I Believe In Super Heroes

When I was six years old, my brothers and I often tugged towels off my mother’s clothes line and pinned them around our necks. Something marvelous happened as the tattered terry cloth draped down our backs. We became more than tow-headed children. We transformed into Super Man, Batman, and Captain Marvel. Our shoulders straightened, our demeanor grew noble, our fists found their way, in classic hero style, to rest on our skinny hips. Then, with impromptu capes streaming behind us, we raced off to save the world as super heroes.

As I grew older, I discovered a bitter truth—super heroes only lived in books and on the movie screen. They didn’t soar through the clouds and swoop down to rescue hapless civilians. They couldn’t stop wars, save humanity, or even pluck kittens from treetops. I stopped raiding the clothes line for capes. I stopped believing in super heroes.

More years passed, and I grew into adulthood. Children of my own came into my life as wee babes. As I cradled them in my arms, images of my magical childhood flickered in their blue eyes. I envisioned them racing across green pastures with homemade capes streaming behind them. However, life had a different plan.

We soon learned they carried a special gene, a mutated bit of DNA smuggled into their X chromosomes. They were disabled. There was no running, wild and free. There were no capes, no victories, and no magic. There were no heroes.

Instead, I saw a world full of villains who would mock and bully my special ones, Jokers who would torment and Lex Luthers who would apply cruel kryptonite. The world looked dark, and I cowered behind my fear.

But then, magic and wonder crept back into my world in the form of a teacher who spent hours at home each week hand-making greeting cards to mail to my son to help him learn his name. She didn’t wear colorful spandex or stand like a mighty warrior. Instead, she sported a bouffant hair style and dangling ear rings.

Neighbors and friends showed up with hugs and babysitting help. Siblings and grandparents rallied. Therapists and educators spent years teaching my sons to walk, eat, and function. More time passed and an amazing young woman escorted my sons to proms, parties, and school events. This led to friends who took them to movies where they all watched Iron Man and Captain America join with Thor and the Hulk to save the world from evil and death.

However, the greatest saving didn’t happen on the screen. It happened in real life. It happened a little bit at a time, person by person, as living heroes flowed into and out of our lives. None of them wore uniforms or leaped tall buildings in a single bound. None of them were bullet proof. None of them could fly. But in my mind’s eye, I see capes flowing behind every one of them, because I believe in super heroes. They are real. They love and serve and give, and yes, they save the world.

I believe in real-life super heroes.

Ride 'em Cowgirl

Growing up, I always wanted a horse. The thought of galloping through the fields astride a mighty warhorse stirred my imagination. With a gallant steed, I could be like the heroes of old. I could win battles, earn glory—have adventures that didn’t involve doing dishes or babysitting. (Yes, I was the poster child for tomboys. That’s what happens when you grow up with four brothers.) However, I had one large problem. We owned cows, not horses.

Throughout history cows haven’t been known as mighty steeds. You don’t read stories where fair maidens or manly warriors leap onto their milk cows and plod off to battle. No. Cows are boring. They eat, chew cud, create cow pies, and get milked. They don’t have adventures. At least they usually don’t.

However, one day I decided if I couldn’t ride a horse, I would ride our cow, Babe. She was a pretty thing, tall and splendidly spotted. And, if she wasn’t quite shaped like a horse, I could pretend. I was good at pretending. So, I strode out to the field and clambered onto her back.

Babe did not like that. She did not like that at all. She went from being a docile cud-chewing mound of bovine into a powerful charging demon in one quickly belted, “Moo!”

We flew across the pasture. We soared over irrigation ditches. We careened toward the pear tree where I learned a very valuable lesson about cows. They don’t come equipped with brakes.

I hit the outstretched branches of that tree at full-cow speed. Babe, who fit nicely under the tree, kept running. I bounced off the branch and splatted on the ground, nearly as flat as one of the nearby cow pies.

That was the first and last time I rode a cow, but I didn’t quit wishing for my mighty steed. Even trees and splats can’t stop dreams. 

My Grandma's Cellar

It's the end of summer and that means canning. What is canning some of you might ask, it's where you take your harvest and bottle it up. Think of it like capturing summer with it's sun and warmth and plenty in a jar so you can eat it in January. Yesterday I did peaches.

Is there a better way to remember summer? I don't think so.

My peaches went from this:



To this:



Anywho, I talked with a friend last night about canning, and we somehow ended up in my grandma's cellar. Not in real life, but in my memories. My grandma had a real cellar, the kind you had to descend into down wobbly stairs, past the cobwebs and into the earth. We're talking the kind of cellar with dirt walls and support pillars crafted out of wood so old it was probably taken from the Arc.

The place was spooky. Things lived in it. Creepy crawly things.

Whenever we visited my grandma I got the job of retrieving bottled green beans, or pickled beats, or the bottled tomato sauce that we called moon juice because it looked like it belonged on the surface of the moon, all cratered and otherworldly until you shook it up.

Can you imagine me as a seven-year-old trembling my way down those stairs into the darkness armed only with a flashlight and a grandma's request? And then there was the smell, tombish and dank. To me it smelled like spiders, and they glared at me from their webs draped across the yellowed foam insulation that connected the cellar to the house like bloated caterpillars. This was were nightmares came to die.

And food did, too. Grandma didn't have new food all fresh and full of sunlight. She'd stopped canning years before when she realized she wouldn't live to eat what she did have.

Grandma had bottled relish from the dawn of time, stacked on shelves cut into the dirt walls and draped in decades of dust. And she ate it. She ate all of the old stuff down there because after living though the great depression she couldn't waste what she had.

I remember sticking my hand into that blanket of dust and cobwebs to pull out green beans so old they'd turned brown, then shuddering my way up to daylight. I was always sure we'd die from eating Grandma's old food. I'd sit at dinner and pray, never touching my beans, just waiting to call 911 when someone killed over from botulism. No one ever did, but I won't eat old beans. Ever.

So, what does this have to do with anything? I don't know, but I do know that my fresh peaches with all their summer warmth don't belong in a cellar. They belong in steaming peach cobbler and pies dripping with homemade ice cream, devoured in front of a cozy fire as snow falls in drifts. You can bottle goodness--just don't put it in my grandma's cellar.

The Great Fence Robbery!

One of my friends requested I post about the time someone stole my six-foot cedar fence. Yes, you read that right, and no, this is not a fictional story. Two guys stole my fence in broad daylight. Seriously.

Now, this did not happen at my current place of residence, which shall remain undisclosed thank you very much, so all you neighbors out there who might be reading this, you are safe from fence snatchers and can sleep well tonight. BUT it did happen in a city near you.

This is how the Great Fence Robbery went down.

One summer day I was doing my laundry, and yes, this is proof that laundry is evil. Just saying. But, as I walked to the laundry room with a bulging basket of evil, I noticed two strange men in my yard dismantling my fence with power tools and idiotic grins on their faces.

I just stood there, held my laundry, and stared for about seven-point-three seconds, because who expects to see this in their yard? It had to be a mistake, right? Wrong.

I dropped my laundry and grabbed the phone.

Did you know that if you call 911 and tell them two guys are stealing your fence they don't believe you at first? I swear, it's a sad day when a full-grown woman has to convince the 911 operators that she is indeed being robbed, and no, she is not high on anything, and no, this is not a prank. Sheesh!

With the assurance that the police would be there soon, I hid the kids in a back bedroom, armed myself with a camera, and burst outside to confront the very strange strangers.

Click. Click. Click. Proof for the police just in case they didn't believe me either.

As I snapped their photos, the crooks whirled around and yelled, "What are you doing?"

I hesitated for about two-point-one seconds then yelled back, "I'm taking pictures in MY yard. What are you doing?"

It was now their turn to stare at me. Only, their idiotic grins were gone. Somehow their demonic glares were worse. Shudder.

Now, I know you are wondering what happened next. I wondered the same kind of thing as I edged back toward my door, because suddenly a camera felt like a lousy weapon. They, after all, had power tools...and scary glares...and who knew what else.

Luckily, they didn't follow me into the house, but they did put away their power tools, and instead of politely dismantling my fence with said tools, they used brute force and tore it down. Within minutes only broken posts were left, protruding from the ground like jagged teeth ready to chomp my yard.

The bad guys threw my fence panels into their their waiting truck, which I also photographed, and drove away.

I watched them drive off, still not quite believing they took my fence, and waited for the police.

And waited...

And waited...

And waited...

TEN hours later they showed up.

TEN!

They didn't even apologize for taking so long. Apparently fence stealing wasn't high on their list because it didn't involve weapons, and power tools didn't really count.

I wanted to grab them by their walkie-talkies and yell, "Seriously?" But I didn't because they did have weapons. Big ones. And handcuffs. And my kids didn't need to see me go away, too. The fence was enough loss for the day.

All I could do was take the tardy cops on a flashlight-lit tour of my now fenceless yard and give them the pictures. They never found the fence crooks--or my fence.

Needless to say, we didn't live in the best hood. Okay, it wasn't even the second best hood...or the third. And when the swat team became very familiar with my next door neighbors, we sold our house as fast as we could.

The good news is, we've never had our fence stolen at our new place, so life is sweet. And fenced. And swat team free.

So, what does this story have to do with writing? I'm not sure, but it's a great story. Make sure your own story is, too.

Leisha Maw

Quilting a Novel

I recently had a conversation with Jonene Ficklin after we both read a blog post at The Scribblers Cove entitled, Piecing Together A Story. Jonene recalled how foreign quilting had been for her, how overwhelming it was to face a room full of experienced quilting in-laws, and how self conscious she'd been with her unpracticed hand.

I couldn't help smiling as I thought back to my youth. I grew up in a family with a rich quilting heritage. My mother quilted. My grandmother quilted. We probably quilted back to Adam.

For my wedding present my grandma hand-pieced a quilt out of scraps she'd gathered over the years--slices of my mother's baby clothes, dresses my grandmother wore--parts of her life really. The pattern came from her head and years of practice. My mom put the quilt up in our front room, and the gathering began.

Grandma put her last stitches in my quilt. My younger sisters put their first. Neighbors stopped by to add their part. Even my dad and brothers stabbed needle and thread through the fabric for me with clumsy love.



My stitches are mingled with my family's and friends' old and young. Some of the stitches are even and straight, marching across the colorful fabric like disciplined soldiers. Others are as crooked as my grandmother's fingers had become. Some are as fat as baby cheeks. They all tell a story. One I treasure.



As I stroke the fabric and run my fingers along the beautiful designs, I not only see the flowers and patches of color making up the overall picture, I see the faces of these women (and my dad and brothers) who took the time to sit, sew, and visit as I entered a new world.

If writing really is like quilting as the post at The Scribblers Cove suggests, and I very much think it is, what role do the quilters play? They aren't the author. They didn't create the design. My grandma gathered every piece of fabric and sewed the quilt together. She arranged the pattern and provided the materials. She chose the plot, the setting, and the characters. Her hands created the quilt, but it wasn't done yet.

Here is a pic of an infant quilt of mine. It's really just the idea of a quilt. A bunch of pretty thoughts waiting to be drafted into a whole.



Here is a pic of an older one I'm working on. It looks like a quilt, but it's not. It is just the quilt top--all the pretty colors and the design.



It's a novel about to become a real book. But it has rough edges.



And it's missing something--the team of quilters who would finish it. The critiquers, the editors, the support staff. It lacks the polishing that comes with each new stitch and backing and batting and binding and such.

Could my grandma have finished my quilt on her own? Yes, but it would have taken much, much longer, and it would lack the richness of all those varied stitches that mean so much to me. So, as a writer I suggest we all embrace the work and effort of all those critiquers, editors, beta readers, and revisions. They transform your quilt top into a treasure.

Are you quilting today?

Leisha Maw

Jumping, Pillows, and Writing

Recently I took Kid A shopping. During the expedition I may, or may not, have been acting a little strangely. She grinned at me and said, "Mom, all the voices in my head and I agree, you're crazy."

I laughed because it was funny, and because like me, my daughter has stories living in her head. And yes, when you are a writer you do talk to the characters. And because I may indeed be crazy--in a good way. I hope. And yes, I can start sentences with and if I want to. And I do.

This got me thinking (Kid A, not a plethora of ands) about some of the strange/insane/fun things I did when I was a kid. Here's one:

I grew up with six siblings, and we didn't have television. This translated into long days filled with adventure. Once we decided it would be great fun to climb to the top of our one-and-a-half story house and jump off the roof onto a pillow. Yes, a pillow. What can I say, we were brilliant.



My parents got wind of the idea and slaughtered it because they were (and are) good parents. They declared the roof off limits. We moaned and complained then came up with a grand new plan. The roof may have become a no-man's land, but the house had windows. A lot of them. And yes, we really were that brilliant.

We positioned our pillow in the grass, fluffed it once or twice, because we all knew the value of a poofy pillow, and raced to an upstairs window. We all preceded to jump, single file, like a bunch of lemmings onto one increasingly flat pillow.




It was awesome--at least until Mom and Dad found out and jumping from the window onto pillows joined the black list. What did we do then? We moved the trampoline under the window. Yup, didn't I mention brilliant?

What does this have to do with writing? Way more than you think. Really.

Writing, especially submitting to agents and editors, is a lot like jumping out of a high window onto a pillow. It's exciting and feels dangerous. It may even be a little crazy. Sometimes you end up with a few bruises, but the experience is so worth it. And like prepping the pillow before we jumped, revising, revising, and revising can help your landing be less jarring. As time goes by, you even learn to pull the trampoline under the window.

Here's to jumping!

Apples and Creativity

Sorry about the Friday post, I spent yesterday at my parents' house picking apples, stacking wood, and winterizing their enormous raspberry patch. It was glorious, but as I worked, thoughts of winter whispered in my mind. Nothing speaks of long, frozen months like climbing into the frosted branches of an apple tree or wading through six-foot tall raspberries to tie them up like old-fashioned haystacks.



Time has trained my mind to turn from summer and warmth and reckless play to winter and snow and the holidays by repeating these fall rituals. The air can turn chill and the leaves can blaze with color on the mountains, but it isn't really autumn to me until the apples ripen and I disappear into the tree tops.

As I worked yesterday, my mind slipped back to my childhood and then to my books. I pondered how, just like time has trained me to prepare for winter by repeating the same activities every fall, I've trained myself to prepare to write by sitting in my chair every day armed with my laptop and imagination. My brain is geared to string words together in that chair, just like it's geared to think winter every time I pick apples or split and stack wood.

I've programed my mind and creativity so show up and engage by showing up myself. And the best part about this is, I never knew I was doing it. I don't know if you can have a habit of creating, but I think, just maybe, you can.

Nine Months Of No, The Accidental Engagement, and How To Face Rejection

I'm a writer. (That in itself should be enough for you to know that I'm a little bit cracked. But only a little.) As a writer, one of the scariest things I face is sending out my manuscript. Sure there's a chance someone will acquire it, but there is an even greater chance I'll get a rejection.

Rejection hurts. A lot.

I've been thinking about pain as I get ready to send out my latest manuscript, and this made me think about my hubby. Not that he is a pain, or that he causes pain, but because I caused him pain. A lot. It happened a long time ago, so don't look at me like that. Sheesh. This is how it went...

We met two weeks before I graduated from high school. I was young. I was a teenager. He was five years older. He was ready to get married. I wasn't. We fell in love. He proposed. I freaked out and said no. Did I mention I was young? Did I mention I was a teenager? Did I mention we were in love?

See? Pain. Poor guy. Poor me. I can only imagine the courage it took for him to get down on one knee and ask me. You can only imagine the terror that swept through my eighteen-year-old body as I thought about saying yes. Hence the no. But the real story is in the next nine months.

He proposed every other day for nine months straight. I told him no every other day for nine months straight. But he kept asking. I am so very glad he did, because it wasn't that I didn't love him, or that his offer wasn't good, or that I didn't want to marry him, it just wasn't the right time--yet. I needed to grow up a bit. So he kept asking--every other day--and I kept rejecting--every other day--until I accidentally said yes.

Yes, you read that right. We got engaged on accident. It happened over curly fries at the local Hardees. He looked up between bites and said, in the saddest voice imaginable, "Are you ever going to marry me?"

I dipped my fry in sauce and said, without thinking, "Well, yeah."

He stared at me with the most adorable goofy, shocked, I-must-be-dreaming expression, and then I froze with a curly fry halfway to my mouth and thought, What have I just done?

He said, "Really?"

I thought about it and realized (much to my own shock and surprise)that, yes, really. So I told him.

I had to take the keys away from him and drive us to my home. Friends just don't let friends drive in a love/success induced stupor.

But the whole point to this long and painful story is, he didn't give up. Last night I asked him why, and he said, "I knew I wanted to be with you, and if I kept asking one day you'd say yes."

Have you ever heard a more romantic thing?

So, in the tradition of my nine months of no, I will submit my novel, and submit my novel until someone says yes, because I know what I want. And if I keep asking, one day someone will say, "YES!"

What about you? What takes courage in your life?

Memories of Sword Fighting and Cornfields

My whole family, including all the brothers and sisters, spouses (Except Joycelyn, who came by iPhone because she had to work. We missed you.), and all the nieces and nephews, gathered at my parents' house last night to open their mission call

For you non-Utah peeps, a mission is where a young man or woman, or retired couple, volunteer to spend eighteen months to two years teaching religion somewhere in the world for the Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints. They don't know where they'll be sent, so opening the call is a big thing. It could be Russia or Idaho, France or Brazil, or almost anywhere in the world. My parents are heading to Portugal! So exciting! (Even if I'll miss them terribly.)

Anywho, while we were there, the nephews and some of the nieces discovered cornstalk sword fighting. What is that, you say? It's where this



becomes this



And yes, you can wear a kilt. Just saying.

I sat and watched all these little kids with their cornstalk swords and remembered the days when I was the one with my own sword, fighting to the imaginary death with my four brothers and two sisters. We came in every night with welts and bruises from our battles, but it was fun. So very fun.

The next day we'd rush home from school and cut a new weapon. We'd disperse through the fields to check our secret bases hidden in the apple trees or irrigation ditches, then the wars began. We reenacted every light saber duel in Star Wars, and every sword fight in all the pirate books and fantasy novels I'd ever read. Then we invented our own personas, and we put Captain Jack to shame.

Can you hear the laughter and the thunk thunk of cornstalk swords raised in battle? Do you smell the sun on heat-dried grass or taste the apples plucked right from the trees. I can. And I miss it all. All the grass stains and scraped knuckles from over-zealous duels, perching in the trees, gorging on fruit while waiting for the enemy to show themselves. No wonder I write fantasy. Maybe it takes me back to the days when I lived it all with a cornstalk sword, six siblings, and my imagination.

How To Have A Romantic Anniversary or How To Torture Your True Love--If You're a Girl

Hubby and I celebrated our eighteenth wedding anniversary over the weekend. Not only does this make me sound really old, but what we did makes me sound even older--and just a fraction cracked.

Don't believe me? You might after I'm done writing this. And sorry in advance to my mom and hubby. Maybe.

So, what romantic activity did we engage in for our anniversary? A secluded retreat to a condo without the kids? A leisurely stroll along the fall colored mountain trails? A romantic candle-lit dinner? Um, no. We went bra shopping. Yup. My hubby loves me that much. It went something like this:

Me, showing hubby a newspaper advertisement for said clothing sale: Hey! Look! A sale!

Hubby: Okay?

Me: You want to go?

Hubby, just staring at me like I was a little cracked. (This happens more than you'd think it would. Strange.)

Me: Will you come with me?

Hubby: Do I have to stand in the bra department?

Me: No. You can go to housewares if you want.

Hubby secretly rolling his eyes. (It's secret because his actual physical eyes didn't roll, but I sensed the inner, mental rolling, because I can feel stuff like that.): Sure.

AND after I tortured him in the bra deptartment, Hubby took me to the book store. I left with two new books. Then he took me to dinner where he said this, "I have great respect for you."

And I said, "Respect?"

And he said, "Based on fear. I'm afraid you might bite me and I'll bleed out through my jugular."

See, isn't that romantic? And, yes mom, I am sorry for posting about bra shopping.

And, (just so I can start another sentence with and) I love you my awesome hubby.

The Dentist and Other Scary Stories

I took Kid C to the dentist yesterday, and yes, I seem to be blogging about him a lot lately. Poor Kid C.

Now, taking a child to the dentist is never fun. Ever. But, taking a special needs child to the dentist is bad. Really bad. (For those of you who are new to the blog, Both Kid B and C have fragile X syndrome and are mentally handicapped. See here , here, or here for glimpses of past adventures.)

Anywho, the dentist was awesome, and Kid C did pretty good. He only threw up twice. What horrible thing was the dentist doing? Drilling? Extracting teeth? Sucking in the laughing gas? Nope. He was brushing Kid C's teeth. Yup. That's how we roll around here.

This got me thinking about some other adventures we've had. Okay, they're more like scary stories, but here's a short one for you to enjoy. We'll pick on Kid B this time.

Kid B loves food. Not likes, or sort-of-loves, but the kind of love that becomes scary. He especially adores pasta salad. Around here we call it Kid B salad and make it every time we have a family get together.

Which leads us to grandma's house and a giant bowl of Kid B salad--and grandma's unlocked cupboard filled with several boxes of fruit snacks. Can you guess where this is heading? Yup. Brace yourselves.

Kid B devoured three enormous plates full of pasta salad then snuck into the fruit snacks. All of them. A few minutes later the groaning commenced. Then came the vomit and the multi-colored mess on grandma's new carpet. Hmmm come to think of it, this might be why everyone refers to it as Kid B salad.

Strange how both these stories deal with puke.

I hate puke.

Shudder.

Homework and Horse Poop

Awhile ago, I mentioned the time I took horse poop to school for an English assignment. Several people requested the full scoop, so here it is.

When I was younger, I procrastinated everything. (I am now much more mature and only procrastinate most things.) So, when, in my senior year in high school, we received an assignment to convert a popular commercial of our choice into a satire, I, of course, rushed home and forgot about it--until the night before it was due.

I stayed up late pacing my bedroom floor. I knew this class, everyone in it was brilliant, and there would be some amazing presentations. If I wanted an A, and oh I did, I would have to come up with something stunning.

Several hours, and a garbage can full of crumbled papers, later, I spit my much chewed gum out in my hand and glared at it. My ideas had died on me, my muse had fled, and even my gum had petered out. Then I had it. Gum. It's taste didn't last an extra, extra, extra long time, in fact it tasted like crap. I grinned. I laughed. I think I even cackled. I probably did, it seems like something a sleep deranged eighteen-year-old me would do.

I threw on a coat, some boots, grabbed a shovel, and headed out to the fields. I needed some poop--a giant mound of horse poop. And, I had some, globs of it, sprinkled over three acres like putrid gumdrops. All I had to do was get me one. It would be perfect. The only problem was the weather. January in the mountains of Utah can be bitter with the temperature dropping way below zero, and on this night, they did.

The frigid air welded every single horse bomb to the ground. I hacked at them, kicked them, yelled into the darkness, "Why? Why? All I need is one piece of lousy dung!"

Then, as if in answer to my rant, my horse whinnied. My sleep and cold fogged brain clicked into place. I had a fresh, unfrozen manure factory standing right there!

I assumed my poop catching position behind the horse. It's a good thing it was dark, or there may have been a few calls into the psych ward that night, because I stood there for a good hour holding my shovel and coaching my horse. "Come on, girl, you can do it. Just go for me. One poop, that's all I need."

My fingers went numb, my toes disappeared, my teeth almost shattered from chattering, then the blessed event occurred. My horse gave me my A.

I took it back to the house, wrapped it lovingly in a plastic bag, and chewed two huge wads of gum. Then I went to bed.

In class the next day, I splatted first one, then the other, wad of gum onto the teacher's table while repeating the words of the commercial. "The flavor lasts an extra, (splat) extra, (splat)..." I reached into the bag with my bare hands and pulled my lovely, warm, mushy pile of horse business and slammed it down with the final, "extra long time." Then I sat down.

My whole presentation lasted ten seconds. The silence lasted longer. Much longer. My sweet teacher swallowed several times and asked me to please throw it away outside her class room. I did. And I got my A. All thanks to an obedient horse and a shovel.

So, what kind of crazy things did you guys do for an assignment?

Texts and A Related Memory

We're home from vacation. It's good to be back, but sad, too. So, to counteract the sadness here are some of the texts I got from a friend while we were gone, followed by a memory they invoked.

Day 1: What day should i expect yr caravan to return in case i need to call the police?

Day 2: You should have seen all the hung over cats dragging outa yr house this morning....Shameful how they're misbehaving. So disappointing.

Day 3: Fragrant haze circling your house...lots of stoned cats....The police have only been by once.

Day 4: I'm not even going to tell you this one...

Day 5: I checked in...the cats have peed in all your pans.

Now, first off, for those of you who don't know me, we don't drink or do drugs. We don't even drink caffeine, just saying so you know. Second off, text number five deserves an explanation. Third, this particular friend wasn't the one watching my cats, so no, my cats didn't pee in all my pans. In fact they didn't pee in any of my pans, although one of them was very naughty and left something in the shower. Grrrr. And on the frog's tank. Double grrrr. The culprit shall be dealt with. How I don't know yet, but it will be dire. Like a diet. I know they're mad a being left alone for ten days, but really, rules are rules, and leaving smelly presents is high on the list of absolute no-nos. Sheesh.

Anywho, the pee in the pan thing reminded me of an event a few years ago that did involve pee in my brand-new pan. Here's the story. I'll try to keep it short.

It was summer, and my kids broke one of the window screens. Before we could get it fixed, the cats found it and decided it worked great as a cat door. At first I was upset, but then...well, lets just say I didn't have to open and shut the door all day long for the cats. I know this makes me seem extremely lazy, but there you have it. One broken screen equalled less door opening so, I let it stay. Sad, I know.

About a week later, I was punished for this. At two-in-the-morning there arose such a clatter. I leapt from my bed to see what was the matter. (I never realized until now, how useful Twas The Night Before Christmas could be to tell stories, but I'll stop now so you'll keep reading.) Okay, so at 2:00 a.m. a very distressed cat whizzing around my front room like a demented pinball, knocking knickknacks off the shelves and trying to climb the walls, windows, and everything else, woke me from a sound sleep.

It was not one of my cats.

After I blinked the sleepy blur from my eyes and engaged my brain enough to realize what was happening, I yelled at the trespasser, and out the window he flew. I rushed over and slammed it shut.

We fixed the screen the next morning.

Over the next week my cats behaved badly. They slunk through the house like hunters stalking prey. They hissed a lot. They left smelly presents. A lot. I yelled a lot.

Now, despite the two recent presents they left while we were on vacation, they don't usually do this. Really they don't. They're good cats. Really they are, so this present leaving was strange. And ugly. I chastised. I cleaned. Then I chastised and cleaned some more. Then I woke to find a foul yellow liquid in my new pan. I banished them. Enough was enough. They could live outside. Forever.

Then at two-in-the-morning, (why is it always two?) I was once again torn from sleep by my deranged cat flinging himself around my front room. "How did you get in?" I yelled as I, too, went berserk.

I grabbed the broom and chased him around the house, yelling threats the whole time. At last I cornered him under my daughter's bed. And yes, she was now awake and staring at me with a rather frightened expression. I dropped to the floor and glared into my cat's green eyes, and then I realized something. My cat didn't have green eyes.

It wasn't my cat.

As we stared each other down, my mind rewound over the past week, back to the intruder. Everything clicked into place. The strange, stalking behaviour. The naughty peeing. The intruder cat never made it out the window. I'd locked a feral cat in my own house and never realized it. Only the cats had. They'd tried to hunt him, but I yelled at them for it. He'd left nasty messes, I yelled at them for it. He'd been here all week.

My daughter netted him with a bathroom towel. Out he went. I let my cats back in and apologized.

But not this time. This time they are to blame for the smell and the mess, and dire consequences will follow.

Top Ten Morning Events and a Random Memory

This morning has been an adventure, and it's only 7:10. (Well, it was 7:10 when I started this, now it's 8:03. I've had a few interruptions.) Here is a top ten list for the first few hours of Thursday, April 8, 2010.

10: Very fat cat jumping on head at 5:36 a.m. to be petted. Such early morning fun.

9: Already being awake when alarm goes off at 5:45. At least the obese cat is a little less jarring than the BEEP BEEP of the morning torture device. But only because he's soft and purrs. He's harder to snooze though.

8: Herding children out of bed. Kid B's bus comes at 6:20ish. Picture a large man-child who doesn't want to get out of bed, and me pushing him out by bracing myself against the wall and using my legs to force his giant body onto the floor. And while I'm getting a free lower body workout, he's muttering, "Mom. Don't. It's my day off." He thinks everyday is his day off.

7: Me wondering, When is my day off? This is an ongoing occurrence.

6: Making breakfast for kid D, only to have her turn a spoiled nose up at it and pout for forty-five minutes about how hungry she was. Grrr.

5: Me breaking down and making blueberry muffins. From scratch. Followed by a fresh batch of bread. From scratch. Did I mention it was from scratch? And no, this is not a daily thing, just in case you were starting to have delusions about how awesome I am. I convinced myself the muffins were more for me than kid D. That way I'm not spoiling her right?

4: Hot blueberry muffins. What more can be said?

3: The sweet sound of buses driving away, and then the lack of sound in my house. Me eating another muffin while typing.

2: Laundry. Way worse than muffins. Seriously, how many clothes can a family of six dirty in one day? I think we have dirty clothes goblins who come out at night and rub clean clothes in the muck. And, yes, I have muck. But don't tell anyone. Shhh.

1: Sitting down to work on my novel. Ahh. Such bliss. And what is this? Sniff, sniff. Bread? Fresh out of the oven? Why yes, I'll take a slice or two.


Thinking of my morning brought back a memory from my childhood. I was in high school and our bus came very early. Like 5:30 early. Yes, feel sorry for me. I do, but feel more sorry for my parents. I do now.

But on this particular winter morning I ran late and didn't get time to eat the hot breakfast my mom fixed EVERY morning. And yes, you can think she was awesome because she was, and is. Anyway, the bus came. I ran out, dropped my books on the second step, stared the bus driver in the eye, and told him I'd forgotten something.

He, being a nice and patient man, just nodded.

I ran back to my house, dished myself up a big bowl of food, grabbed a glass of milk, and ran back to the bus with my bounty.

I don't think the bus driver was very happy with me, but my stomach was. He he.