mother's mother, or your mother's mother's mother, or even your grandmother's mother on your father's side.  You may inherit their chins, their hips, or their eyes, but you are not destined to become the woman who came before you, you are not destined to live their lives.  So if you inherit something, inherit their strength.  If you inherit something, inherit their resilience. Because the only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be."

And tonight, as I enjoy the relative calm in my home before the next project is assigned, I will remember that those moments spent on projects with my girls are irreplaceable.  Those moments are a gift I give my BigGirl - and one day, my BabyGirl.  It is in those moments that they will inherit from me, just as I inherited from my parents.  It is on those moments that she will one day look back and smile.


Pssst! If you haven't seen it yet - you have to give my girl props. :)


And just for fun, check this out from last spring**.  Heh, heh, heh.....




* I still love that ad, even today.  Probably more than ever.  
** Just so you know, I couldn't let BigGirl turn the project in since FireDaddy did it completely without her help/involvement.  Her finished project was a shoebox with a trap door that had tissue paper grass covering the top and a shiny coin glued on top of the trap door.  (Equally as ingenius, I thought...) 

The Morning After

I SURVIVED DAY ONE!

Whew! I have to admit, this is a little more like rehab than I ever expected.

Yesterday, after my mid-afternoon sugar (and alcohol) cravings subsided, and I thought the worst of the day was over, I came close to falling off the wagon.

You see, I watched the Gator game.

The stress was overwhelming.

...PLUS, someone kept tweeting about ice cream.

But, I held fast to my conviction and

stayed away from the kitchen. I nursed my sweet glass of Crystal Light for all it was worth. I ate a piece (or two) of Colby Jack cheese. (a treat I rarely enjoyed on Weight Watchers) And, I texted profanities to FireDaddy at the station after every stressful play.

Today, I've actually felt good. After a slow and thoughtful trip to the store, I am now stocked with plenty of plan-approved foods, snacks, beverages, and even some sugar-free candies that taste darn good.

And let me know if I'm the only one who's ever felt this way, but on Day Two of a new diet, don't you feel you deserve a little reward? No...I'm not talking about cheating. Really. I'm talking about progress. Don't you half expect the scale to drop two pounds or so? You're so proud of yourself, shouldn't your favorite pair of pants acknowledge your accomplishment by loosening up around your waist a little? I could SWEAR that I lost weight yesterday. I could SWEAR I look thinner today.

No? You don't think so??

Darn.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kurafire/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Friendship Plan

As BigGirl and I spilled ourselves and all of our miscellaneous carry-ons into the school parking lot this morning, she was positively in a tizzy.

"Mommy, I really need your help! I just don't know what I'll do about this!"

I, completely confused as to what was her problem - except for the fact that it was taking her a solid 5 minutes to get her skinny little bootie out of the backseat, with or without her backpack - hurriedly asked for clarification. (As my arms motioned like a flight attendant for her to move to the nearest exit - PRONTO.)

"I need a plan! Today is my day to play with Bestest BFF, but Friend B will want to play too...I just don't know what to do!"

Dumbfounded (though I'm not sure why I was surprised), I quickly preached the "more the merrier" schpeal. "You know, that's why a party is more fun than just a playdate. It's more fun with more friends."

"I guess I'll just have to tell her that it's my day to play with Bestest BFF...but, HOW WILL I DO THAT? HOW CAN I DO THAT? I JUST DON'T KNOW HOW I CAN DO THAT!"

At this point, resolved that she was NOT going to go for the merry threesome idea, and feeling my stress level frizz as fast as my hair in the morning air, I gave up. "Here's an idea: SAY IT. Use your words. That's why God GAVE us words!"

As we, at long last, began moving toward the building, BigGirl hauling her worries on her back and I hauling my entire office in a cart behind me with one hand and the all important venti skinny vanilla latte in the other, she laid it on the table.

"Mommy, I just need a Friendship Plan. That's all there is to it."

This is just the latest in a long line of heart-breaking girl tiffs that she has suffered through this year. While BabyGirl is busy planning her white wedding to Don Juan Jr. (scheduled to be held in her preschool classroom sometime this year... and we're all invited), BigGirl is crying in the hallway.

On the morn of her "Friendship Anniversary" with the all important Bestest BFF, she arrived at school all decked out in her finest diamond drop earrings, diamond encrusted arm cuffs, and a diamond (blinky-light) necklace. Apparently, not all first grade girlies are confident enough to pull off this level of adornment and SOMEONE felt the need to point out the fact that she does NOT have pierced ears. (Gasp!!! The horror!) Instead, she was wearing (scandalous, I know) CLIP ON EARRINGS!!!

Girls, girls, girls.

My BigGirl, not the type to brush something off without hurt feelings, nor the type to say to her classmate, "I know. These are clip-on. Not everyone has pierced ears." and let that be the end of it, was crushed. She refused to go to school. She came down with a headache and possibly a fever. She needed FireDaddy to come A.S.A.P. to pick her up.

Unfortunately for her...and my officemate who had to listen to the wailing...AND BigGirl's crying, I threatened an embargo on all television privileges if she did not hightail her hiny out of my office chair and march that bootie downstairs to her class. She went reluctantly (and still in tears). Funny, the Motrin didn't seem to help the headache and "fever"...but, with an apology, she was cured.

Why am I rambling about this, you ask? What is it I'm REALLY trying to say?

I am SO not looking forward to the day the hormones start to kick in. Dear God, someone may need to take me out back and put me out of my misery before then.

Scratch that.

I can't leave them alone with FireDaddy.

Dear God, someone is REALLY going to need to get me some stronger pills before then.

Super Saturdays

I absolutely love Saturday. It is my favorite day of the week. It is the most optimistic of all the days, the most relaxed, the most free. The world lies before you on a silver platter. For once, I feel like I've captured a little bit of that elusive thing called "time".

I love to crawl out of bed before everyone else and steal a few minutes alone. My early rising companions, Bo and Daisy, often join me on the back porch to enjoy the pleasant morning breeze. Some days I read, or write, or talk on the phone to fellow early birds like Mama Dearest. Other days I may just enjoy breakfast in peace.

I love to lounge around for hours before getting dressed. The morning kids' shows with BigGirl and Littlest Princess, internet surfing and blog reading are all well and good, but mostly - it's just delaying the chore of getting dressed that I enjoy.

I love propping up on my bed after it's been made. My bedroom, gently lit by filtered sunshine, is a cool and relaxing place. It's even better when the house has a slight chill, making my throw blanket necessary for cozying.

And Saturday television is the best. Years ago, when it was just the BigGirl and I if FireDaddy was at the station, we enjoyed the occasional (OK, so maybe it was more "routine" than "occasional") PBS marathon. For years I was too cheap to pay for cable, so PBS was the best choice around for weekend viewing. We knew what time the cooking show marathon began and we'd memorized the lineup like pros. America's Test Kitchen, Fast Food My Way with Jacques Pepin, Everyday Food, Daisy Cooks!, BBQ U, and Julia child: Lessons With Master Chefs. We both stayed glued to the screen (and our seats) for hours. (Yes, I know that was not the best parenting move for my child's developing young mind. But, luckily, she doesn't seem to have been harmed by my negligence.)

Even as the day comes to a close, even if you realize you've completely wasted away the day, you've still got the hope and promise of one more day off. Sweet, sweet, Sunday...but that's another post.

Sadly, I cannot say I spent my day like this today. I did enjoy some early morning quiet outside with my doggies. I did spend a few hours, after returning home from necessary weekend errands, propped on my bed (even if it was behind my computer working on school stuff). I did get in some quality giggle time with my girlies (even if it was flanked by bickering and whining). And, best of all, I am, once again, putting myself to bed banking on the promise of Sweet Sunday. Tomorrow, I hope to never leave the house at all.

Pssst! This weekend, if you get a chance for some relaxing internet surfing and blog reading, be sure to stop by my buddy's blog. Even though she's in Portugal right now (and has posted some GORGEOUS pics of her vacation), she's hosting an anniversary giveaway. Just keep your paws off the coffee cozy. It's mine, babe.

Photo credits: Library of Congress photostream on Flickr

Je me souviens.

Eight years ago today a lot of "Fire Daddies" died. Not mine, but hundreds of other little girls' and boys'.

Roughly six years ago, I attended my first firefighter's funeral. I'll never forget that day.

Jack had been a helicopter medic in Vietnam. FireDaddy used to tell me about nights when he got even less sleep than usual for a night at the station because of Jack's nightmares. They plagued not only him, but all of his bunkmates, too. But, Jack was a good guy. Everyone loved him. The little Fire Babies loved him like a grandpa or crazy uncle. And, he sure did like them back.

He was a handsome, gray-haired man. Pictures of him from long ago, from the days when his children were young, were displayed on storyboards at the back of the sanctuary.

The wives arrived separately from their husbands, many of whom were attending while on duty. Our men looked handsome in their uniforms and white gloves. But they were in pain, and their faces showed it.

I, with my nursing baby, watched from a small "cry room" in the church. Thankful for the 13-inch black and white monitor perched in the corner of the room, I nursed and rocked through my tears. I recognized my husband's figure standing beside the coffin with his buddies.

I was not prepared for what happened when they removed from that quiet casket, first, the fire helmet, and then the flag...

I knew the sound. On most days, it meant "get up and go". The sound that interrupted lunches with wives and kids, Thanksgiving with the families, workouts, sound sleeps, favorite TV shows, white knuckle football games, trips to the grocery store, and hot dinners on the stove. The sound that, on any other day, made their heart race with anticipation.

The tone went out. Then, the faceless woman at dispatch, perhaps the same woman who fetched my husband from a fire the night I went into labor, announced the last call for Engineer Jack. And just like that, she toned out again. And it was over.

Afterwards, FireDaddy silently disappeared around the corner of the church, one in a sad, sorrowful line of firemen. Their heads and bodies slumped. The sadness weighing their shoulders down. I hardly recognized them.

These were the men who flirted with me, laughed with my husband, cooed at my baby, played pranks on each other, drank together, ran together, lifted together, cooked together, ate together. They had nicknames for everyone. They shared a bond made sacred over spilled blood and branded with fire. They shared secrets they couldn't share with anyone else. They had a trust they had with no one else. And now, they were without one.

When they finally emerged from their momentary retreat, they said little. Until we all, a whole family, broke bread. We hugged. We laughed. We passed babies and smiles around the table.

That was six years ago. Our family hasn't been the same since. I cannot even imagine what the families who lost many, not just one, suffered. I cannot imagine how empty their hearts must have felt.

FireDaddy has a tattoo on his heart. It is a black maltese cross split in two by a red line. Surrounding it, "Ut vivant alii "....

So others may live.