I Love My Screened-In Porch!

the porch

a view from the porch

Of all the spaces and places in my house, the screened-in porch is my favorite. From my kitchen, the room where it seems most of my time is spent, I can take a break and step out onto the porch to experience the peace of the birds flying from tree to tree, the heat from the sun, the flittering of butterflies, and the sight of tall, luscious green trees with a perfect cloudy blue sky as a backdrop.

During the five or six months of warm weather and sunshine, I sit on the porch as much as possible; only my busy life prevents me from being there more.

Reading on the porch is very relaxing. I pull out the leg rest from under the chair, position a pillow at just the right spot behind my back, give the dog a chew toy or bone, and then attempt to get totally absorbed in a book. This works well when it’s just the dog and me. During the summer, that’s not often. The girls always have a reason to interrupt – but they’re okay – as long as I don’t have to listen to any whining. Sometimes, one of them may get a book and join me. They, too, are part of the complete picture.

In addition to good reading time, my other reasons for loving the porch:

---Lunch or dinner on the porch is like being at an outdoor café. Sometimes I’m joined by one of the kids or my husband or all of them.

---Conversations with my husband are always good when we’re sitting on the porch.

---The sofa on the porch has provided me with some of my best Sunday afternoon naps – the kind that don’t give me a headache as I’m waking up.

---Talking on the phone is more fun on the porch. There are no dishes staring at me waiting to be washed, or any other domestic chore. I laugh a lot during these conversations.

---It's a great place to have a morning cup of tea while listening to sounds of nature.
---During a summer storm, I stand on the porch a minute or two listening to hard, pouring rain – until the lightening sends me in.

I haven’t always had a screened-in porch. As a teen, my equivalent was a roof covered porch on the front of the house. After waking up on a “don’t have to be anywhere day,” I’d go outside to the porch into the slight coolness of the morning to “wake up my face.” My mother would say, “Wait until you get my age – you won’t be able to wait for your face to wake up. You’ll have to PUT it into place!”

Throughout the years, a porch of some sort has been a must. Before I moved into a tenth floor apartment in 1984, I had to check out the balcony to make sure I’d have my serene, outdoor space, even if it was overlooking the parking lot, accompanied by the sounds of traffic on I-395. I still got my “fresh” air!

It’s nice to have a place (or two) in your home to veg out.

Where is your special place?

Horseback Riding

His name is Echo

Grooming Echo

Riding Echo

I was seventeen, hanging out with three guys and another girl. Someone had the bright idea to go horseback riding. My friend Joyce and I had never ridden, but how hard could it be? You sit on the horse, it moves, you ride.

Not!

Shortly into the ride, my friends saw me slowly falling down the side of the horse - my foot caught in a stirrup, hanging on to the saddle for dear life.

Before the “incident,” my horse moved when and how it wanted to, and it stopped when it wanted to, which turned out to be a problem when one of the testosterone-filled teen-aged boys came galloping towards me acting out a "rescue." My lackadaisical horse didn’t flinch; it just stood there. He yelled whoa! to slow his horse down, but there was still a crash. My friends were concerned (all of three seconds) until I pulled myself back up, when “their” hysterical laughing began.

Oh, to be young.

Episode # 2, a year later, found me screaming like a banshee on a runaway horse. Hanging on for dear life again, it occurred to me to stop screaming as an attempt to make the horse stop. It did, and I got off.

I’ll skip my third, uneventful horseback ride (guided by its owner) that was about three years ago, to bring you up to the present.

Three Amigos! That’s what comes to mind when I think of my first horseback riding lesson with Darlene and Robin - three moms out for some adventure. I had to call on Jesus, as Betsy (our teacher) pushed my butt up onto the HUGE horse. What a sight we were! Three stiff bodies with bad posture, bouncing and riding at the mercy of the well-trained horses just walking around the ring.

BUT still on that first day, we progressed. Betsy tried teaching us to post. Up, down, up, down… Breathe… Push your heals down… Point your toes up… Straighten your back... Stomachs in... Hold the reins closer together... Use your crop... And, try to be in the “up” motion with the horse’s outside shoulder as it goes up.

WHAT? Duh.

That was September.

We’ve come a long way. Our aches and pains are minimal. No more bruised inner thighs, knee pain, aching backs, and/or sore calves. We’re saddling our horses and putting on bridles. We're riding the Western saddle and the English (Hunter) saddle. Robin doesn’t feel like she’s going to bounce off any more and is posting the trot. Darlene and I have been able to attend more lessons, and we’re loping and cantering. Darlene could be jumping soon; I’d like to get there, too.

We may be close to earning our bonafide Equestrian titles! Yee Ha!

Do you ride horses? Would you like to?

You Work, Don't You?

Of course I work!

-

The latter part of June and the whole month of July has been “camp time” for the kids, translating for me, to - in and out of the car all day, everyday. In summers past, I’ve thought, “Oh, I should have sent my kid to this or that.” This summer, I made up for it. Between the three kids, they’ve done swimming lessons, a course called Seeing is Believing: Virtual Worlds, vacation bible school (attending and volunteering), field hockey camp, and now art camp. And, my middle daughter is graduating from a program at church that has required some extra duties to earn all her badges before the big day.

We’ve also managed to visit Grandma and Grandpa twice, entertain eight year old cousin Ethan for a week, and to hit the pool and beach a number of times.

With all this running around, my grocery store routine has been severely altered. Like some of you, I usually make the two hundred dollar trip (give or take) when the fridge and the pantry begin its descent to vacancy, but the trip didn’t happen during the past two weeks. Instead, I have been dropping in and out of the very convenient grocery store at the edge of my subdivision to get the needs of the current and next day.

.

My social status is really climbing with the employees at the store!

On one of my trips, a General Mills person is displaying samples of Fiber One Bars. I don’t know what the official job title is, but you’ve seen them; they go to different grocery stores to check on the shelf placement of their product and to set up promotion tables. Ms. General Mills is trying to do her job when one of the grocery store’s employees tell her to move a cardboard box out of the way - in a demanding tone. She gets flustered, then turns around to see me eyeing her Fiber One Bars. I’m a perfect target. She gets to vent while seducing me with the goods.

“How rude of him!” she says.

“Here, take one of these.”

“How can I set up without an area to unpack!”

“Have you tried the strawberry? Here,” as she passes me the third bar.

“It’s not even in the way of the customers!”

“This is a new flavor. It tastes a little like coffee. Here!”

Realizing I’m on a roll with these breakfast bars, I say, “I like the chocolate flavor.”

She tears open the oats and chocolate flavored box, and hands me another.

“People can’t even do their jobs without being harassed! You work, don't you?”

Hmmmm….I’m standing here ogling the Fiber One Bars, in my shorts, T-shirt, and flip flops. My tired and hungry kids are waiting for me in the car, probably wondering why it’s taking Mommy fifteen minutes to buy some tomatoes and flatbread.

Do I burst her bubble by telling Ms. General Mills that I’m a stay-at-home mom, and reciting the stay-at-home mom motto: “Yes, I DO work and it’s a hard job!” Do I take the risk of seeing her disappointed look when she realizes that I can’t relate to having to deal with arrogant people everyday? Or, maybe I would have gotten the patronizing pat on the back, and, “Yes, you do! Your job is harder than mine!” (And that’s okay. I don’t mind hearing that.)

I took the high road (I think), and simply said, “Yes.”

She was grateful for being able to talk to me, and I appreciated her friendliness and generosity.

As I was inching away from her, she handed me several pages of coupons, with an expiration date of 12/29/09. I’ve hit the jackpot.

“Here Ma’am (or was it Darlin’?). The bars are on sale now, and if you use the coupon, you’re only paying about one third of the price.”

She was right. I dashed over to the cereal isle and bought a few boxes.

When I got back to the car, Hayley whined, “I’m hungry. What took you so long?”

I reached into my purse and pulled out one of my seven Fiber One Bars and said, “Here, take one of these.”

Are you a stay-at-home mom? Do you have a standard answer to, “What kind of work do you do?"

Stay-at-home mom or not – all comments welcome.

Blood Donation

My first time giving blood was probably in 1979. The blood donation truck parked along the side of the building where I worked, making it easy and convenient to participate. I had no hesitation or fear; of course, being twenty-one years old could have been a major factor in my calm demeanor.

The process was simple: answering health related questions, having my temperature, blood pressure, and pulse taken, getting my finger pricked for a drop of blood to be tested for the level of hemoglobin, and then the actual donation.

I sat in the comfy chair and watched everything. For those of you that are a little squeamish, I’ll skip the play-by-play. Sometimes, I wonder if I missed my calling of being a doctor. Hmmm…

Actually, it’s a very clean and precise procedure, and most people would be able to handle it.

During the next fifteen years, I donated frequently for periods of time, and other times with longs lapses in between. Most of the donations were set up by employers, but I have memories of seeking and going to other sites, too. I still have a plastic card listing my donation dates when I lived in Maryland. At that time, I gave via the American Red Cross.

When I married and moved back to Virginia in 1994, the donating stopped. I let all the distractions of life move blood donation to the back burner, or off the stove completely. The combined twenty-seven months of pregnancy and the combined forty-four months of breast-feeding kept me away from the blood drives. After reclaiming my body, it still took several years to get back to it.

A local television station (and others) sponsored a large blood drive for Virginia Blood Services that was held in a vacant building once occupied by a defunct retail chain store. The station advertised heavily. Every time I heard it, I thought…I should go. The kids were in Vacation Bible School – why not?

So I went.

It was almost the same as I remembered, but the differences, I can gladly say, were improvements. The advances in computer technology made it very easy to answer questions from a video, using a headset. Just listen, read along if you like, and tap “yes” or “no.”

Another difference was the amount of black people donating. In the past, I saw black people donating, but not many. Could it have been because the donation centers were not in areas heavily populated by black people and lack of advertisement/incentive, or was it “a cultural thing?”

This time, it appeared that at least sixty percent of the donators were black, and of all ages. That told me that (paraphrasing), if you build it, they will come. (Field of Dreams -1989) Even the blood collection specialist (phlebotomist), a black woman, was proud of the attendance response based on some comments she made to me.

And lastly, a “real” meal awaited me after the donation. I was treated to a buffet of delicious fixins to make a burrito salad worthy of a thumbs up from Chipotle. The donut from Krispy Kreme wasn’t bad either. What a pleasant surprise; I was expecting cookies, crackers, and juice. Can you tell that I was starving? Yum-meee!

I am eligible to donate again on September 7. Don’t forget to send me a reminder!

Donating blood saves lives.
Can you donate? Do you donate? Will you donate?

Thirty Minutes of Solitude – Lost!

Ethan, my eight year old nephew spends a week with us during the summer. He goes to Vacation Bible School (VBS) with my two youngest daughters, and my oldest daughter who volunteers.

To get him, I drive north on I-95 to meet his mom, Jackie, as she drives south to meet me at our destination, Potomac Mills Outlet Mall in Northern Virginia.

Our watches synchronized, our cell phones charged, we talk by phone as we are ready to leave our homes. Because Jackie has to travel on the infamous 495 beltway around Washington, D.C., I assume I’ll get there first, which is fine with me. Actually, I am counting on getting there at least 30 minutes before Jackie. I have visions of sitting in my vehicle in complete solitude, away from all recognizable people, and away from the temptations of doing something at home and of answering the phone – a quick, little respite.

The drive is peaceful, but the anticipated destination of the COSTCO parking lot (preferably in a shaded area) with a book in my hand, is where I am specifically waiting to be. My water bottles and nuts are packed, along with my sack of four books and my book journal. I don’t know whether I’ll be in the mood to read, write, snooze, or just sit and be quiet. I am prepared for all the alternatives.

You may be wondering why the thirty minutes are such a big deal. Well…it’s summer and I’m a stay-at-home mom! Of three! Someone is always home! 24-7!

(As impressed as I am with homeschoolers, that job is probably not in my future.)

Don’t spank me.

I DO enjoy being with my kids, but after a couple of days of nonstop, sunup to sundown activities with them, I need to “not hear anything,” if only for thirty minutes.

Since school ended a month ago, each child has had numerous needs: badges need to be sewn on, shin guards and mouth guard purchased, sleepovers planned, piano and swimming lessons attended, etc. Even Layla the dog had a need – to be spayed. Hubby took care of the “transportation to and from the vet” duty, but her two days of recuperation (including a couple of pee/poop accidents) was “Mommy’s duty.” I had to give her lots of hugs and TLC.

* * * * *

So I’m close to the shopping mall, but I don’t know the exit number.

I’ve been up and down I-95 a zillion times…I don’t need the exit number.

The huge Potomac Mills sign can be seen a mile away – and I see it. The problem though: where is my exit that will take me to the other side of 95?

As I’m coming out of my “listening to the radio zone” to take the exit, I become confused.

Don’t want to pass it!

Oh, just take the next exit and figure it out from there.

Here I go!

Hey, I’m passing my “up in the sky Potomac Mills sign!!”

Oh, no!!! Could I possibly be on the HOV lane?

(sad and deflated) yep…there goes my 30 minutes…umph!

I call Jackie to explain and to ask where the HOV lane ends.

“I think it ends at the beltway,” she says.

I tell myself, “Take a deep breath Anita. Yes, you have to drive eleven miles north to the beltway (the reformed Mixing Bowl) and then eleven miles south (in the parking lot of traffic that you can see on the other side) to get Ethan. And yes, you have totally blown your respite, but it’s okay. Take another deep breath.”

Ironically, Jackie sees me on I-95, toots the horn, and we end up getting off at another exit together. Ethan gets in my car, and we continue heading south – back home.

Home, Sweet Home

What caused you to miss an exit and what did it cost you?

Stepping Stones

I know I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: children allow you to have a second childhood. Entertaining my kids, teaching them, and exposing them to new things, inspire me to do things that I probably wouldn’t do if I didn’t have them.

My first stepping stone was made in 1999. I can’t remember what prompted me to make it. Had I seen a decorative stepping stone in a neighbor’s yard? Did I see the kit in the craft store or in a Family Fun magazine? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. What I do remember is having two toddlers and wanting them to somehow be involved in their daddy’s Father’s Day gift.

The stepping stone kit was purchased at Michaels, the arts and craft store. I had a choice between a gray stone and terracotta colored stone, which was made with the regular cement and an added pouch of the terracotta mix. I chose the terracotta. Also in the kit was a plastic round mold, beige rocks, a craft stick (when I was growing up, it was a Popsicle stick), and a mixing stick.

The process of making it went well, considering it was my first time. I found a plastic bucket, poured in the dusty cement (cough, cough), added the water as instructed (which was not enough to get the right consistency), mixed, added more water – a tablespoon at a time – mixed, and poured and scraped it into the mold. Somehow I got it just right; it was solid enough to do the lettering with the craft stick and to place the girls’ hands on it for the imprint. Hayley and Kelly, then three and a half and fifteen months old, placed the rocks and pressed, with a little guidance from their meticulous mother.

Father's Day gift - 1999

There would be seven more stepping stones. Over the years, the girls and I have experimented with different shapes and decorating pieces. We’ve learned that:

- adding too much water causes our letters and imprints to disappear; that we have to use paper towels to sop up excess water on the stone, or that we have to come back to the process later after some of the water in the stone has evaporated,

- buying a plastic container at the dollar store and reusing it year after year, is better that using a good mopping bucket that has to be cleaned afterwards,

- cement from a hardware store that is typically used for sidewalks or whatever, contains all sorts of pebbles and stuff, and is difficult to work with…never again,

- using photographs under glass to decorate the stone is tedious, and that the sun eventually fades the pictures,

- breaking tiles to use as lettering is also tedious.

2002 - each petal has toe prints: 2 petals for Hayley,

2 for Kelly, 2 for Mallory

There was no stepping stone in 2000. My new baby was one month old. Couldn’t waste valuable sleep time on crafts.

I don’t know what happened to the 2001 stone. Is it buried in the yard somewhere? I thought we made one that year. With three children 5 years old and under, maybe I was a little delusional. I can almost swear we made that stone, despite the lack on evidence, i.e. a stone.

2003 - made from hardware store cement

AND

I dared to make three!

Notice the lettering from broken tiles -

I'll bet you can guess who did most of the work on these stones!

2004 - toe prints again

2005 - The faces of the girls, under the "flowers" have faded.

"Happy Father's Day" (The blue letters are still there, though).

The glass over the K (for Kelly) was gone,

so I fixed it with a new K and new glass.

Too much work for this one: a so-so stone.

2006 - The petals are thumbprints.

2007 - a new shape; rotation of a square

2008 - flipflops, and the addition of Layla, our dog

As you can see, all the stones were made for my husband as a Father’s Day gift. He says it’s his favorite gift each year and tells us not to worry about getting anything else for him other than cards. He was especially adamant this year when he made that statement, but when the iPod touch showed up on the gift table, he didn’t tell us to return it.

The annual stepping stone is a fixture in our lives now; we may even step it up to twice a year. And now that I’m decluttering, I know where all the previously used, various shaped molds are stored, along with all the leftover rocks, cut glass, tiles, and lettering. We can omit the kit next time and just buy the cement.

Toodles!

Have you made a stepping stone lately, or are you willing to make your first?

I

What are Friends For?

No, I haven't been fishing

-

It’s a hot, humid day – the usual. I exercise, take the kids to the pool, and do a few other things, too. It’s time for a shower and a shampoo.

I get out feeling clean and refreshed. Because I’m not going anywhere else, I comb through my hair and decide to let it air dry, then throw on some capri jeans and a t-shirt. I go downstairs where Layla the dog is standing at the door ready for a potty break. Two of my girls are in the shower; the other is nowhere to be found, i.e. on the computer, so that leaves me to do the job.

The grass is a little high and moist, so I put on my rain boots. With my wet hair combed back, the salt and pepper roots are very obvious, so I band it into a ponytail and grab the first cap available which is purple and belongs to one of the kids. (So I’m a little vain. Garnier Nutrisse will take care of me soon.) You never know who you’re going to run into in your backyard!

Well, guess who I run into? Robin – my friend and next door neighbor. She’s pulling out of her garage, yet looking stalled. Layla loves her and will immediately try to get to her, so I head the other way, but upon taking another glance, I notice that the car is diagonal – only one side of the front end had cleared the opening. Layla and I go over to get a closer look. Even the dog is puzzled.

“What’s going on Robin?

“Don’t come over here, Anita!!!”

“You look like you need some help. Are you stuck? I think you need some help.”

“Okay…but at least take the dog back in the house!”Wet-haired Hayley and Kelly (alias Diana Ross and Madison Pettis) are now out of the shower, standing on the porch – watching. I take Layla to them, with a fleeting distraction and thought, “Gosh, I hope they’ve combed the tangles out of their hair, or I’m going to be stuck with helping them to get the knots out.”

No time to think about them – back to Robin.

Her two-car garage has separate doors. She usually pulls into the right side to park, but when I see her, she’s trying to drive out of the left side. Hmmm… The right side door would not open, so somehow she had managed to almost do a one hundred eighty degree turn to come out of the other door, except…she didn’t quite make it.

I begin my air-traffic controller routine that goes on for fifteen minutes or more, with intermittent periods of gut busting laughter.

“Back up – V-E-R-Y S-L-O-W-L-Y !”

“STOP!!!”

I hold my index and middle fingers together, raised up for her to see, and shout, “You only have this much room between the car and the brick siding!”She turns the wheels and moves the car.

“STOP!!! You’re this close to the brick!” as I now hold up one finger.

I go to her side and see the van one inch from the metal framing. Also, the van's slide door is open, which means four more inches have to get through the one inch that is available.

“Can’t you get that door closed?"

“No!”

“You have to back up a pinch and get that door closed!”

“Anita, you go to the other side; I got this side!”“Yeah, right,” I’m thinking. I don’t quite trust her because she’s huffing and puffing and lifting her right hip, and twisting her body and head out the window while steering. I’m still going from one side of the car to the other, until she convinces me to stay on my side.

“Okay,” thinking again, “Let her tear up her side of the car, but I am NOT going to let my side get even a scratch on it!”

While this is going on, the paparazzi are filming and snapping pictures. Ten year old Andrew (Robin’s son) is in the passenger seat using his new touch screen phone to video the show with threats of debuting us on You Tube.

“Sit down ANDREW!”

“Get that thing out of my face ANDREW!”

“Get your head back in the window ANDREW!”

“Be quiet ANDREW! Mama’s trying to think!”
Even “Diana” and “Madison” get in on the act; from the porch, they get a couple of shots using my cell phone camera.

It seems hopeless. There are moments when I stop and stare and visualize her van being stuck there for life, like a monument or something. I look at Robin with the frustrated look on her face, and feel sad…for two seconds…then I crack up again!

It’s 7:10 p.m. A contractor is expected at my house and my husband is expected home.

“OH NO! I don’t want anybody to see me stuck here like this!”“Well Robin, the contractor can probably get you out.”Hubby pulls into our adjacent driveway first. He gets out of the car with the bewildered look. (I would later learn that it wasn’t the car that was strange, but the sight of his wife in the purple cap, and the boots, complete with hot pink ribbons.)

I’m sure you know the rest of the story. My “missed his calling, wannabe architect” husband figures out how to get the slide door closed, and after I convince him that I can watch MY side of the van, he mathematically figures out what she needs to do to get out. We all hug each other, and I'm proud of him. Then Robin adds, “Anita! Dog! It took a man to get us out!” Yep, we were rescued.

But wait…there’s more! And it’s good!

Why can’t the garage door be opened manually?

“Oh, there it is. There’s a metal chord stuck in the hinges.”

Hubby goes to our house to get the stepladder, stands on it to move the metal chord, pulls the rope chord with a red handle on it, and tells me to hold it while he and Robin raise the door.

“Okay, you can let it go.”

So I let it go.

click click click click click click click click

B A M !!!I wish I could see the looks on the four of our faces as the garage door comes SLAMMING down on the bottom step of the stepladder that was forgotten about and left in the path of the runaway garage door. There was a little bounce and a good size dent, but other than that, it was still in one piece.

Non-cursing hubby almost cursed, followed by a declaration of guilt.

“Ugh, I should have moved that stepladder.”Robin says, “If that stepladder hadn’t been there, the glass may have shattered. Don’t you dare give it another thought.” She's still thrilled to have mobility.

After getting over the shock and noticing all the other dents from Andrew practicing hockey, I say, “I guess it’s not t-h-a-t bad.”Andrew is still oblivious.

missing window here from a previous injury caused by...a ball

The next day, the garage door mechanic is there. I peek out my window to see the door going up and down. Success. Then I hear loud noises. He is pounding and beating the door into submission. He leaves. The dent is barely noticeable.

What are friends for?

A friend keeps her friend from gunning her van through bricks and mortar in a desperate attempt to leave her home to get the Father's Day gift. Can't miss doing that!

Got any “friend” stories to share?” Please do.