you made me feel i was 14 again...

the closest picture of me at 14 I had scanned onto my computer. I was actually barely 16--in rainy Germany. My overalls with the bow belt loops are about as awesome as they can be...

Now 14, my Z is preparing to enter his freshman year in high school in the next few weeks. During a quiet moment with just us two this afternoon, I wanted to give him some advice--let him know I understood a lot of fears and apprehensions he's having, open up a dialogue. But I remembered being that age and having my mom try to tell me she understood and all I could think was, But you grew up in the 50's! You're so...old.

So, I thought my 14 year old might like to hear some advice from his 14 year old mom. I went to my box of journals and dug out the one I kept during 1989-90, when I was 14. Z worked on his drawings while I read.

He laughed at the number of crushes I went through, including my pining over Joey McIntyre of New Kids on the Block (I almost said they were the N'Sync of my day, then I remembered N'Sync was a decade ago and I had to search around in my head of current culture to reference One Direction). He nodded in solidarity as I spoke of frustration with friends--excessive clique-ishness, being sad to watch friends make choices to drink or smoke, or lose them when they started to shun friendships in favor of relationships. I spoke of concerns for my family, especially my younger brother who always seemed to be running with the wrong crowd. Then there were the stories of my spiritual "coming of age," how choices I made (or didn't) at that age had lasting influences on my life. I loved that my Z recognized several names of people I continue to be friends with today, helping him to see that nurtured friendships can last.

While I loved the whole experience of wandering down memory lane with my son who, I really think ended up convinced that times aren't so different and maybe his old mom knows what she's talking about--

I was also very humbled by life in general. By the wisdom I had at 14. In fact, many of the concerns and hopes I had then are the same ones I have now, just set against a different backdrop than junior high: Struggles with losing people I love, with the effects of those close to me making poor decisions that lead them to unhappy places. Hurt when betrayed by dishonesty. Feelings of inadequacy over my appearance or capabilities, usually when I unnecessarily compare myself to others. Frustration when I don't reach the lofty goals I set for myself. Sadness over injustices in the world. A deep desire for stability and peace in my own life, and a belief they could exist in spite of what was happening in the world.

And 14 year old me shared a lot of the same hopes and 'fancies' that 37 year old me shares, too. She loved perfect 50's cut dresses, good pizza, and jazz music. She read and wrote voraciously. She always believed love was just around the corner, and was never afraid of it--even if it hurt. She lived to be silly with friends. She adored her family and time with them.  She was a terrible driver. She wanted the very, very best for everyone around her and was excited about others' accomplishments. She wondered about the nature of God, but never doubted his kindness or guidance. The future was a thing to both fear and anxiously anticipate.

I also realized I had essentially been praying for the same things for nearly 25 years now. Some of those prayers have been answered, though in ways I didn't expect. Some were answered and then unanswered. Some, I'm still waiting for.

And I think that's life, you know?  Becoming increasingly more aware of the world outside yourself, of your part in it, of what you can affect and what you can't. Being tempered and made wise by experience. All while holding to that constant wanting of (hopefully) good things that has likely been with you since you were a child.

Life is the perfect test, the perfect testing ground. It's mean. It's tough. It's tiring. And its hard-fought wonderful moments make all the difficulties worth it--and then some.
I think the sentence I ended my 14 year old-self's journal with is the most telling: "Oh well. I suppose I'll learn one day!"

And you know what? I suppose I will.

this is what i can do

My littlest guy, J, turned 6 today (May 11). Such a sweet, happy, content boy, he is.

I was barely pregnant with  him when my marriage first started to show signs of trouble. Then my mom was diagnosed with cancer when I was 4 1/2 months along, passed away 6 weeks later at the end of February. J was born in May, a mess of dark hair and bowed lips, the only baby I'd ever had to take home without my mom there to lend a hand.

All that time I spent in tears with him, grieving so fiercely, feeling so hopeless. I'd remembered reading in an article somewhere about how babies are very emotion-sensitive in utero. I hated making him go through all the rough times with me. I prayed numberless times for God to keep him safe, surround him with singing angels so he'd  have some other sound to listen to besides weeping.

To this day, he's been both my most content kid and my one who gets the most easily worked up. In other words, it doesn't take much to trigger him, but it also doesn't take much to calm him down. He was my only child who had a binky and a comfort object ("Lovey," a piece of one of my silky undershirts).

He wasn't even 2 when we separated. I remember that awkward birthday party, inviting Brad over to celebrate. Trying hard not to look at him. Trying hard to hold it together and not lose the moment to grief or anger.

Over the next four years, I potty trained him. I got him to give his binky up. I taught him his numbers and colors and alphabet and how to write his name. I was up for every stomach flu or fever that hit in the middle of the night, every bad dream. Bandaged every scrape. Made every doctor's appointment and hair cut appointment and play date and teacher's conference and church function. Not just for him--but for all my boys. Who knew? I could raise children on my own. Even though I never wanted it that way.

All of my boys are struggling in their own ways. With schoolwork, or friends, or with questions about why our family situation is different than others, questions about their dad. We all suffer the way any family who is forced through a life-changing situation suffers. Even though, thank goodness, it's not all suffering. Sometimes things are so good, moments so incredibly sweet, I almost think this is just how life was meant to turn out for me.

And maybe it was. I don't know. I don't think God would ever bring a marriage and family together with the intent that it end, but I do know he is a God of broken things. That he's managed to patch up a lot of this brokeness.

So today, as I wrangled J and several other 5-6 year olds to the local play gym, alone; and baked and frosted 2 dozen homemade cupcakes, alone; and cleaned up the puddles of melted ice cream and gathered up scattered toys, alone--I don't know, I guess I just didn't feel alone. I guess I haven't in a while now. This is my life. I've mostly come to terms with it. I mostly embrace it. There are times, of course, when I still wish everything were different, that I were somehow more prospered for being the one who remained faithful and valiant all those years of my marriage, but really--I'm proud of where I am. Where we all are. Where we're going.

lies we tell our children

C'mon...you  know you've done it... "Put the truth to the test" with your kids. Sometimes for (you hope) their benefit--because the truth is ugly; or sometimes just to mess with them because what fun are kids if you don't get a few ill-gotten chuckles out of the deal ? :).

Here is a sampling of lies I've told my boysquad:

1. (This one worked brilliantly when they were little) The ice cream truck plays music when it's out of ice cream. I still remember the looks on their faces when, at the park with our homeschool co-op years ago, the ice cream truck came through the parking lot, playing music, and all the kids ran for it...and got ice cream...

2. Sorry, the candy is all gone.  (Really I'm hiding the last few pieces of it in my bedroom drawer. It's mine. Trust me, you'll appreciate  that I'm nicer with chocolate in my system).

3. That's not a bad haircut: In my quest to save money, I frequent a less-than-spa-like hair cutting establishment. Most of the time, things turn out alright. Occassionally, a hairdresser who has chosen a mullet style hair-do for herself (yeah...HERself) gets assigned to one of my boys. Usually poor cowlick-ridden E. And the result looks a bit like the heart-wrenching pictures of parasite-ridden third world children. Sigh. At least it grows back in a month. A definite perk for having all male children.

4. My room was always clean when I was younger! Truth is, it was one of those rooms with two paths through the heaps of clothes and shoes--one from the door to my bed, one from my bed to my bathroom. One day, after several threats to 'pick up my stuff or else...', my mom waited until I was gone, then bagged up every piece of clothing on my floor and hid it at her office. After a month of being forced to wear only what I had hanging in my closet (which wasn't much), I learned my lesson about picking up my clothes. I learned it for a whole two months....

5. There won't be bullies when you grow up. After a run-in with a bully type who wrote a mean and profanity-laden message on my E's binder (in permanent marker WHILE my E was in a different part of the classroom teaching a card game--to handicapped children nonetheless!...), I tried to console him with the idea that bullies won't be an issue when he grows up. I told him I know it's rough to endure this part of his life, but if he keeps holding true to the fine young man he is, he'll be ok.

I believe that last part about him being ok, but the no grown up bully part...yeah, I don't think that's really true. Maybe we give them different names when we get older, but the truth is: Life produces some pretty rotton individuals. Sometimes, even when you're nice to everyone and treat others like you want to be treated--there are people who only delight in pulling you down and/or belittling you and/or your achievements.

They're easier to ignore or avoid as an adult, at least. Mostly. Surrounding yourself with good family and true friends who know how great you are helps form the best barrier. And having faith that there's a special place reserved in the after life for the not-so-nice bully types. A place where the ice cream trucks are always out of ice cream :)

That's the truth.

And thank goodness there are a million other wonderful truths to share with my kids that need no *embellishing* whatsoever.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go eat some of that candy that's "all gone." :)

choices, and california.

I was 5 years old. My mom took me to the mall to do some shopping--just before or after the start of kindergarten. We went to a store called Lerner. Blondie's "Heart of Glass" was playing. My stomach was full of sausage on a stick I had just eaten from Hickory Farms. I remember all these details because of what happened next:

My mom held two shirts out in front of me and told me to go back to the dressing room to try them on. I did. They both fit. I liked them both. But she said...I could only pick one. I think I stood studying those shirts for a good ten minutes, fretting, before deciding.

And to this day, I don't remember what the one I picked looked like.

But I sure as heck remember the one I didn't pick...

White with a red collar and a box of crayons on it, some of them loose and trailing scribbly lines of color around the stomach area. I remember it as though I were wearing it right now.

Maybe my mother had me make choices before that--what to eat or how to wear my  hair--but that was the first one of significance I can remember making. One where my decision meant the end of the other choice. We never went back on another day and bought the other shirt. It was gone. I chose it gone.

I still don't enjoy making decisions, choices.

Though I know I would equally hate having nothing to choose from.

I want choices, but with a guarantee that I'll always make the right one.

Is that too much to ask? :)

It feels I've had too many lately--big decisions to make. Weighty choices to decide. Often made worse by having no one who has known me closely for any significant amount of time to run them by for a second opinion. But aware it could be just as bad if I did have to screen my decisions through another person.

I have access to God's brilliance, of course, and that makes all the difference; but I'll be the first to admit that my will often gets in the way of His. I've become so accustomed to the "not right now" answer I usually get, that I just assume it will be the answer from Him to everything, and sometimes I don't listen as closely as I should to what He's trying to tell me.

Tonight, amongst other big decisions I'm considering, I'm hoping I made the right decision to not take the MFA offer from CSU Long Beach. I think because in giving it up, I'm afraid I'm giving up all that California represented.

After my divorce and the terrible sadness that followed, and then the burst of hope that came when I met Haute Cakes and we began looking towards a future together--California became this magical place the boys and I would go to start over.

And even beyond things not working out with Haute Cakes and me, California was still somewhere I hoped to get to some day. *A fresh start.* A place we wouldn't even mind being poor in because the beach, and the salt air, and the Birds of Paradise in bloom were all free.

I guess what I feel tonight, mingled in the weight of choice and heaviness of alone-ness, is I miss California. I miss California a lot, and often. I miss the dream I had before I went to California, of what California would be. And I really miss the parts of that dream that came true, even though other parts didn't. The parts that were realized made California amazing, and those are the parts I am compelled to remember. I have no choice in the remembering, because what you remember of California is always what got into your blood, like anywhere else, only in California it was bigger, and shinier and prettier and always will be.

In choosing a low-residency program, I told myself that I wouldn't be "married" to a campus--I could always still move if I wanted to and continue right on in my studies, as long as I found my way to Oregon twice a year. I tried to leave the option open still. Like a crayon shirt I could go back for.

And while I feel good about choosing to stay here a little longer, and choosing to get myself even more hopelessly busy over the next three years in an MFA program... I'm hoping that I didn't choose my new beginning away, in whatever form it might take.

Because I'd really, really like it.

help me, joey mcintyre, you're my only hope

It's a rare quiet night. My kids are asleep, my late night run is finished, my house is clean, Mt. Laundry is still small enough to not feel guilty about ignoring, and any work I do would be optional. Sitting here playing Words with Friends and listening to New Kids on the Block seems like the most perfect thing I could be doing right now.

Except that the NKOTB are making me a little weepy.

Because hearing their music makes me suddenly feel 14 years old again, in the throws of adolescent awkwardness--Trying to figure out how to keep doing the "dance to the beat of my own drummer" thing I'd always naturally done and yet somehow still fit in with some perceived superior junior high social circle. At that age I thought the answer was...

Joey McIntyre.

Yup.

He was my first celebrity crush. And since my brain (then and now!) seemed to have only two settings: Uninterested or Utterly Obsessed, you can imagine the fervor with which I approached my crush. Let's just narrow it down to this: His poster hung on the ceiling over my  bed and every night after I'd talk to God, I'd talk to  Joey Joe. Oh, and crying. Lots of crying.

Somehow, I thought if he could just meet me, he'd fall in love with me (because we had EVERYTHING in common, according to Teen magazine), and he would be the answer to all my problems. No one could make fun of me or tell me I looked weird if I came to the Valentine's Dance with a New Kid. I would somehow be above the normal pains of teenage teasing and insecurity if I hung out backstage with Jordan, Jon, Donnie, and Danny (yeah...I did that from memory).

And you know what? The more things change, the more they stay the same...

Sometimes, I still think every fear, doubt, and insecurity could be made right if that certain guy would just take a liking to me the way I like him. Even at this age, even knowing what I do,even having gone through what I have-- there's part of me that wants to write weekly fan letters with Bonnie Belle Dr. Pepper lip gloss kiss marks at the bottom of them. Believing that if I just try hard enough, hold out long enough, chase the impossible, hey, you never know...

My Joey McIntyre crush ended with my 9th grade year, 1989, on the last day of school, slow dancing in a circle in the junior high gym with Jason S., who would become my summer boyfriend--a relationship highlighted by pushing one another up and down his street in a rolling office chair and kissing. Twice. He wasn't a New Kid on the Block, but he was a kid on the block. One who was there. Who liked me back.  And that ended up being enough. Maybe, I'd like to think, it would have been enough forever--if we'd been middle-aged and ready for that sort of thing. (p.s. Jason S., if you're reading this, I'm not asking for you back, this is metaphorical talk. Also, I see you regularly behind the counter at the airport but I don't know if you recognize me. ;) )

Then again, Joey McIntyre may just have been worth holding out for...

I guess the answers then, and now, come "step by step" and I just need to keep "hangin' tough" until that guy, popstar or otherwise, says, "please don't go girl."  Had enough yet? :)
Enjoy:

date-o-rama

In honor of Valentine's Day looming on the horizon like a head cold I can feel coming on, I decided to follow my friend Amanda's example and share highlights of my best dates. Well...that's what I was GOING to do anyway. Then I got to thinking...I dont' like my "best" ones--the ones most would consider "best"--those involving a limo and a fancy dinner, or cliche'd romantic gesture like "I'll cook you dinner at my house." Those seem too forced to me. I've had those kind and can't say I didn't enjoy them to a degree...but I'd never consider them my best.

So, I'm going to share instead, highlights of my most MEMORABLE dates. And all but two have actually taken place post-divorce--when things just seem to happen more organically than they did when I was a young adult. Like going to see Christmas lights and ending up trying to hike a mountain in the dark--laughing all the way. Or both of us geographically-challenged, forgetting where we've parked and walking at least an extra mile trying to find the car. Or nearly catching something on fire while learning to carmelize sugar on homemade creme brulee.

Here are some (more) of those kinds of dates...

*My first love when I was 16 showed up at my house with his guitar and asked me to go for a walk. We strolled down the canal bank while he played and sang Depeche Mode songs. All the neighbors looked at us weird and I didn't care.

*On my second date with my ex-husband, we got in a car wreck. A teenage boy, distracted by eating pizza and with his little sister in the car, blew through a 4-way stop and slammed into my side of Brad's almost brand new Chevy Silverado truck. The way Brad--although clearly angry--responded with such tenderness to the boy and his sister, made me fall in love. After the truck had been towed away, we walked to a Chinese restaurant and had noodles. Our hands kept shaking while we ate, but we were so glad we were both ok. Bonded, for sure.

*My very first official date post-divorce was with a psychologist. He showed up in a t-shirt that appeared to be something he got from a vendor at work. He took me to eat at Macaroni Grill. I remember I was starving. I ordered a giant salad, he ordered chicken parm. Getting him to talk was like pulling a train with my teeth. Clearly not only had he been trained just to listen and nod...he was also plain boring. To top it all off, he only took one bite of the side dish that came with his food, then asked for a to-go box without ever offering an explanation. The whole night was just so, so weird.

*Disneyland with Haute Cakes: The first time I flew down to meet him, and my first visit to the magical kingdom since age 5. It was December and insanely crowded. My adrenaline was all rush-y from the Indiana Jones ride we'd just gone on, we got hot chocolate and moved along at cattle-herded speed and density towards Main Street where it was snowing magical Disney snow. He kissed me. It was totally perfect until someone slammed into me--hard--with their stroller. Left a nice bruise. But my faith in dates post-weird-no-eat-guy was restored :)

*Skipping Feminist Literature class to go catch one of Green Eye's performances. He winked at me between Johnny Cash covers. Texted me, "It's good to see my girl in the front row." (Also...speaking of Green Eyes--his first CD is complete. Feel free to check it out and buy it here :) )

*Not long after we met, and a good year before we started dating-- Ninja took me to shoot paintball guns for the first time. And he shot me in the head...on purpose. And I shot him in the neck at short distance range...on accident ;). Most fun in camoflauge I ever had.

*Nine kids under the age of 12, plus one dog and two goats, all in the back of a truck, going "to town" to eat a six-foot ice cream sundae out of a rain gutter. The guy I did that with never got a blog name, but he was--and still is--one of my best friends. Such a Beverly Hillbillies moment :) Here's proof of that one:

*Can't forget my birthday date with Mr. Perfect--even if it was under semi-strained cirucmstances. It was the whole beautiful being back in California thing: the Tim Burton exhibit, the brief stop off at the attorney's office that smelled like chocolate chip cookies, the dim sum, the werid conjoined-mirror bathroom, the strolling through the toy store that featured a bunch of tv show-themed stuff that he had designed (we didn't tell the toy store girl who was thrilled to tell us all about it ), the two hour traffic jam on the way home. I remember really liking his smile and his shoes and the back of his neck.

*And the creme de la creme of memorable dates: The day Dr.  Yummy and I drove his Scout through the car wash without doors or a top, went longboarding, had liquid nitrogen-frozen ice cream, then drove through a storm to the airport where we pretended to welcome each other home (sign included) and pushed each other recklessly around in a wheelchair. It was the bestest, make-my-face-hurt-from-smiling-date ever. Most with him were. I remember repeating in my head, "Thank you, God. Thank you for someone who finally 'gets me.'"...A huge part of that "why?" question I still bat around as to things not working between us when we seemed such a great fit...but at least I'm beyond the tragically pathetic, constant stage of the questioning and into that semi-pathetic occassional stage.

***Oh...there was also the Saturday this last November I ended up on FOUR accidental dates...in one day. But I'll save that story for another time :)

---

As for these guys that the dates occurred with (if you're like me and hate a good story without an ending):

• Love of my life from 16 still sings in a band downtown, and does something fancy with computers during the day.
• Y'all know what happened to my ex-husband. That bonding will probably never be totally undone--at least in memory.
• I have never heard from silent, no eating psychologist again. I'm even wondering if I just dreamed that whole strange night...
• Haute Cakes "mystery man" is happily engaged to a girl who is a really, really good fit for him. Though I often kick myself for giving up on that relationship too easily--not fighting my ex over moving and such--I couldn't be happier for him. Everything happens for a reason.
• I just finished an article about Green Eyes for Fusion magazine. He's a talented, smoking hot man with a bright future, dating a girl from the Harley Davidson place he works. We're comfortable together.
• Ninja...still breaks my heart to have lost him as a friend and more. He's a private person as to the goings-on of his life and we don't talk much anymore--but I know if I called on him, he'd be there in a heartbeat. His heart is gold.
• Goat man: Also recently engaged to a perfect-for-him woman who loves getting really dirty as much as he does.
• Mr. Perfect and I still talk and text from time to time. He's still undeniably perfect.
• And Dr. Yummy-- Can't bring myself to find out what's going on with him. I hope he's well. I hope he passed his board exams. I hope he hasn't moved on easily. But neither myself nor my boys are healed enough to re-open up a friendship with him. Maybe just for now. Maybe forever. It's a two-way door and thus far neither of us have pushed at it. Also...clearly his loss.

AND THERE YOU GO...If you happen to be sitting at the Applebee's with your spouse on Valentine's Day wonderfing if you could have it better...hit yourself up along the head and be glad you're right where you are, with who you're with. And go make some memorable date experiences of your own...together! :)

10 stories my mother could tell you

You know those stories that come up again and again whenever the family gets together for holidays or around the campfire? Well, my mom was keeper of our family stories and would tell them often and willingly. I miss hearing them and yet am glad that I don't have to constantly re-live the embarrassment and yet YET also don't want to forget them for lack of re-telling.

So here they are...the 10 Stories my Mother loved to tell about Me:

1. The one where I, potty training at 2, used the display toilet at Sears to do my bizness. And how my mom learned from that day on never, never to turn her back on me.

2. Age 4: The one where I was told there was no money for McDonalds (although there was and it was really a case of my mom not wanting to go there...again), so I made my big brown eyes sad, wrangled up a handful of Dandelions and some rocks and went door-to-door, peddling them to our neighbors, telling them I was so hungry and wanted to go eat, but "my mom doesn't have any money." I came home with two pockets full of change.

3. The one where, when I was 6, my 16 year old sister took me out for a completely inappropriate night of fun that consisted of the Rocky Horror Picture show (in costume), dancing to punk music at Club Xenon, cruising the strip for boys, then out to eat spaghetti and sundaes at Denny's at 2am...which I threw up on the table. It's still one of the best nights in my memory :)

4. Age 14: Mom has to call Poison Control because I've been 'snacking on' Flintstone Vitamins...not knowing that if they'd  had iron in them, I would have been dead. I remember Poison Control asking, "How old is the child?" And my mom sheepishly answering, "Fourteen..." I blame those vitamin people for making those little things so tasty. Especially the purple ones.

5. The one about how my brother and I (and often assorted neighborhood kids who always knew to come to our house when they wanted to do off-limits stuff) would entertain ourselves while Mom was working her second night job by jumping off our roof...onto a bean bag. How no bones were broken is still a miracle to ponder.

6. My mom passed away when she was 64, never having had her ears pierced. She was very staunch in her belief that I needed to wait till I was 12 to have mine pierced so I would understand the ramifications of making a permanent change to my body. So...when mom says no--get your older sister to do it! I came home with one pair of earrings at 7, second  holes at 9, third holes at 13, and by the time I came home from my first year of college, I was rocking 6 holes. And blue-streaked hair. And refused to wear anything but Doc Marten boots and a leather motorcycle jacket, including with my church dresses. I'm so glad she told me I was beautiful anyway :)

7. The one where I completely totaled my one month old  sporty, red, brand new car. That one was always told sadly when she got to the part where my passengers and I really shouldn't have survived the rollover on the freeway we did, and then with a bit of triumph during the part where I had to take to college the very old person-looking 1983 Chrysler E-Class we bought for our exchange student. The one that talked. (The car talked...well, and the exchange student.)

8. The one time I decided to unofficially change my name to Merrick Diego, and applied for Army recruiting information using it. She was pretty sure they were going to throw me in jail for providing false information. I was told never, never to give anything but my real name again. Nor to use the horrendous spelling of Geniphur I'd devised.

9. The one where I decided to cook breakfast for everyone on the morning of my wedding. French toast. Therefore making myself late. To my own wedding. Yeah.

10.  The one where I thought a garbage disposal was for actual garbage--you know, paper towels, go-gurt wrappers, envelopes... I've always been intelligent, but never claimed to be smart :)

*Disclaimer: You may never hold this information against me and are released to the right only to tell them should we ever be across a Thanksgiving table or campfire from one another.

why i'll never be skinny

Me: college: 1993

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving. My tummy was happy-- full of warm, starchy comfort foods, and my heart was happy to be surrounded by loved ones. I enjoyed leftovers of my famous pumpkin cobbler with the ginger-maple whipped cream for three days afterwards. Following an extended weekend of indulging, I'd put on 3 pounds, which I knew meant wearing my *big pants* for the next week while I ran, kicked, and climbed it off.  It's all part of this continuing love/hate relationship I've had going with my body for about 22 years now...

When puberty finally caught me at age 15, I went from a boney kid to a hip-heavy 145 pounds in one summer. I stayed there for the next two years--eating both well (salads and fruit) and not so well (entire jumbo bags of peanut butter M&M's). I always stayed active dancing or biking, though not really giving much thought to the idea of what exercise was or what it did. My body was just comfortable where it was. I didn't even think to compare myself to any of my friends.

Fast forward:
When I married the last week of 1994, I was 103 pounds soaking wet. That number was a result of a solid year subsisting on 900 calories a day, and at least two hours of intense exercise--most of it involving sprinting the stairs of my college's stadium at midnight.

In October of my freshmen year of college, for some reason, I just decided I was fat and I wasn't going to be fat anymore. And I wasn't going to be fat anymore as quickly as possible.

 At my worst, my periods became sporadic, my hair started falling out in big clumps, and I nearly passed out every time I stood up. I tried binging and purging, but with no gag reflex, I couldn't throw up, which only served to tick me off and send me further restricting my diet, counting even the calories in the toothpaste I used and the stamps I licked.

 I can remember being so hungry that I'd pour sugar substitute and a little cinnamon in a bowl and eat it by licking my finger and dipping. I thought about food all. the. time. About eating it. About not eating it. About how I'd rather die than put on a pound, and yet obsessed about when I could eat my  next 100 calorie "meal."

People complimenting me on how I looked (which was actually not too bad since I always wore clothes too big for me) only fueled the fire.

Then, about 110 pounds, something changed...people stopped telling me I looked great and started telling me maybe I needed some help. A friend from church calmly suggesting I get help after I fainted in the foyer. An old roommate. My now fiancee. Thinking I was fine and that I'd prove them all wrong, I made an appointment to see a counselor on campus. The session did no good, in fact, all I remember is the counselor talking about corn on the cob and some other nonsense.

Months passed. Then a year. Then two. I got married. I settled into our new life. I didn't get any more formal help, but I did go inside myself and realize the motivating force behind it all was being in such out of control circumstances as were my late teenage and early 20's years.Eating (or not) was one thing I felt I COULD assert some power over...but it wasn't making me happy.  I started to let go of the compulsive need to control. I started to believe my  husband when he told me I was beautiful. I started to be ok buying larger clothes. And the scale settled upwards, once again, at 145.

The one thing about my years as an anorexic I took with me was that the alternative to fat or thin can be STRONG. I appreciate the beauty in going to the gym every day--or at least regularly--rain or shine, snow or wind. I know the machines will always be there for me, and that if I insert myself in them and go long and hard enough, they will nearly always make me feel better. I know I can take a kickboxing class and beat the crap out of someone in my mind, I can lift a weight a little heavier than I was lifting two months before, and I can lift it a few more times. I am fit enough that I worked out the day before having all my babies, and would be back and working out 2-3 days after.

Following my bout with Rheumatic Fever 3 years ago--the 6 weeks it forced me to stay in bed in excruciating pain, the 30 pounds (of post baby and depression from my mom dying weight) I lost in a month, and the resulting heart damage it left me with--my doctor told me I probably shouldn't do any more than walk or moderately exercise for the rest of my life. I couldn't and wouldn't believe that. And so I ignored his advice and have pushed myself harder and further than ever before, now running 25 miles a week in addition to classes and weights. Unlike college when I exercised just to be thin, now I do it because I cannot seem to live with being weak. And though I workout hard, and generally 5-6 times a week, it's still just a PART of my life, not it's entirity.

Currently, at 5' 7", I fluctuate between 135 and 145. When I'm heavier getting lighter, I feel focused and motivated. When I'm lighter getting heavier, I'm eating some marvelous food and generally feeling settled and content. Up or down, my pant size stays the same. I'm comfortable in my skin once more...mostly (I mean, I AM human :) )  I have been tempted to get all crazy about my eating again. It's hard competing against thin, beautiful women for the small amount of eligible men, and I think maybe the control over something would be nice again...Then I look back on my super skinny, size 2 photos and remember what it felt like to be consumed by food that I wasn't consuming. If the trade off for a  slight badonkadonk butt is a balanced life and the ability to eat a piece (or three) of pie....I'm ok with that.

the funny thing about having a dead mother...

One thing (amongst many) I learned from my mama in this life is how to laugh. How to not ignore the difficulty of a situation nor what must be done to move beyond it, but to shrink it down to manageable size and show it who's boss by laughing in it's face. There is something funny in everything, no matter how difficult or tragic. Even as she lay dying of cancer (only six weeks between her diagnosis and death) she found things to laugh at. She made me laugh.

So, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself the other night while folding laundry, as I thought about my mom as an angel, and more particularly all she is probably now privy to knowing. Things about my growing up....

Yes, mom--two or three (or five) times I took the Nissan 300zx out without asking. And once I did almost crash it trying to climb the steep, snow covered driveway at 2 am after a dance. And yes, I used to make sure I never moved the seat or steering wheel out of the position you had them in. And I'm sure if Google would have existed in the early 90's, I would have figured out how to tweak the odometer as well. I was not often rebellious, but I loved fast cars and you had one. And I had a Honda Civic hatchback. Could it almost be your fault? hmmmmm.... :)

Yes, mom--I peeked at the Christmas presents every year. I knew where you hid them. And even after you wrapped them, I would slit the tape with a box cutter, look, and wrap them back. I also knew where you kept your handgun hidden. And your "secret" stash of Hershey's and Butterfingers. If you were actually trying...you were a terrible hider :)

Yes, mom, there was that time when I was 13 that I didn't want you to come to my soccer game and I know it hurt you. But Jeff Chad said he was going to kiss me if we won. And although I wasn't going to let him, just in case he tried, a girl doesn't want her mom around for stuff like that.

Yes, mom, I used the credit card you gave me "just for emergencies" for lots of non-emergency stuff. I bought hairspray and flannel shirts and Depeche Mode tapes and frozen yogurt with it. And yes, once I did even buy that Swatch for my boyfriend. And no, he wasn't really going to pay me back. Thanks for making me get a job to pay for my own things, even if I did smell chronically of Domino's Pizza for the first half of 1993.

Yes, I broke that elevator in Germany. Not just me though. There were a bunch of us in it. And that really big kid started jumping...

Yes, I knew your PIN number and how to forge your signature.

Yes, I totally deserved that speeding ticket.

But you also know now, that I really never did have parties on those extended weekends you'd leave me alone while you went on business trips. Not that I never thought about it, but I honestly loved our home and didn't like the thought of it turning into some crazy party place like in all the movies I'd watch where there might be police or fire or a people making out in the bedrooms or a nuclear missile off the cover of a magazine that comes to life and crashes through the roof.

And you know now, too,  how very much I missed you being there when James was born. Missed you when I was going through the hell of the divorce, the slow process of healing, the joy of finding hope again. How much I miss you lately, when I've wanted so badly for my kids to have interaction with someone like me, but not me. Someone who could tell them how I used to be when I was little. Someone to share memories with and celebrate victories with. Someone to clean my house or put away my dishes or make me dinner or buy me lunch and maybe a cute new dress--even occasionally. I know you've been gone five years now, but I still miss you every. single. day. But you know that too, I know.

saying good bye to motherhood as i've known it

This is a hard post for me to write. Not sure what day I'll actually  hit "publish", but I'm writing early Sunday morning. I'm still in bed, looking out my window as I type--the now leafy assortment of trees in my backyard filtering soft gray light. A robin chirping his two-note song over the top of the not so distant sound of cars on the freeway. The kids haven't woken up yet, but I know when they do, they'll all make an appearance here, in my room--the big ones to say good morning, sit on the edge of my bed, and chat for a while. The little ones usually crawl  under the covers with me for a few minutes and warm their freezing toes on my legs, request various things for me to make them for breakfast, yet often manage to eat an entire box of Nilla wafers or some other half-appropriate food before I actually get to make anything. Peacefully crazy, usually happy, predictable...I love our mornings.

So what makes this post, this day, so difficult? After 13 1/2 years, today is my last day of being a stay-at-home Mom.

Kind of killing the vibe of ***Hey! I got this amazing job against all odds at the coolest firm where the floors are concrete and the ducts are exposed and the artwork is inspiring and and  I have a view out the oversized windows of downtown and my desk is orange and my computer is fancy and I have my very own comfy office chair and a boss who seems really neat and I start tomorrow.***

I hate it because of the statement I had to make: "I need to figure out what to do with my kids."

I would never mean it in such a way, but it sounded like I was going on vacation and had pets that needed boarding or tended. "FIGURE out what to DO"....ugh. Even going to school these last three years, I went out of my way to take classes at night, on Saturdays, online--times that wouldn't interfere with being there for my boys to drive them to and from school, to piano lessons, to run them forgotten homework or lunchboxes, bring them home if they got sick, to make cookies once a week, to teach my little J how to write his name and sit on the floor and play Tinker Toys with him as we spent our afternoons together. Now...I don't know what I'm going to do. I haven't had a 'go to the office' type job since 1995. I am as terrified as I am excited.

I've got makeshift babysitting plans for J for the coming week to buy me a little more time to look into permanent options, including for all four of them for the summer when school is out. Just the idea of someone not me having my kids 7 hours a day is making me sick to my stomach. J is barely 5! I remember being 5 and having to go to my babysitter's house. I hated it. The other kids there were mean. The babysitter sometimes got mean. Once she spanked me so hard with a wooden spoon over not eating my sandwich that the spoon broke. Her oldest daughter made me steal gum from the store for her once. It did not feel safe. I did not feel loved. I never told my mom these things or I'm sure she would have done something about them. Nor do I spend much time dwelling on them, because they all still managed to make me who I am and I wouldn't want to be any other way.

Speaking of my mom, though, it would be awfully nice to have her still living about now. She was the let's make a mess together creating something/ go on an adventure/ pitch the tent in the living room/ stop and smell the daisies/ climb on my back and I'll give you a horseride type Grandma. She was a kid magnet, and my boys--and I-- adored her. I don't think I'd turn her into my primary caregiver, but it would be a blessing to have a steady backup of some kind. Someone to count on. Someone who loved my kids as much as I did. Who could do the mom things I can't while I'm trying to do the dad thing. I'm sure, since she lost her mom in her early 20's and then was widowed by the time she was 37 with young children, she wished for the same thing.

But she made due working 12 hour days. So, I will, too. Somehow, as busy as she was and as much as she had to carry alone, she managed to put me in piano and cello lessons. Pay for roller skating and movies and ice cream outings for my friends and me. Let me participate in cheerleading and dance. Bought me my first Ensoniq VFX synthesizer that I spent hours writing music on. I spent two summers in exchange programs in Europe. I might not have had a cache of designer clothes, but I would draw what I wanted and Mom would stay up all night sewing my creations. She paid for me to get blue streaks put in my hair. She shelled out the hundred (probably extremely precious) dollars for Doc Martens and another hundred for a leather biker jacket. She kept everything I wrote. She always supported me in my individuality. Life was not how she wanted it, nor expected it to turn out---she expressed that to us often, but it worked. And she worked. And we loved her dearly for it in our own ungrateful, youthful ways.

My life is not how I wanted it, nor expected it to turn out either...but I'm hoping for the same result. I could not have tried any  harder than I did to create a different life for my own children than what I had growing up, and yet--here I am. And here they are with me. I don't know for what reasons God chose to make it so, but I have faith that He who knows not only what's best for me, but best for my children, will make it alright. In the meantime, I will work with all the ingenuity, integrity, and tenacity I can to get to a place where I can be home with my kids again--even if it is still working from my home. The Lord giveth no commandment save He prepare a way....

Wish me luck. Lots of it. And the ability to offer continued forgiveness towards Brad for putting the boys and me in this situation in the first place. Yeah.

once upon a time, i stole something

I'm not sure when I stopped being a teenager. I know I crossed that line from nineTEEN to twenty. I got married. I had children. I ended up with a mortgage. Then a mortgage loan. I bought a van. I got a divorce. I started worrying about my fiber intake. These should probably all have clued me in that I was getting, um, older.

Maybe it's because I still maintain so many of the friendships I had as a teenager, and a conversation or fun night (or early evening...I am old, after all) out with one of those friends can bring memories pouring back at light speed. We are who are today--older, wiser, actually better looking individuals--but beneath all the grown-upedness, we are still who we were back then, too. In our minds, we still wear Doc Martens and kilts with ripped fishnets. We still make take an hour to curl our hair like Julia Roberts. We still drive our junky cars too fast while blasting Depeche Mode and The Cure and Nine Inch Nails. We can still polish off a whole half of a large pizza washed down with Diet Coke and not gain a pound. Our futures still seem limitless and frightening.

There is a point to this...

One thing I managed to avoid as a teenager that, sadly, a lot of my friends indulged in, was shoplifting. I remember getting so angry when I would be at the mall or in the ShopKo with them and find out they'd stolen something. Usually something stupid like a box of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle band-aids or a pair of underwear that looked like a rooster's face. I was never angry enough, or brave enough, however, to turn them in. "To each his own," I would rationalize. But still, I knew if they got caught, I'd be in trouble too.

Then came the day when the choice was mine to make. I was spending the night at one of my good friend's houses as I did on a regular basis. Her mom worked at the Clinique counter and wore one of those white lab coats that elevated her to the status of scientist of cosmetics. She would bring home all kinds of samples and extra products and file them away in one of the three big drawers in their bathroom--a treasure trove of well-organized make up, nail polish, and perfume. I just happened to be looking through one of those drawers when I noticed she had two tubes of (what I now recognize as the most hideous) iridescent pink-purple-silver lipstick. It was completely wrong for my hair/eye/ complexion but I thought I resembled Alyssa Milano with it on....

So, figuring neither my friend nor her mom would miss it....I took the tube of lipstick. I put it in my pocket. And I took it.

And I think I wore it a total of three times.

Every time I would drag it across my lips, I'd feel guilty. Again, though, I wasn't brave enough to do anything about it. I couldn't imagine taking it back, offering it in my open palm, weeping, and being branded an untrustworthy thief. I never told my mom (or anyone) so there was no one to offer perspective. No one to tell me that it was still better to do the right thing despite the consequences...and that the consequences probably wouldn't be that bad. Back then I feared the worst of every situation, an attitude I'm sure I don't struggle with as an adult. *cough*

 That tube of lipstick stayed with me up until I finally purged it four years ago when packing  for our move. I suppose I had held onto it for sentimental reasons. I remember when I ran across it again, I pulled off the cap--still the same awful shade, and I thought back on the course of my life, how I had tried my best to rectify any and every bad thing I could recall doing...but had never taken responsibility for my stint as a thief.

It was time.

I found out how much a tube of Clinique lipstick was selling for ($12) and sent a check to that friend whom I hadn't spoken to for at least ten years. I never heard anything back, but my clear conscious was all the thanks I needed.


-
I'm sure shoplifting is still popular amongst teenagers. It's certainly easy enough to 'steal' music and videos and software nowadays, in addition to the typical five-finger discounting. I may or may not have to deal with this issue with my boys at some point. But I would go into such a situation armed with my personal tale of theft-- which will be richly embellished to include handcuffs, jail time and hard labor, of course :).

Your turn: Ever steal anything? Or ever get the chance to right a wrong from your past?

the day i sat down for an interview with myself

*Inspired by The Nervous Breakdown

what? this is totally me! I'm doing the interview so I selected this never before seen picture of myself :)

So, Jennifer P. You've been doing a lot of interviews lately, haven't you?

No, not a single one actually. When I was setting up all the interviews for my author, one of the deejays asked if I wanted to come on the radio and talk about the book and the benefit if Al couldn't make it. I had to tell him my voice would scare his audience away. That's the closest thing to an interview I've had. But thanks for asking.

Interviewers always ask questions about childhood. Can you tell me something about yours?

I've shared a lot of funny stories about growing up. Search the label "flashback" and you'll find most of them.

I would hold impromptu yard sales without my mom knowing and sell our good stuff to the neighbors to earn money. When I was 8, I used to wish my mom would get sick enough to need to go to the hospital so I could drive her in the car. I won a banana eating contest at the fair once. Every time the hypnotist would come to our school, I would be one of the people in the audience who accidentally got hypnotized along with the kids he'd picked to come down--I'm very agreeable with mind control, I suppose. And I won my very first Young Author's prize in the 1st grade for my story "My Cat", which came complete with a stick figure illustration of my mom picking up cat poop off the floor with a paper towel. She was so proud.


What's something you want that you don't have?

This moment? One of those light up dresses like the girls wore in Tron. Yes. I would like one of those very much.


You hail from the great state of Idaho, no?

Born and raised here. I spent summers with friends and family in Utah, Texas, and Massachusetts. I was twice an exchange student in Germany. Did a two week stint in Paris. Vacationed in Venezuela. Spent the first three years of my married life on a farm in Oregon and almost moved to California to be with Haute Cakes. But here I sit still in Idaho. I do love it here. Not the heat or the cold or the sage allergies or the poorly planned roads or the white supremacists who live up north...but the rest is pretty great. Did you know we invented finger steaks? Yeah. We're not all about potatoes.


What has been the most difficult part of this past month?

In the last month (maybe six weeks) I have had a nasty cold, passed a kidney stone without seeing a doctor, had the stomach flu at the same time as three of the boys, and been seen for my heart acting up due to stress and dehydration. And I never missed a day of class during any of it. Dedication, people...dedication.

You come from pioneer stock. Would you say you have inherited some of their resourcefulness?

Well, sometimes, when all the spoons are dirty and I want to eat a bowl of cereal, I will use one of the plastic coated baby spoons I still have laying around although I've had no babies for almost four years. That's resourceful, right?


What do people find most creepy about you?

My kids say that sometimes I sleep with one of my eyes slightly open. That, coupled with the fact that I breathe so quietly when I sleep, has caused me to be poked awake many times for fear they think I'm dead. Thanks, kids :)


What's the strangest compliment you've ever received?

"You look exhausted." I think it's meant to be flattering in a concerned way? Also, an artist boyfriend I had just out of high school once told me he liked the corners of my eyes. That was kind of strange....except that to this day, I still like the corners of my eyes because of that compliment.


They say a good writer is always learning something new. Have you learned anything new lately?

Last year I learned to snowboard and re-learned how to skateboard. As of 2011, I've been trying to teach myself how to breakdance...at night...with an old b-boy VHS tape...in the privacy of my family room. Oh you laugh now, but wait till we're in a break dancing throw down in an inner city somewhere and I pull out my perfectly mastered egg beater. It will be sooo in yo face, suckah.


You're quite a connoisseur of music. What artists have been tickling your fancy?

I've been loving Adele. I've discovered that you can turn the volume down on any old thing they're showing on TV and play Adele's "Make You Feel My Love", and whatever you're watching will suddenly make you want to cry. Seriously, I watched a silenced Geico commercial the other day while listening to that song, and that little Gecko brought tears to my eyes.


Last question. Anything funny happen this week?

As a matter of fact...yes. My sweet mother-in-law seems to think I am never going to meet a man unless I join a dating website. I have told her numerous times about my month-long creepy experience with said dating website 2 1/2 years ago, but she keeps refuting with the fact that so and so and also what's her face both met their husbands on the computer. She asked if I would please give it a month. And because I lover her dearly, I signed myself up (trying all the while not to think about how surreal it is that my mother-in-law is so anxious to find me a love connection).  Guess what the first profile to pop up was? Some guy with the user name "Little Kid Lover". Oh my head....it's going to be a long month with a lot of shuddering.

Thank you for the interview. We expect to hear great things from you in the future.

"Great things from you in the future." There ya go. Now you've heard it from me. :)

a trip in the valentines time machine

me at 18--in Paris

So, last year I had two dates for Valentines Day. And this year I have zero. That, my friends, is how karma balances everything out! :) I mind and I don't, mostly because I realize how much of that is my fault and how much of it is beyond my control, and that I have to just let it go. I'll be spending Valentines Day having Family Night with the boy squad as usual and that's a good place to be. It would just be nice to...I don't know...something with flowers or a surprise or a good, toe-curling kiss. Ah well. At least I can be assured I won't be getting any stupid stuffed animals :). I do know that this point in my life feels much like college again. So much of the future up in the air. So many choices to make. Wondering just how correct I was in thinking that, I pulled out one of my journals from 1994. That year I was almost 19, a freshman at college, had painfully broken off an engagement 5 months before, and was busy simultaneously loving and hating my single life. What's funny is that I mention Brad in this entry--having no idea we'd start to date about 6 weeks after writing it. Anyway, here's a funny little dose of retro teenage Valentine's emo for ya...

---

2-14-94

As usual, Teresa (my roommate and best friend) and I dressed in all BLACK for Valentines Day. I had on a black shirt, belt, jeans, socks, and my black Docs. I wanted to wear a big "NO MEN" pin but I thought that might be taking it a bit too far. Teresa gave me a cute card and left a quart of my favorite ice cream in the freezer. There were also valentines and little bags of candy waiting on the kitchen table from my other roomies. Despite my anti-love attitude, Valentines didn't really start off too bad.

When I got back from English, there were several letters waiting for me. Seems like a long time since anyone but my Mom has written. There was one from Joey on his mission, one from Summer--who is dealing with morning sickness, and one from Julie saying she's still sorry I won't be her sister-in-law and hates the new girl that her brother is dating.

I had to go to the health clinic this afternoon. I pulled a muscle in my arm doing reverse sit ups. It's been hurting for over a week now and is starting to make me nauseous. I wondered if I hadn't torn the muscle. The doctor took some x-rays and said it looked inflamed but not damaged. He gave me some strong anti-inflammatory and sent me home.

We (our apartment) hung out with the guys from across the street tonight. Brett's girlfriend sent him a bunch of candy and he shared. Brad took out his guitar and we tried to make up lyrics to songs. However, by 9:30, I was hurting pretty bad again and left to go to bed. Now I'm laying here with a heating pad and a stomach full of medicine feeling like the world's ugliest, fattest, weirdest freak to be spending my Valentines Day like this. If anyone ever tells you you're going to go to college and fall in love--SPIT IN THEIR EYE!

---

So, there it is! Now I'm pushing 36 and in a strangely similar situation: mending a broken heart, grateful for good friends to bring a little cheer (some of them the very same friends I mentioned in the entry), still feeling a bit fat and pathetic, and heck!--I might just even wear all black tomorrow for the memory. Now, however, I'm blessed with a little more perspective. I know how quickly things can change in a matter of months or years. While I'm still not a patient person, waiting sits with me much easier now than it did as a young adult. Because good things can be expected just as easily as the worst.

<3Wishing you a day full of love--given and received <3

why i am glad my children are smarter than i: the christmas edition

I wonder how on earth I made it through my childhood without my mother strangling me? Not that I was a bad kid, I was just fiercely independent and often left with too much time on my hands and not enough adult supervision--therefore, I took to acting a lot on whatever made sense at the time without maybe giving it the thought I should. I could make that realization into something deep--but oh my heck! Have you read my blog lately?! Way too much deep for a while :) So, let me tell you a little story from my childhood involving one of those "less than well thought out" decisions.....

I was 8 years old. It was nearly Christmas day, probably about Dec. 16. Grandma and Grandpa's presents had just arrived in the mail and were placed under the tree, atop the small pile of gifts that had been accumulating, the ones that drew me in like a siren song to touch and shake them all on a daily basis.

Something woke me up in the middle of that night--maybe a bad dream, maybe I was just cold--I can't remember exactly. My routine when this would happen would be to go into my mom's room, wake her up,  and have her come put me back to bed with a few comforting words or an extra blanket. So, that night, as usual, I made my way down the hall in the dark, opened her door, went to shake her awake and....she wasn't there.

Now--this is the part where the "no thinking" comes in. I can recall, in my still half-asleep state, not really being afraid that my mom wasn't there. Normally, my next line of defense would have been to wake my 18 year old sister, but she had gotten married that August. So, I did the next best thing my 8 year old brain could conceive: I found the list of emergency numbers that was tacked up by the rotary-dial phone, and...I called the police. Someone should know that my mom was missing, after all, right? In fact, that's just what I told them: My mom is gone. She's not in her bed.

Then, I waited. And I figured since I was awake and apparently abandoned, hey! I should open up a few of those presents under the tree to console me. I unwrapped a plaid blouse and jeans my grandparents sent to me, and a make your own lipgloss kit. Then, feeling bad that I was the only one having all the fun, I woke up my 6 year old brother and invited him to join me. Beacause 8 year old me was thoughtful like that.

He and I weren't too far into our 3am Christmas present party when the Police knocked on the door. We pointed to where mom's room was, they made their way back, and flipped on the light. And there....was my mom. Sleeping on the opposite side of the bed than she usually did. Hmmm. I hadn't thought to check THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BED! Poor Mom sat up all panicked and confused with her curler-adorned head. The policeman reported something to the effect of "minors safe" into his walkie talkie and explained to my mom why he was there.

Honestly, I don't remember what happened next. If I got yelled at, I edited it out of my memory bank. I do remember wearing my new outfit to school the next day, though, and that talk my mom had with me about when and when not to call the police. I filed it away with the talks she had given me about not having impromptu yard sales with good things (like our furniture) from around the house. And the one about not jumping off the roof onto the bean bag. These were important things for me to learn, I'm sure.

So, you will not hear me complaining about my kids waking up before the sun on Christmas morning, or much else that they do--because they appear to be blessed with a greater level of forethought than I as a child, and thus far I have managed 13 years of parenting without a single call placed to the police (only the fire department). The End.

Merry Christmas!!!