My First Age Spot

The darkened, slightly rough patch of skin cropped up on my right wrist a few months ago. At first glance, I figured it was a previously unnoticed scrape that was in the beginning stages of healing. On further inspection I noticed it was not that at all.

It's apparently an age spot. My first one!

How appropriate that it would arrive a few months before my fiftieth birthday. I am actually a bit ahead of the game in hitting my middle-age milestones as I don't think I'm really quite old enough to develop age spots yet.

Not that anyone would notice. The spot isn't quite as big as a pencil eraser, yet now that I've seen it, it draws my attention like a magnet every time my right arm moves anywhere within my line of vision.

It really isn't that bad. What concerns me is the question, "If I get an age spot at forty nine and a half years of age, what's next?"

I really wish that, in addition to the baby book my mother kept for me, she would have kept a book tracking her own milestones. A diary would have been nice, at the least, especially since my mother also had a teenager (me!) when she was going on fifty.

"Journal Entry, Sept. 3, 1976. Becky Jean started tenth grade today, and I got my first age spot."

How handy that would be! I could read ahead and know what to expect in the months to come.

It's too late for that now and I never would have dreamed I would desire such a resource anyway. As a teenager, I had no intention of ever getting old much less developing wrinkles and age spots!

Maybe this is the way it's suppose to be. Perhaps if I'd known about the age spot ahead of time, I would have stressed over it and expedited the arrival of the already impending "worry lines" on my forehead.

Time goes by, and if we are fortunate enough to survive the process, little inconveniences like age spots and wrinkles are inevitable. They aren't exactly sexy but I feel I've earned every one of them and I will consider them medals of honor to be worn proudly.

As I like to say, "It is what it is!" ... and this thing on my wrist definitely is my first doggone age spot!

March 25, 2010
Becky Taylor
Personal Development Coach for Women
Bold New Day! LLC
http://www.boldnewday.com

I Haven't Slept In Thirty-Two Years

March 23, 2010

I’ve been feeling exhausted for a while now and I think I understand why. Given the fact I gave birth to my oldest daughter when I was seventeen years old and have been raising kids ever since, perhaps I shouldn’t be so taken by surprise.

My firstborn will turn thirty-two years old next month, and I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve slept all night uninterrupted since I brought her home from the hospital.

Call me weird, but I actually like to sleep. Hence, I take issue with being plum tuckered out most of the time. One of the top items on my bucket list is to at some point of my life be able to go to sleep when I want and not wake up until I’m good and ready! As an almost fifty year old grandmother of five (soon to be six), is that really too much to ask?

Of course, it’s mostly my own fault. I likely sabotaged my aspiration of ever sleeping again by having my third child at the age of thirty-four. Not just any child mind you but I brought “the boy”, aka Adam David, into the world. By the time he was born, his next youngest sibling (who incidentally never closed her eyes from birth to about three years of age) was thirteen years old.

What in the world was I thinking? I was within a few years of being able to sleep at night for the first time since I was seventeen, and then I decided another baby would be a grand idea! By that time I felt like my life was fairly settled. I had a good job and was actually old enough (in retrospect, borderline too old) to have a child. Never the less, I believed it would be fun to experience raising a child as a mature adult, as opposed to having my other two babies when I was barely more than a baby myself.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Adam never slept. I remember carrying my wide eyed bundle of joy into the pediatrician’s office when he was about six months old and pleading for help. Adam was a breast fed baby who at that age insisted on nursing about every forty- five minutes all night long. I’d also gone back to work by then, and had to get up at 4:30 a.m. in order to be at my job by 6:30. The doctor listened sympathetically, and reassured me that the sleepless stage would pass.

When I refused to leave his office until he gave me a more encouraging, realistic answer, he finally suggested I slip the boy a little Benadryl just before bedtime for a few nights in a row in order to get him into the” habit” of sleeping.

With a new found sense of hope, I drove right to the store and picked up a bottle of what I believed would be the answer to my prayers.

It did help … a little, but my dream of being able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time was still not to be realized.

As far as I can tell, Adam still never sleeps (at least not at night) “The boy” is actually now a delightful fifteen year old young man (mind you, I’m probably using “delightful” to describe him, out of sleep deprivation- induced delirium.) He is a night owl, preferring to stay up most of the night and sleep during the daylight hours instead. Of course, this causes a certain problem where little things like, oh say SCHOOL is concerned.

And Benadryl no longer works.

I’d take the Benadryl myself if I weren’t hesitant to fall into a sound sleep for fear Adam would take advantage of my unconscious state and do something I’d regret. As it is, he keeps me on my toes when I am awake. I shudder to imagine what might happen if he thought I might actually sleep through one of his random impulsive acts of mischief.

Should I abandon all hope? Perhaps I would make it easier for myself if I just gave up the nonsensical notion of ever sleeping well in this lifetime.

Maybe.

At this stage of the game, I can only pray that when I get to Heaven, Saint Peter greets me with a pillow and a blanket and directs me straight to a big comfortable bed in a quiet corner, with instructions to simply sleep for a few thousand years. I believe that would be an apt reward for my years spent forfeiting sleep for the sake of raising my children (especially the boy) here on earth.

Becky Taylor

Bold New Day! Personal Development Coaching for Women

http://www.boldnewday.com

Suddenly EVERYONE is a Life Coach!

Maybe it's because I am an actual hardworking Certified Life Coach that I notice, but it seems to me everyone and his/her brother is calling their self a "Life Coach" these days. The moniker is smeared on posters, books, and in the credits that roll after t.v. talk shows.

It's tagged onto people's lists of titles like it's an after thought.

It makes me crazy!

I saw an ad for a new t.v. show featuring a "Life Coach" the other day. I couldn't tell for sure, but it appeared to be announcing some new sitcom. At best, it looked like the whole theme of the show is to poke fun at coaching. The ad showed a woman who apparently does nothing but smile, repeat cliche's and tell people what she thinks they should do ... all very sweetly, of course.

I'm sure it will make every person on the planet want to run right out and hire a bubble headed coach who's so totally detached from reality they think everything can be fixed with a pat answer and a motherly word of advice.

So your husband just left you for a younger woman? "Oh honey! Don't worry! There's plenty of fish in the sea. Here's a cookie and a glass of milk. That should make everything better! Now get out there and have a nice day!."

Next client!

Even worse, I noticed one popular t.v. personality, known best for their arrogant attitude and barking orders (and insults) at the people they work with has added "Life Coach" to their public resume!

What bothers me is that people are having a difficult enough time figuring out what a Life Coach is, without the"help" of all this mis-leading information.

It's giving real Life Coaches a bad name!

The truth is, just about anyone can call their self a Life Coach and get by with it but a real Life Coach isn't going to spit meaningless cliche's at you or tell you everything is going to be o.k. when they know darn well it isn't. They won't scream at you or scold you for any reason. They won't put you or your situation in a box with a million others. They'll be interested in helping you find a way to make your life what you want it to be.

"Life" is about growing personally. It's about discovering who you truly are and what you were put on this earth to do. Life is to be lived, not just tolerated, sugar coated, or ignored.

If you want to be screamed at, lied to, mis-informed or told what I think you should do ... Don't hire me as your coach, you'll be sorely disappointed!

Am I an optimistic person who will try to help you find the silver lining around your cloud?

Certainly!

But I also know that behind some clouds is a thunderstorm and all the happy thoughts in the world will not keep you from getting soaked! Sometimes the best you can hope for is to get through a situation intact. Sure, there's likely a lesson to be learned in every process, but it's not always a pleasant experience. I'll help you learn coping mechanisms, but I won't say things to make you feel guilty for being human and having a bad day once in a while.

I'd like to think any Life Coach worth their pay would do the same for their clients.

Life Coaching is a serious business. I really wish people would stop throwing the term around like it doesn't take any talent, skills or training to become a "Life Coach".

There! I said it! I feel better now and I shall put my soapbox away for the day.

Thank you for listening. My name is Becky Taylor and I am a Life Coach!

March 19, 2010
Bold New Day! Personal Development Coaching for Women
http://www.boldnewday.com

Sauerkraut,Sausage and Dumplings! Oh My!

Sauerkraut, with sausage and dumplings was a staple at every evening meal at our house while I was growing up. Not just any sauerkraut, but kraut made according to my Dad's family recipe brought over from Germany in the 1800's.

My sister and I have often joked that in order to survive in our family, the babies had to be born with lead stomachs. We had to watch Dad pretty closely whenever we brought home a new arrival, because the first chance he got, he would slip them a taste of "kraut juice".

I kid you not! We'd turn around and he'd have a teaspoon up to their mouths and they'd be smacking their lips in delight! We could only assume our children liked the taste because we'd both eaten plenty of kraut throughout our pregnancies.

Of the seven grandchildren in the family, there's only one I know of who doesn't love sauerkraut, and that's my youngest son. What can I say? I suppose sooner or later a finicky one would have to come along.

I never understood why most of my friends turned their noses up at sauerkraut until I figured out that not everyone was privileged to have the same kind we had. Our kraut was totally different than the store bought stuff. Ours started out as cabbage in our own garden. When the time (which was determined by the phase of the moon) came, we'd pick the huge heads of cabbage and gather the kraut cutter, mason jars, canning salt and the garden hose together on the back porch.

Dad would methodically slide each head of cabbage back and forth over the blades of the kraut cutter, producing mounds of shavings, which my sister, mother and I would scoop up and put into mason jars one after another.

Picture an 10' x 20' concrete porch covered with mason jars full of shredded cabbage! We had to have enough kraut to get us through the whole year, and for our family, that was a LOT!

After the cabbage was in the jars, we'd put a handful of canning salt on top. Then came the garden hose, (which was my favorite part of the process). The jars would be topped off with water right out of the hose, and lids would be applied loosely. Dad explained that if the lids were tightened right away, the jars would explode from the gases that developed as the cabbage turned to kraut.

We'd carry the finished jars into the basement where they'd sit for several weeks (also determined by the phase of the moon) Only then could we tighten the lids.

Once the allotted time had passed, the kraut would be declared "ready"by the kraut-master himself, and the feasting would begin!

I remember so well, Dad leaning over the stove with smoked sausage sizzling in an iron skillet and sauerkraut simmering in a separate pan. After frying, he would mix the sausage into the kraut.

Next came dumplings, made simply from eggs and flour. He'd form a stiff mixture from the two ingredients and pinch off pieces the size of a quarter, dropping them one by one into the bubbling pot of kraut and sausage.

After the dumplings were added, he'd take the skillet with the meat drippings still in it and add flour to make "gravy". The gravy was apparently a very important step, as Dad explained to me more than once, that in order to be done correctly, it had to be poured over the top and allowed to seep slowly down through the rest of the mixture.

Ahhh! The aroma flooded the house and made our mouths water! There's nothing much better than a meal of sauerkraut, sausage and dumplings with a side of mashed potatoes (also home grown and made) and a tall glass of sweet tea!

When I visited my family in Ohio over New Years, I managed to swipe a couple quart jars of kraut from my sister. Today, I finally decided to prepare the dish I grew up on. This is a real treat! Since neither my husband or son care for sauerkraut sausage and dumplings, I get the whole pan to myself!

I'm not sure I did everything exactly right. I couldn't resist the urge to stir the gravy into the rest of the mix before it had time to "seep" in ... and my dumplings came out a bit more spongy than I would have liked. Over all, I think I did ok though. I know Dad would be proud to know I at least made the effort.

Tonight, I will feast on the wondrous delight as I reminisce the days of making kraut on the back porch with my parents and sister on those hot summer evenings forty years ago.

Oooooo! It's going to be wunderbar!


Becky Taylor
Bold New Day! LLC
http://www.boldnewday.com

I Love My Son

I love my son.

I love my son.

Really. I do love my son.

Some days, it's the sole reason I let him live.

Adam David, or "the boy" as we fondly refer to him, was born fifteen and half years ago. He was very much wanted and a welcomed ray of sunshine during what was then a rather dark time of my life.

My! How things change!

Don't get me wrong. As I clearly stated, I love my son tremendously. It's just that he seems to like nothing more than to find my last nerve and jump on it. If it's not one thing, it's another. Every day's a new day and another "adventure".

Maybe I'm just not as "adventurous" as I use to be. Maybe I'm just getting weary in my old age and not as tolerant as I once was.

Or maybe I'm right when I say the boy goes out of his way to try to push me over the edge.

Adam has a new girlfriend. That right there is enough cause for alarm, in my opinion. I've never met the girl, but he says she's really nice. She use to go to his school. She's blond ... and oh! Her name is "Becky". (That's somehow meant to make me feel better)

She's also older than him and has a car.

(Breathe Mama! Breathe!)

Last night the boy announced his weekend plans to me. Yes, I said he "announced" (not "asked") He said Becky would be driving him home from school today, where they would hang out and watch a movie together. Then, tomorrow they were planning to go to a concert in a town a good thirty miles from here, after which he would spend the night with his friend, Zach. (Not the "Zach" who lives near us, this is another "Zach" whom I've never actually met.)

Uh-huh.

I ran to the mirror to see if someone had scrawled "STUPID" across my forehead without my knowledge, because clearly my son was under the impression I'd approve of his weekend plans without an inkling of apprehension.

"ButMom, youdontunderstand, thismeansalottome. Justtrustme. PLEASE?!"

I trust Adam (sort of) ... at least as much as a mother could trust a fifteen and a half year old boy who is now "dating" a girl I've never met who happens to drive. I do, however, have some problem trusting this older girl I've never met, who will "date" a fifteen and a half year old boy. I also have trouble trusting these friends I've never met who live in this far away town.

I can't help but think that sweet smelling bundle of joy that was handed to me on July 17,1994 should have come with a warning label.

I tossed and turned last night, in anticipation of the argument that would surely ensue this morning when I reminded the boy that, while I would allow his new girlfriend to come to the house and watch a movie with him after school, I would not allow him to carry out any of his other plans this weekend.

No concert. No staying all night at the home of a friend I've never met.

But my worries were all in vain. As soon as Adam came bounding down the stairs this morning he announced that he'd made new plans. Plans he was sure I'd like better.

Becky is still picking him up after school today. They are still going to stop and rent a movie.

And then, they are going to her house to watch it.

But it's ok! Her parents (whom I've also never met) are going to be home.

"C'monMom,Justtrustme, Pleeeeeease?!"

It was back to the mirror again for me. Sure enough, my forehead remains clean and free of any labels that would indicate a lack of motherly wisdom.

To Adam's dismay we are back to the original plans. This girl I've never met, named Becky, will bring Adam home from school and they will watch a movie here within the confines of our own four walls ... quite possibly with me sitting between them on the sofa.

It's the least I can do.

Because I love my son.



Becky Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com

Weighting Around ..

I've never had a real weight problem. Through no fault of my own, I inherited my Dad's metabolism which, for the first 40 some years of my life, made it relatively easy to stay thin.

What a cruel trick of Mother Nature to suddenly turn the tables on me (no pun intended)! Dad is ninety years old and still eats anything he wants, most of which is covered in enough sugar to throw a normal person into an instant diabetic crisis. Never-the-less, he's still rail thin and no doubt always will be.

I remember when I use to be rail thin. Throughout my childhood, teen years and twenties I couldn't gain weight if I tried (and I actually did try) Then, when I was in my thirties I gained up to what would have been considered a more "healthy" weight. During my early forties I reached the middle to upper limits of what the medical charts called normal for a woman my age and height.

With the exception of a brief period of time during my Mother's illness when I gained up to my heaviest ever weight, the scales have been generally kind to me. Even then I found it nothing to be alarmed about! I simply cut back on the sugar in my diet and dropped the extra pounds in no time at all.

Now that I am pushing fifty (and within about four pounds of my previously recorded heaviest non-pregnant weight ever ... eeeeek!) I'm finding that nothing ... nothing I try results in the loss of any of these extra pounds.

To the contrary! It almost seems that the more I try to lose it, the more I gain!

What the heck is up with that?

I've never been more health conscious in my life. I've never put more effort into watching what I eat, taking supplements, and exercising.

Not only does it look like I won't be reaching my goal of being in the best shape ever by the time I hit fifty ... the opposite appears to be a real threat. Instead of buying a new bikini to wear to the beach on my birthday, I'll be shopping for a MuMu.

(I really wish I was kidding about that!)

I just don't know if it's worth it anymore. Seriously! If I'm going to gain weight regardless of what I do, why not enjoy it? Why not indulge myself in all those desserts I normally say "no, thanks!" to?

The way I see it, if saying "No" has only been a catalyst to gaining, then maybe ... just maybe saying "YES!" will cause me to LOSE weight.

OK, so maybe it's a bit of a stretch to find the logic in that manner of thinking but at this point I'm ready to test my theory.

What's the worst that can happen ... I'll gain weight? Oh! Wait! I'm already doing that!

I'm going to stop restricting myself and start enjoying food again. If by some odd twist of events, my theory is correct I will actually lose weight by eating more. If the theory proves to be wrong, that's fine too. Either way I intend to celebrate my findings with a nice big piece of hot fudge cake.

Becky J.Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com

Random Thoughts on a Saturday Afternoon

It's nearly 4:00 on a bright, sunny Saturday afternoon. This is the kind of day that puts a kick in a person's step. After a long, atypical stretch of ugly gray days, it's so nice to see the clouds part and the sun come shining through.

From what I understand, we need to enjoy it while it lasts because after tomorrow the rain is moving back in.

Walt has been busy getting ready to go to Ghana, West Africa. He leaves tomorrow. Even in the midst of all his excitement about the trip, he decided to take a couple hours off and head out on the Harley for a quick ride through the mountains.

I stayed home because a) I'm tired, and b) Adam is expecting a visitor of the female persuasion and well, that pretty much explains that doesn't it?

I suppose I could write about more interesting things at this point (and that was my original intention when I first sat down at the computer) but I am suddenly feeling drowsy and not really enthused about anything in particular. (So much for the sunny day putting a kick in my step)

There is much on my mind, so many things I've been intending to write about but it looks like they will have to wait til yet another day ... or week as the case may be.

A quick summary of potential topics include (but are not limited to)

• the unexpected announcement that our sixth grandchild is due to arrive in August (Happy 50th birthday to meeeee!)
• the weekend I spent with my daughter Emily, and how a huge snowstorm almost destroyed our somewhat "devious" plans (we are not the type to let a little bit of ice get in the way of a good time!)
  
• Valentines Day 2010, or rather how it almost didn't happen (that might be more of a book than a blog entry)
• "Grandmas Gone Wild" *snicker*

That's about it. I'll write more later, maybe after a nap ... or maybe not. We'll see.

Until later ...

Becky Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com

Unwell

I got one of "those" calls from the school today. Adam was once again in the nurses office feeling sick. It was his first day back this week, as he's been down with whatever upper respiratory crud it is that's been making it's rounds lately. I took him to Urgent Care Monday evening, where the doctor took one look in his throat and proclaimed "If his throat were a building, I'd have to condemn it."

(Gotta love medical humor.)

After swabbing his throat and nasal passages for samples which came back negative for both flu and strep, we were handed a prescription for a "Z-Pack" and told to come back if he wasn't better within a couple days.

Which he was, of course. That's why he went to school today.

Well, for half a day anyway.

I picked him up around eleven o'clock this morning and drove him straight to the walk in clinic. This time he was complaining of his knees buckling when he tried to walk, and his mouth drawing to one side.

Scary stuff!

His knees have buckled on a few occasions, but we've thought it was probably because he wasn't getting enough exercise. His mouth drawing involuntarily to one side was pretty alarming, and something I couldn't think of a single "easy" explanation for. So today I decided enough was enough and prepared myself to sit at the clinic for a while.

The clinic doctor took one look at him and announced that he needed to be sent straight to the emergency room. They said they'd call and tell them he was on his way.

At the hospital, the doctor quickly diagnosed him as having a bad reaction to one of the medications he takes regularly for OCD issues. They gave him a shot of something, which magically alleviated his symptoms ... told me to speak to his regular doctor about bringing him down off that particular medicine gradually, monitored him carefully for about an hour ... and sent us home.

Perhaps that doesn't sound like much of an ordeal to the casual bystander, but frankly I am exhausted of all this stuff! I stop short of saying it was the proverbial "straw that broke the camel's back" but it was at least "one more thing" I really didn't need to have to deal with right now.

The thoughts that crossed my mind as I sat there looking at my handsome, lanky, fifteen year old son perched on the exam table, included (but were not limited to)

a) Why God, have You not healed this child of these afflictions?

b) How in Heaven's name am I going to pay for yet another hospital bill?

c) Who is going to pick him up from school when this sort of thing happens once I go back to work outside the house? (which I am about to have to do)

and d) Oh how I wish my mother were still alive!

... nobody else could possibly care about all I am going through with Adam like she would have. The whole time I sat there at the hospital, it felt very much like "me and the boy" against the world, just like it's been for most of his life.

Once Adam was discharged, we were escorted to the financial consultation offices where an elderly man explained that our insurance deductible was $150.00 and of course was expected to be paid in full before we left.

After which I immediately explained back that I had no money to pay today. Actually, that's the biggest reason I didn't go straight to E.R. to begin with. The co-pay for Urgent Care is $20.00, vs. the $150.00 for E.R. BIG difference, so I really hoped Urgent Care could help him instead.

With a sympathetic smile, the elderly gentleman suggested that I pay "half" the deductible today and the rest next week.

I smiled back and explained, "No", I couldn't.

"We take credit cards", he told me.

"I don't have a credit card", I replied.

Then, I added that I'd try to pay the $150.00 within the month.

The sweet old man nodded and said, "That's ok, you can go now"

What else was he going to do, hold Adam for ransom until I was able to cough up the co-pay?

So we left, the boy and I, and headed home. It was nearly 4:00 p.m. and neither of us had eaten. I splurged and stopped at McDonalds to grab a bite. I tried not to think of the 10 bucks I'd "squandered" on fast food. God forbid I spend a dime when we had leftovers in the fridge at home.

Once home, I got on the internet and applied for a few more jobs. I need to come up with some way to finish paying off Adam's existing hospital bills plus this new one ... and I need to do it quickly. I have one offer waiting in the wings but I'm not fond of the location. It's too far from home, and requires working weekends. I'll take it if I have to, but I'd rather not.

I'm really kicking myself for leaving the conventional workplace altogether, right now. Maybe I should have kept that door open just in case I needed it again. Like today, for instance.

Although it may sound like I'm complaining, I'm really not. As I said before I am tired. OK, I'm also rather disappointed to be facing this new set of challenges that lie ahead. I was so very much hoping the year 2010 would be brighter than it's predecessor. So far, that doesn't appear to be the case.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick. I have no clue how much it would cost to fix that ailment.

Sigh

Here's "Unwell" by Matchbox 20

(and the lyrics, in case you want to sing along) :)

All day
Staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall
All night
Hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good for something
Hold on
I'm feeling like I'm headed for a
Breakdown
I don't know why
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know, right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
Me
Talking to myself in public
Dodging glances on the train
I know
I know they've all been talking 'bout me
I can hear them whisper
And it makes me think there must be something wrong
With me
Out of all the hours thinking
Somehow
I've lost my mind
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
I been talking in my sleep
Pretty soon they'll come to get me
Yeah, they're taking me away
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy I'm just a little impaired
I know, right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
Hey, how I used to be
How I used to be, yeah
Well I'm just a little unwell
How I used to be
How I used to be


Becky J. Taylor
Feb. 10, 2010

Out On A Limb

The idea of turning fifty has actually grown on me (or so I thought).

Over the last several months, I've been making serious attempts to better myself physically, working at a fevered pace on my business to ensure my financial success, and planning what will surely come to be remembered as the best "Big 5-OH!" party event in all history.

All the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things that have happened over the last year or so have only fueled my bull-dog determination to make my latter days better than my former. Not only have I gone out on the proverbial limb concerning my future, I've decided to swing from it holding on only by my pinky fingers.

OK, so in retrospect maybe that wasn't such a good idea. Considering my age, perhaps I should conserve some energy. As it turns out, "pushing fifty" is requiring more strength than I first expected.

"Fifty" in fact, seems to have plans of it's own and from what I can tell so far, I do not approve!

On this crisp February Monday morning I find myself having to re-think it all, re-strategize and prioritize. I'm scratching my plans and starting all over again.

Rolling with yet another punch from this experience called life.

And asking myself if a middle aged woman really ought to be rolling like that. Seriously! I could break a hip!

I am tired to the bone, that I can't deny. I feel totally overwhelmed right now and really at a loss as far as knowing what to do about it.

Is this what turning fifty is actually all about? I remember my mother and her friends complaining about hot flashes and mood swings. I only wish those were the worst of my concerns.

Enough already! I am strong! I am invincible! Just as "forty-nine" has failed in it's many attempts to take me down, "fifty" be forewarned! Do not start with me, you will not win! If this limb I am clinging to snaps and I fall, I swear I will pick it up and use it to beat the hound out of you!

Uh-huh, that's right. Don't you forget it!

Becky J. Taylor
Feb. 8, 2010
http://www.boldnewday.com

HeavyWeight

So far my quest to be in my best shape ever by my 50th birthday leaves something to be desired. Not only have I not been to the gym since before Christmas, I've also managed to gain a few more pounds from enjoying too much holiday fun and fellowship.

I'm blaming it on the hormones. You, know ... those mid-life hormones everyone makes such a fuss about? I use to think they didn't really exist. How bad could it be, really? Well, now I know! The arrival of the holidays combined with a drastically intensified craving for sweets made this a particularly dangerous season for me. For a solid month, I gobbled down candy and cookies like there was no tomorrow, promising myself that each indulgence would be my last.

Famous last words, huh?

Once the New Year began I resumed some control. I cut out all candy and cookies (but not sugar altogether) As a result, I've lost two of the four pounds I picked up during all the festivities. That leaves me with the original ten pounds I put on over the summer, plus another four or five I'd like to get rid of while I'm at it.

The process has been delayed a little thanks to unforeseen circumstances. One of our friends passed away on January 2, then we had company here from Africa to attend the funeral. After that, Walt and I both got sick with some kind of virus. Obviously not the kind of virus that causes any weight loss, but the kind that makes a person want to lay around and eat comfort food.

Ugh!

It's time to get crackin' again! I am going to go back to the gym today (really, I am!) I don't feel like doing a bunch of jumping around, so Zumba class is out, but I will at least get on the treadmill for thirty minutes and see if I can't jump start my metabolism. After that, I'll resume my "at home" workout with crunches and all that other fun stuff that makes me want to scream.

I had another interesting routine doctor's visit last week as well. We went through the same old song and dance about my low iron levels so I'm back on iron supplements again. After the visit, I came home and researched the causes of low iron (for the four hundredth time in my life) and discovered it's common for people with hypothyroidism to have low ferritin levels, which lead to anemia.

Why didn't my doctor know that?

I was also intrigued by some information I found concerning low body temperature. (Remember, I was complaining before about always being cold?) There's something called "Wilson's Temperature Syndrome" which is oddly enough associated with hypothyroidism. Although the Synthroid I've been taking seems to fix the low thyroid problem, I learned it can actually cause misleading blood test results. I ordered some supplements from a holistic health website. It's my hope that they will work at least a minor miracle and I'll feel better overall.

Oh! And drop some more weight, of course.

Seven months from today, I will turn 50. Wow! What a sobering thought. I've only got seven months left in which to complete my transformation. That means this Grandma needs to get off the couch and start moving again!

Becky Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com

January 13, 2010

Call Me Frigid!

Our area is experiencing a record breaking cold spell. This morning we actually have a wind chill advisory in effect, something I've not heard mentioned since I moved to Georgia nearly six years ago. Not only that, but we had measurable snowfall night before last, most of which is actually still on the ground.

The roads are an icey mess! I heard of at least one 27 car pile up near the airport. The news is filled with video footage of cars sliding into each other, or into ditches and embankments. Needless to say, towing companies have been working non-stop for about 48 hours now.

In people's homes, pipes are bursting everywhere! Plumbers in the area cannot keep up with the demand for their services.

Being from Ohio, I am all too familiar with snow and below freezing temperatures. What I am not accustomed to is being able to stay inside while it's happening. For the first time in my adult life, I don't have a job that requires me to leave the house during nasty weather. Even in Ohio when the authorities declared a level 3 or 4 "snow emergency" (which means a person could literally be arrested for being out on the highway) I had the dubious privilege of working in the medical field, which meant I had to go to work, no matter what!

Call me a Diva if you will. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm a total sissy when it comes to winter weather. I don't like being cold and will do whatever possible to avoid it. Cold seems to go right through me. Throw a steady wind in there, and I swear I'll have a tantrum! Once I've gotten a chill, it takes me forever to warm back up again.

So, get me to a warmer climate, and get me there NOW! Give me palm trees and a sandy beach. I want to bask in the blazing sunshine while the sounds of the ocean waves lull me to sleep.

I don't care if I never see snow or feel cold again!

Since I do not foresee any tropical climates in my near future, today I will thank God for the blessing of being able to sit at home in my robe and pajamas, a blanket tucked around me, cup of hot coffee in hand, and a fire burning in the fireplace.

Despite my self admitted "Diva" status, I truly do understand how fortunate I am ...maybe not quite as fortunate as those other Divas who are out there lying on the beach somewhere ... but I know I am very fortunate and do not take that for granted.

For the sake of those less fortunate, I pray a quick end to this awful freezing weather, and in the meantime a shelter with blankets, hot food and drink, and a fire of their own to keep them warm.



God bless!

Becky J. Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com

Jan. 9, 2010

Bad Stuff Happens!

I'm not ashamed to admit that my New Years celebration this past weekend had more to do with being happy to see 2009 go away than it had to do with seeing 2010 come in! Some may say this is a pessimistic approach, but I disagree. My mindset doesn't indicate that I've spent un-necessary time looking back at the many disasters the former year brought, it only shows that I knew all along it would have to end at some point ... and I was looking forward to that certain end!

I don't care how positive a person is, one thing is for sure. Bad things do happen! For our family, 2009 was filled with particularly bad experiences. Let's face it, sometimes the most positive thing that can be said about certain incidents is that they're over, and we survived the excruciating process!

Which we all did. Yes, 2009 changed us all in one way or another. We will probably all feel the impact it left on us for as long as we are on this earth. But I do believe we are stronger for the experience. We are wiser. We are probably a bit more humble and aware of our own humanity. These things have a way of showing us that we are not invincible, as we once might have thought.

2009 has caused me to re-evaluate just about every aspect of my life. It caused me to re-prioritize. I now have a clearer understanding of what I can, and cannot control.

And I understand that most things fall into the "can't control" category.

But that's ok. There's a certain freedom to be found in not trying to control what happens around us.

Overall, I feel good about the way I handled all the bad stuff that happened in 2009. Did I do everything perfectly? Were my responses all positive in nature? No! But underneath all the feelings of pain and heartache, anger and confusion, in the very core of my being, I still believed there would be brighter days ahead.

So, welcome 2010 and the possibilities you bring! I know the year can't be all sunshine and roses, but given all the bad stuff that came along in 2009, odds are it will be better!

Becky J. Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com

Hips Don't Lie!

In my quest to be in fantastic physical condition by the time I turn fifty, I am experimenting with various forms of exercise. Fortunately, our new gym membership includes many options, one of which is Zumba dancing.

Having promised myself I'd try almost anything once (at least in regard to physical fitness) I attended my first Zumba dance class this evening.

Well!

I'm not sure why I get myself into such things. I can't dance and never could, even before I experienced nerve damage in my left leg which left me with a slight foot drop on that side.

And we won't even talk about my nearly inflexible lower back.

(Did I mention that being able to move one's hips and legs are vital to the art of dancing Zumba style?)

Yet, somehow I thought I just might turn out to be quite marvelous at it, so I went.

Thank God, no one in the class seemed to be taking themselves all that seriously. Frankly, I probably got as much good from the class aerobically speaking, from laughing at the middle aged woman in the mirror who kept stumbling over her own feet and seemed unable to swivel her hips in the least, as I got from the movements themselves.

(That middle aged woman was me, of course)

Everyone else laughed a lot too, and I promised myself they were laughing at their own reflections in the mirror and not mine.

That would have left my feelings hurting a lot worse than my lower back and hips were at the end of the class.

Overall, I don't think I did too badly. Since there's very little likelihood I'll ever be invited to appear on "Dancing With the Stars", I figure the act of moving in general was more important than trying to get the moves exactly right.

And, I kept right up with the others during the warming up and cooling down exercises. Surely I get points for that!

The instructor said I did a terrific job. I'm almost certain she never says that to any of the other first time Zumba dancing grandmas. Neither was her evaluation likely swayed whatsoever by fact that she was so high on cold medication, she forgot a few of the moves herself.

Whether I ever become accomplished at Zumba dancing or not remains to be determined. As the song says, "hips don't lie" and mine were screaming "we're way too old to move this way" by the time I left the gym.

Even still, I came out feeling rejuvenated and fairly proud of myself for at least trying. So yeah, I'll be going back later this week for another attempt.

What are the possibilities? I guess I could break a hip while trying to pivot on one leg ... or I could end up being an awesome Zumba dancer just like the ladies in the attached video.

Either way, it would make a great story to tell the grandchildren.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2PN_xCstcQ

(Video is from similar a Zumba class in Hickory NC. We danced to the same song last night ... only maybe not quite as effectively. lol)

Becky J. Taylor
Dec. 1, 2009
http://www.boldnewday.com

The Big 5-Oh No!!!

A couple months back I decided I want to be in the best physical condition of my life by the time I turn fifty. The big event will arrive a little less than nine months from now, so I've got to get to work.

Never mind that I also vowed to be in the best physical condition of my life by the time I was thirty, then forty. That doesn't matter anymore. This time I mean it!

With that goal in mind, Walt signed our whole family up for a gym membership this week. We went together for the first time yesterday evening. It took me about two minutes to realize this is going to be harder than I'd previously imagined.

To begin with, someone failed to tell me I needed to make an appointment with the trainer before my first visit, so she could help me come up with a routine and show me how to use the equipment. While Walt jumped right into his exercises, I ended up browsing around inspecting the various torture devices, and feeling rather overwhelmed.

Finally, I climbed onto one of the elliptical machines and chose the "fat burner" mode, entered all my vital information, and set the timer for ten minutes.

Now, I know I'm not a supermodel. Nor do I aspire to enter any body building contests in the near (or distant) future, but I don't think I'm in particularly terrible shape for a woman my age either. For that reason, I was shocked at how quickly I felt done with the workout. After only a few steps on the machine, my heart rate began to rise dramatically.

That was a little scary. I'll admit I was concerned about the possibility of passing out and embarrassing myself in front of the much younger, healthier people who seemed to be treading along effortlessly all around me, more so than I was worried about the possible implications of my speeding pulse.

To make matters worse, my fifteen year old son who was on the treadmill next to me kept reading the information from my machine's digital display out loud for everyone to hear.

"MOM! You're not doing it fast enough! It keeps pausing! You've got to keep walking!"

I didn't want to tell him I was intentionally allowing the thing to pause every few seconds in an effort to save my life.

I glanced at the timer and was happy to see it at four minutes, forty seconds. Whew! I was over half way finished.

My happy little bubble busted almost instantly when I noticed the timer was going up, not down. I didn't have four minutes left ... four minutes was how long I'd been on the stupid thing!

Determined to stay the course yet not be carried out of the gym on a stretcher, I kept plodding along until I reached the ten minute mark.

All's well that ends well, I suppose. I did survive, after all.

After re-evaluating the situation I'm asking myself if it's really necessary that I be in the best physical condition of my life by age fifty? Maybe not. At least for now, I'm going to re-write my script to read I want to be able to last ten minutes on the elliptical machine without giving myself a heart attack.

From here on, I'll take it one step at a time. I may not reach "perfection" over the course of the next nine months, but I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday knowing I did the best I could.

I'm also promising myself that, if by my fifty-first birthday, my hard work has not rewarded me with a firm, healthy body, I'm treating myself to some liposuction!

Becky Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com
11/19/09

Un-Bearded Lady

Since I had thirty minutes to spare between my late lunch with Mr. Taylor and time to pick the boy up from school today, I decided to treat myself to an eyebrow waxing.

My eyebrows aren't exactly wild or anything. Quite to the contrary, I rarely have to do anything to them at all. Once in a while I'll notice a stray hair or two and go have them tended to. "Once in a while" meaning about three times a year .. maybe.

The last couple times I've gone to the salon, I've allowed the technician to wax my upper lip too, mainly because they always seem disappointed if I tell them "no" when they ask.

So as I lowered myself onto the table today I decided to be generous. I told the young woman with the wax to do my eyebrows and upper lip. She smiled and nodded, then proceeded to begin the process of torturing me to just short of the point of tears.

Rip ... Rip... RIP.... She methodically applied the boiling hot wax, then the cloth and yanked it away, surely pulling each tiny hair out by the roots as she worked.

Just when I thought she was finished, she pointed to my chin, indicating I needed some work there as well.

I protested briefly but before the words, "No, I don't ... think ..." could escape my lips, she was already slapping on the wax. As God is my witness, she smeared the thick bubbly concoction all the way under my chin and down part of my neck.

Do you have any idea how tender the area between the chin and the neck is? I didn't ...until today.

R-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-P!!!

OUCH!

The technician giggled as she continued to the other side of the table and slapped the sticky lava like substance on the side of my face. Yes ... my FACE!

RIIIIIIIIIP!

As much as I would have liked, I couldn't stop her then. God forbid I leave there hairy on one side and not the other.

And thus she proceeded until she was content that my face and neck were as smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. Feeling that any protest would have been in vain, I allowed her to go on. She was, after all, the one with the hot wax at her disposal.

Then, to my horror, I realized she was aiming next for my forehead!

Now, I suppose it's possible that I had a few microscopic hairs on my chin, but on the sides of my face and my forehead? I think not!

"No, thank you!" I said, and sat upright so she would no longer have the postural advantage over me.

The terror in my eyes must have been convincing, because she willingly put down her weapons and allow me to leave the table.

Looking in the mirror she so graciously handed me, I noticed looked like I'd fallen face first into a fire ant colony at dinner time. "Just a little red ..." She assured me with a deceptively sweet smile.

"Just a little red?" Surely if I'd really had facial hair everywhere there were now bright red splotches, someone would have mentioned it to me. Or, should I feel embarrassed to realize I've been walking around all this time unknowingly looking like a circus freak?

I don't want to know. I'll chalk the experience up to lessons learned and move on. In this case, ignorance could very well be a beautiful thing.

Becky Taylor
11-3-09

Intervention

My oldest daughter has informed me that she is planning to get the family together for an "Intervention" on my behalf.

Apparently my frequent presence online is causing her some concern. She seems to be tired of hearing "news" from me through what she considers the indirect channel of my facebook friends. The latest example being the case of my prodigal cat, Skippyjon. Last week, when he went missing I headed straight to my computer and shared my heartache with my 700+ closest friends. I was immediately comforted by the show of support they offered.


Likewise, when the rascal returned three days later, I couldn't wait to share the happy news. To my delight, my online friends joined me in a celebratory "cyber-party". It was great!

I love the internet. I love the way it makes it easy to stay in touch with people I'd otherwise only have contact with on an infrequent basis (if at all). I love how it helps me keep up with the daily goings-on of the people I see regularly. I also love the way it has made me many new friends who never would have crossed my path without the benefit of my computer screen.

These things are important to me. I need my cyber-connections!

The internet, in general has made the world we live in a very small place. In an age when life is so busy and time goes by at warp speed, it's refreshing to be able to reconnect with all my friends and family with a few simple clicks of the mouse.

Who can complain about such luxury?

I could go on (and I will). The internet has enriched my life in many ways. I found my sweet Shetland Sheepdog while surfing the web one morning at 3:00 a.m. I've met many new friends, renewed several old friendships ... and was even introduced to my husband via the magic of the internet world.


Say what you will, the internet has been very good to me.

So give it up? I don't think so!


I'll admit to a certain level of "dependence" on my access to the internet. I do spend much of my free time staring at the computer screen in attempt to quench my insatiable thirst for more information than any human could possibly really need. It could be a lot worse! I'm certainly not hurting anyone with my "addiction"


Go ahead! Bring on your "Intervention" if you must! I warn you, your efforts will be to no avail.



I can quit anytime I want ... but right now I am obliviously happy with the internet monkey firmly attached to my back.

The Eye Of The Beholder

Among my most prized earthly possessions is an antique "Hoosier" cabinet that once belonged to my grandmother. I spent hours playing with it when I was a child, so much that Grandma decided I should have it for my own when I grew up.

When the cabinet came into my home about 15 years ago, I immediately found a spot for it in the breakfast nook. Perfect! I marveled at old cabinet and gently placed my own hands over the areas where my grandmother's hands had worn away the paint over many years of pie-making on it's surface.

For a few minutes, I was a five year old girl again, tirelessly spinning the handle that use to sift the flour for Grandma's delicious baked goods. The original yellow stoneware bowl, now cracked with age, had my name scrawled across the bottom with a marker. B-e-c-k-y. I thought about the day my grandmother had written it there to insure the cabinet would land in the proper hands after she was gone.

Needless to say, that old cabinet is worth a million dollars to me. I truly don't know that I could part with it for all the money in the world! It's sentimental value is much higher than any monetary gain it might bring. I love that old cabinet! Just looking at it makes me feel warm and safe, much like I use to feel in my grandmother's arms.

Today the cabinet sits in the breakfast nook of our new home. Instead of housing baking supplies, it has become bit of a "catch all" for our family's odds and ends that have no where else to go. Art supplies for my own grandkids, a few books, table cloths, and our camera to name a few. Though it's function has changed, it remains a vital member of our family.

My six year old grand-daughter, Esther was here for a few days this past week. She pulled the box of art supplies out of the cabinet, then stepped back and looked at it for a brief moment.

"Mamaw", she stated "You really should buy a new cabinet. This one's old and it doesn't look too good."

What? How could that child possibly say such a horrible thing about my grandmother's cabinet?

Ahh, but it is true. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.

Esther didn't know my grand-mother (or even my mother for that matter). When she looks at the cabinet, she sees an old piece of furniture, it's surface dulled by time and paint worn through around the handles. There's no way she can understand that to me, those worn places symbolize the spots where my grandmothers petite, flour covered hands once touched. It is there, I find indescribable beauty in the old Hoosier cabinet.

In fact, our home is filled with beautiful things, but that cabinet is probably the only piece of furniture I would actually risk my life to save if ever there were a flood or fire.

I started to explain the importance of the cabinet to Esther, but decided on a brief summary instead. I told her I loved the cabinet because it was my grandma's and I use to play with it when I was her age. She seemed to be content with my story and went on her way with her art supplies.

I hope that in the future, Esther will remember the cabinet as fondly as I do now. Nothing would make me happier than to think it might sit in her own home as a most treasured possession someday. Just imagining her trying to explain it's value to her grandchildren (my great grandchildren) makes my heart smile.

"My grandma use to keep my art supplies in that cabinet when I was a little girl" She will tell them. And then she will run her fingers across the marks around the handles where the paint is worn thin ... and she will smile and add, "I wouldn't take a million dollars for this old thing"

Get Real!

I enjoy reality t.v. as much as anyone, but come on! I can't believe the things they will base a television show on these days. It seems to me the '09 season has stooped to a new low.

Surely the "peeping tom" has become extinct, since at any given time of the day, all one has to do in order to satisfy their voyeuristic cravings is turn on the television and start flipping channels. Soon enough, you are bound to stumble upon a show about something that, not too many years ago would have been considered mundane details of another family's life.

Haven't thrown anything in your house away for 15 years and, are therefore unable to invite company over because you can't find the sofa? (Yet for some reason you're willing to have a camera crew come in and video the mess so it can be broadcast to the world?)

Perfect! Let's make a t.v. show about it!

By any chance, do you give birth to your babies in litters? I'm sure everyone in America would love to watch you change diapers assembly line style for the next two years. (It definitely tops my list of things I want to see!)

Looking for a wife (or husband) and want some panel of strangers to narrow down your choices to a dozen or so, so you can date them all, then decide which one to humiliate nationwide each week, until you figure out which girl/guy is "the one"?

Oh brother!

Or I know ... dress your six year old daughter up like a hooker and parade her around in hopes of winning prizes that don't even add up to the cost of the dress she's wearing to the pageant!

That's a real winner right there.

Here's one ladies! Get all the housewives in your neighborhood together and video yourselves having coffee, gossiping or taking the kids to school ... throw in some "cat-fights" for good measure! That idea also seems to be selling big these days.

The list goes on and on and on, to the point of ridiculous.

Addictions?

Fetishes?

Unusual diseases?

I saw an advertisement the other day about a show that will air this fall titled, "Your Kid Swallowed WHAT?"

What in the world possessed someone to spend money on a series about kids who have been taken to the Emergency Room because they swallowed a matchbox car, or some equally indigestible object!

I will admit, I've fallen prey once or twice to a couple of the very shows I've critically mentioned above. Some of them do have a way of sucking a person right in, in a manner that can only be compared to the sick state of astonishment one might derive from witnessing a bad auto accident.

Maybe I should volunteer for a new reality show about people who sit around and actually watch the silly stuff they put on t.v. these days.

Shoot! Come to think of it, with a little creative editing, my own family might qualify for our own reality show! Over the last year, we've certainly done our part toward proving that truth indeed is, "stranger than fiction".

I just don't know that it could be considered interesting or relative to anyone outside our little family circle.

I suppose that is where I'm missing the point. For all I know, I might be allowing logic and reasoning to stand between us and infamy!

No thank you.

Our home life will likely never merit a spot in the limelight, but it's a pretty cool life none-the-less. We are normal people and we like it that way. Let everyone else air their dirty laundry on t.v. in return for a few dollars in the bank. We'll just sit back and watch, and thank God that no one is making a video of us while we're doing it!

Becky Taylor
09/09/09

Victoriana Makes Me Happy

A lot has happened during the many moons that have passed since I last blogged. The biggest event would be that I turned forty nine years old, which means I am now officially on the downhill side of pushing fifty. Does it also imply that I am gaining momentum and therefore the year will go by faster? I've heard that's how it works .. the older you get the faster time goes by. I can only pray that isn't the case.

But enough of that. I wanted to write about something different today, simply because I cannot recall ever bringing up the subject of how much I like Victorian things.

It's true! "Victoriana" makes me happy.

(I apologize if by chance I have already told you about the aforementioned subject! Blame it on my age. You know how prone to forgetting (or repeating) things, us old people can be.)

Anyway, I use to love to decorate and was constantly moving things around my home. I would be lounging around on the sofa doing nothing in particular when an object across the room would catch my attention, and suddenly I'd realize it belonged somewhere else. Knowing from previous experience that I'd be unable to find peace until it was in it's proper place, I would get up and move it to another location.

Oddly enough, I've been less likely to succumb to such behavior since I moved to Georgia and stopped living in Victorian houses. I have to wonder if the fact I use to be surrounded by Victorian things made some kind of difference.

When I left Ohio, I also left most of my old stuff behind. To try and turn the first house I lived in, here in Georgia, into anything remotely Victorian would have undoubtedly been futile anyway. That, added to the fact that I was beginning a new era of my life made it easy enough for me to walk away and not look back.

Until the last couple weeks, when suddenly I've become unhappy with the appearance of our entry hall and main living room. Something just isn't right about those areas and I've once again felt that familiar urge to fix the problem.

Unlike the first house I lived in here, our new home has more of a Victorian lean to it. The dining room has always been Victorian. (I like the dining room, it makes me happy) The entry hall and main living room, however appear more rustic and masculine. Those rooms are decorated primarily in an African theme, with all our African masks, photographs and statues. It's nice enough but still ...

The other day I was browsing through a candle shop, when lo and behold, I found a beautiful Victorian oil warmer on sale. It didn't matter that in reality it's more of a Christmas item. I knew in an instant I had to have it! I carried it carefully to the checkout counter and had the sales lady ring it up for me.

After arriving home with it I realized ... as much as I loved the oil warmer, I couldn't figure out where it should "live" in my house. Unable to bear the thought of stashing it away somewhere, I parked it on the sofa table in the main living room and waited for it to tell me where it wanted to sit.

And yesterday, it finally spoke up! As of today the new Victorian/Christmas oil warmer is perched on the table just inside the front door. I pulled a candelabra out of the dining room and placed it to one side of the oil warmer, beneath the somewhat Victorian looking mirror that's been hanging there all along. Backing off and assessing my new table arrangement, I thought it still seemed to be lacking something, but what?

Color! It needed more color! It needed some RED!

Quickly, I went to the china cabinet drawer and pulled out a red table cloth to place under the candelabra and oil warmer, bunching it up around the objects to make it look more plush and well .. Victorian.

I've since added a decorative box I've always been fond of, to the mix but I'm not sure it's going to stay there permanently. It is more primitive than Victorian and I'm not sure the items can live harmoniously together. Time will tell. Sooner or later one of them will call out to me, begging me to rearrange them once more.

But for now, it shall remain. I like it. I smile when I look at it.

"Victoriana" makes me happy!

I Miss My Little Boy

My "baby" Adam turned fifteen years old yesterday. It's so hard to believe he's in his mid-teens already. This birthday was one of only a couple we've spent apart. He's visiting his Dad in Ohio for a couple weeks, so there was no real celebration here at home for him. Just a simple phone call to tell him Happy Birthday!

I miss him.

Not because he happens to be more than five-hundred miles away, but because over the last six months or so, he's become a person I barely recognize.

I want the "old" Adam back.

I don't have a problem with my baby growing up. It would be unhealthy for both of us if I expected to keep him a little boy forever.

What I'm having a problem with is his behavior. His poor choices. His sudden desire to go against everything we've tried to teach him over the last fifteen years. This time last year he declared to us he wanted to be a minister. Now, he's acting as anything but!

Adam has AD/HD and OCD. I know that plays a role in his behavior, but it doesn't give him an excuse to act the way he's been acting.

This is hard. I just want my son back. The one I had before everything started falling apart. The sweet Adam. The one who was so tender hearted and compassionate. The boy who treasured his relationship with God and family above all else.

I know this will pass. In the meantime, I pray God will protect him and bring him back safely. I dedicated Adam to the Lord immediately upon learning I was pregnant. I did it again, formally, at the church when he was a few weeks old. It wasn't something I took lightly.

For that reason, I have to trust that he is God's child, and God will take care of him accordingly.

And because I too, am God's child, I'm trusting that He will take care of me as well.

He will bring me through this ordeal. I will be o.k.

But tonight, I sure do miss my "little boy".

Superman!

At 90 years old, he stands 5'8" tall and weighs in at a whopping 130 lbs. Granted, at first glance, he doesn't exactly look like Superman, but rest assured, once you get to know a little more about him, you'll have to agree ... my Dad could very well be the real deal!

One story my father use to tell was of the time he had German measles as a young child. The old timers kept children who were stricken with the measles in a dark room, believing that exposure to the light would cause them to go blind. It so happened, while Dad was sick, the family's cow got out of the pasture and Grandma had to go catch it. As she walked out the door, she told her ailing son, "Willy! Don't you leave this house while I'm gone! If you do, you will die!"

Her warning only sparked my Dad's curiosity. Waiting until she was safely out of sight, he went outside anyway, just so he could find out whether or not she was telling him the truth.

Suffice to say, he didn't die from his walk outside. It's also safe to say Grandma never learned of his "experiment" or she would most likely have whipped him within an inch of death, therefore making his death a real possibility.

Even at that tender young age, my father was definitely one of a kind!

At sixteen, Dad lost his sight. I have to wonder if his blindness had anything to do with him going outside while suffering with German measles as a youngster ... whatever the cause, his vision was so bad he could only tell the difference between light and dark.

It didn't seem to slow him down much. After several months of living in darkness, he went to a church service during which he was miraculously healed while simply sitting in the pew.

Three years later during WWII, Dad joined the Army. My grandfather told him he'd never pass the physical because of his prior blindness. To Grandpa's surprise, Dad aced the physical with 20/20 vision. To this day he wears glasses only to read.

I suppose anyone who lives 90 years has probably had one or two close calls with death, but Dad seems to have had more than one human being's share.

And yet he keeps on going.

The "real" Superman may have been able to out run a locomotive, but my Dad was once hit by a locomotive ... and walked away relatively unharmed. That was many years before I was born. He was a young man, probably in his late twenties. I don't suppose he felt he had time for such a pesky thing as succumbing to death by freight train.

When I was in third grade, my father was driving his red VW beetle on his way to visit his sister when he was run off the road by an oncoming vehicle. His car rolled several times, ejecting him from inside. He landed unconscious, many feet away on the embankment. He woke up moments later and decided he needed to go check on his car. Attempting to stand, he discovered it was impossible, and fell back to the ground.

His pelvis was broken. The doctors said he might not walk again without the aid of a walker. Dad was in his early 50's at the time. He was determined not to let the Dr's tell him what he would or would not be able to do.

Six months later, Dad tossed the walker to the curb and hasn't used one again since!

Most of the men in Dad's family died of heart problems in their seventies. So, when Dad was 73 and I received a call telling me he'd had a heart attack and may or may not still be alive, I accepted that my worst fears had come to pass. Strangely enough, I arrived at the hospital to find my father sitting up in his bed in the emergency room joking with the medical staff. He served his time in ICU and was discharged a week later.

(He still insists he never had a heart attack at all!)

But wait, there's more ...

In his early-eighties, Dad was hit by a car while riding his bicycle around town. A witness to the accident said Dad was thrown fifteen feet into the air before landing on the pavement. Again, I rushed to the hospital to find him, although looking a little worse for the wear, sitting up in his bed, his hair (what was left of it) tousled and the side of his face badly bruised. The x-rays showed no serious injuries and he was discharged the next day.

He still enjoys riding his bicycle around town and does it quite often when the weather is nice.

Dad's 90th birthday is coming up on July 10th. Our family has been planning a big party to celebrate.

Last Thursday, however, it seemed we might not be having the party after all. Dad was attempting to walk down the basement stairs to check on one of his beloved cats, and fell. He sustained two broken ribs, a punctured lung which collapsed, and a bad cut on his hand. Somehow he managed to get back upstairs, where my niece later found him lying unconscious in the kitchen floor.

The doctor was concerned about the collapsed lung, but didn't want to insert a chest tube to re-inflate it, for fear it might be more than Dad's body could handle. They decided to wait until the next day and see if it improved on it's own.

During the night, his blood pressure dropped dangerously low. (It was 50/20!)He was losing blood from what they thought was a ruptured spleen. If that were the case, he would require surgery to remove it.

Things looked grim. We were informed the likelihood of him making it through an operation was very low.

Once again, I braced myself for the worst and packed a suitcase for an impromptu trip to Ohio. How sad. We'd planned a big celebration of his 90th birthday. It looked as if we'd be holding a funeral instead.

Two hours into my trip, I received a call. I hesitated to answer. I wasn't sure what news might be waiting on the other end.

In retrospect, I shouldn't have been surprised. The news was that Dad was doing much better. His blood pressure was up! He was awake and alert. He did not have a ruptured spleen ... and his lung was successfully re-inflating on it's own. It was too soon to say he was "out of the woods" but he was rapidly headed in the right direction. The improvement continued as the days went by.

Dad was released from the hospital this evening. Not to a nursing home or rehabilitation facility, but home! The doctor's say he needs to use a walker, since he's fallen a few times recently. I can't imagine my Dad complying with that suggestion, but we'll see!

Best of all, we'll be celebrating his 90th birthday with him this weekend as scheduled! According to my father, we can expect to keep having birthday parties for him for years to come.

He insists he's going to live to be 100.

If he were like most people, the possibility of that would be unlikely ... but obviously my Dad is not like "most" people.

I knew it when I was a little girl, and I am even more convinced today ... my Dad is Superman!