Treasure chest

I am finally up and moving after an illness that was a cross between the flu and some type of Chinese cleansing ritual. I spent Mother's Day in bed watching TV, which in the end didn't turn out to be such a bad way to spend the day after all. I can't remember being this sick in recent years, but I also can't remember being able to stay in bed for a few days straight. I watched Titanic from start to finish, such melodramatic bliss.

Mother's Day morning, the kids burst into the room with their gifts,dark chocolate, cheese popcorn, a really cute shirt from Frances, earrings, and maybe my favorite, this poem from Girlie -

"Mothers are the very best.

They can be as pretty as a treasure chest.

Every time she gives a hug.

I feel snug as a bug in a rug.

They make things to eat.

They also make yummy treats.

I love my Mommy yes I do.

I know she loves me too."

Oh, how I do love them.

Boobie prize

So I received my early copy of Raising Arizona Kids in the mail today. As part of a collection of Mother's day stories for the May edition, they published an essay of mine titled Tales of a Breastfeeding Dropout, one I submitted over a year ago. I had given up on getting a response on it, when I received a message asking if it had been published yet.

Oh the piece about how I gave up on breastfeeding? The one I wrote for a class assignment called "something you don't want people to know about you."

Um, no.

It won't be online until June, so run out and grab yourself a copy.

Green card

I might have been a late bloomer or maybe my parents had a little to do with it, but I didn't get my driver's license until I was seventeen. It was a big deal, practicing for test, especially the parallel parking. Even after taking a Driver's Ed class, I struggled to parallel park my tiny little Toyota Corolla. My Dad and I practiced in the school parking lot, he even made little cones with flags so I could see precisely when I would be backing into another car.

When I was finally ready, we went down to the local DMV in our small Georgia town. I was so nervous. I had just gotten my first job at an office supply store. I would finally have my own spending money, my only hope of procuring GAP jeans, and I had to get the license.

I was prepared for the tests, both written and road, and I had all my paperwork. My parents adopted me from birth while stationed in Germany, so my birth certificate is in German. There is an English translation, but it is literally a small book, so detailed the Germans are, so I brought along my naturalization papers just to be sure.

The woman at the window shuffled through my paperwork and then asked me to produce a green card.

"Excuse me?" I said. I turned to look for my father who was waiting clear across the waiting area. There was a line behind me, I didn't dare leave my spot.

"If you weren't born here, you have to have a green card." She insisted.

"But I am a citizen." I pointed to the naturalization papers, there I was at 2 years old, smiling in the picture, my mother with her seventies long hair, parted in the middle, holding me.

"I am sorry, you'll have to have a green card."

And with that, she turned me away. Because she didn't understand my paperwork. My perfectly legal paperwork produced by the U.S. government, proving that I was a citizen.

We left the office, no drivers test, no license. A few days later we went to the State Troopers office, where they did understand, and I took my test and passed with flying colors.

And that is why the new immigration laws in Arizona are so scary, because of the ignorant people who will be relied upon to enforce them.

How to boil an egg

Yesterday I had to make egg salad for a spring party at Little Guy's school. Because we're in this temporary apartment I decided to save myself the trouble and stopped in a local gourmet shop to pick some up, but they were out. No problem, I picked up two dozen eggs and googled an easy recipe.

I know what you're thinking. Egg salad has got to be one of the simplest things to make, but I rarely boil an egg, so I wanted to make sure I got them right. Here's a confession: I don't do colored eggs at Easter. I know, I have to be the worst mother ever, right? Anyway, I found some directions, followed them exactly, and guess what? Eighteen eggs with runny whites and drippy middles.

Turns out, the recipe called for medium eggs and I had large ones. The large ones needed more time on the stove. Another trip to the store to pick up another two dozen eggs.

The second time I got it right.

But isn't that always the case? The simple things, like boiling a damn egg, trip us up. The hard stuff we slog through somehow. I can whip out an omelette like nobody's business. But boiling an egg?

Anyway, in case you're wondering, here's how you hard boil eighteen eggs:

Fill a pot with eggs and cold water. Bring the pot to a full rolling boil. Cover and simmer on lowest setting for 15 minutes. Turn off the heat and allow the eggs to sit covered another 2-3 minutes. Rinse, then soak the eggs in cool water. Once the eggs are cool, they are ready to peel.

Tune in tomorrow where I tell you how to make a slice of buttered toast.

It's not you...

it's me. Me with a writers block that has now become a wall.

Or more like an enormous pile of bricks, some whole, some broken, all loose and tumbling over. Like there is some abandoned construction project in my backyard, maybe a path I was planning to build or a little wall for a garden. And I know I need to sift through them and make something, or at least clean them up a little, stack them, toss out the bits and pieces.

But then I eye the pile and think, they look so heavy. Tomorrow.