To Pet or Not To Pet?

By Jennifer Caddell

My mom loved animals, which meant it was easy for me to have a few pets of my own. First it was a stray orange tabby kitten that I named Bobcat.  I found him when I was three and of course my mom couldn’t tell me ‘no’.  Bobcat lived for sixteen years.  He was mostly an outdoor cat, and a great pet.  He’d stop by the house around feeding time, and occasionally I’d let him sleep on my bed, which meant he slept on my pillow while biting my head. 

I also had two goldfish named Top Hat and Goldie. I cleaned their bowl for five years before they finally died.  Later I tried my hand with a rat.  Her name was Ardie and she was quite a deal.  For the price of one rat, I ended up with seven.  The babies were cute, so I kept one and named her Gizmo.  Although Ardie was a sweet rat, I think she must have run with the lab rat crowd because Gizmo was completely bonkers and never sat still for longer than two seconds.  The two of them lasted for two years and although I was sad when the last one bit the cheese, I was also happy to finally have a quiet room at night. 

Once I turned sixteen, I had other dreams besides owning my own car.  I also wanted a horse.  So I worked at a job to help pay for my car and the board and care of a gray Arabian mare. The horse was four years old and never broken.  Imagine for a moment – an inexperienced rider and an inexperienced hot-headed horse.  Yep.  I learned how to fall, but I also learned how to manage a large pet.  While most 16 year-olds living in San Diego were headed to Mexico for some underage drinking on the weekends, I was working my fanny off to pay for the upkeep of a horse, and any free-time I had was spent with her.  It was a great experience for a teen, but it was an experience that couldn’t last; the day came for me sell her when I needed to go away to college. 

I sold her to a nice couple, but I believe that started the downfall of my pet ownership days. Since my husband and I were married, we have tried fish, (that died within two months), a cat, (we only had for a year due to hubby’s allergies) a puppy, (she lasted a week. Surprise! I have pet allergies now!), and two chickens that only lasted a year after consuming almost my entire backyard.

With that kind of track record, it looks as though our pet days are over.  This is sad.  It is especially sad for our children since they haven’t had the experiences I had when I was a child.  While other children share pictures of their pet cat or dog to the classroom, my children share pictures of their pet bamboo plant that sits calmly on their dresser and a little plastic container filled with pill bugs. My eldest child often says, “A pet is a recipe for a healthy family.”  I receive daily data about the benefits of pet ownership, complete with cute crayon pictures.  But then I think of all the traveling and vacations we take, and I just shake my head.  Of course, those big blue eyes looking hopeful are very hard to resist.

Ok, perhaps we can try a fish.

Jennifer Caddell lives in the green wonderland of the Pacific Northwest with her fabulous husband, two adorable children, and three pill bugs. She enjoys writing science fiction, and dabbles in short stories in any genre.

My Own Kryptonite

by Jennifer Caddell 

Superman has his kryptonite, but there is one thing in this world that has a more powerful hold over this stay-at-home supermom.

Sourdough.

Yes, that melt in your mouth deliciousness known as sourdough.  I am a sourdough addict and willing to eat it in all forms:

Bread,

Pancakes

Waffles

Rolls

I honestly think sourdough goes with anything and everything.  It is manna from heaven, a gift from the angels and the magic elixir that helps to add more lumps to my thighs. 

There is a local dealer to my addiction too.  A sourdough bakery tucked innocently in a small, nondescript building on Main Street.  The baker tantalizes me with a sign that announces new hot loaves ready for the taking.  The loaves are amazing with their buttery golden crusts and their doughy sour, pillow-soft centers.  The loaves I buy are not precut so I can grab my serrated knife and make my slices as thick as I want.  Then, after the toaster chimes and the delicious aroma fills the air, I grab the slice and slather on copious amounts of butter.  The initial crunch of the toasted bread is a delightful announcement of the deliciousness yet to come.  The soft insides of the slice soon tingle my tongue with its tangy goodness.  Yes, heaven. 

But this bakery doesn’t stop with bread.  No.  This bakery produces a sweet addiction that few can resist.  It is something worth getting up early for.  In the morning on the weekend, this bakery makes the most delicious, melt-in-your-mouth, sourdough cinnamon rolls in the entire world.  I say this because I don’t know of another place that makes sourdough cinnamon rolls.  This bakery makes these cinnamon rolls in sheets, each roll is in the shape of a square, and each roll is dripping in brown sugar, cinnamon, icing and raisins.  This cinnamon roll is the king of all things sourdough; a melt-in-your-mouth experience that causes you to want to die, right there, with a lump of cinnamon sourdough in your mouth. 

In fact, I would be willing to bet you that even Superman would sport some extra pudge if he lived near this place. 

For those of you who are able to leap tall buildings and want to make your own sourdough starter, this is what you do.

1. Grab a large canning jar.

2. Add flour, yeast, and warm water to the jar.

3. Cover the top of the jar with cheesecloth and set it on top of your fridge.

4. Wait three days.

5. After the third day, your starter will have escaped from the jar in an attempt to consume your fridge. Then, clean it all up and head to your local bakery for a loaf of amazing, tangy sourdough goodness.

*Drool*

When she isn’t getting her superhero cape covered in butter, Jennifer Caddell can be found at her local sourdough bakery, smelling the aromas while typing her on her sci-fi story.

Coke Bottle Glasses and GiGi

By Jennifer Caddell

I’m in the last year of my 30s. Yep. The big ‘three nine’. The age most people joke about, as in “Oh yes, I’ve been 39 for at least fifteen years!” Well, this is my first year being 39 and instead of looking at the forties as some sort of mid-life doom and gloom, I am looking back at who I was, and feeling grateful. I can’t help but sing like Maurice Chevalier in the 1958 movie version of ‘GiGi’ - “Oh I’m so glad, that I’m, not young, anymore!” 

Now, when I stare at my laugh lines and think of when I was 24, I remember the angst I felt scraping the bottom of the financial barrel and wondering how I would ever pay for college; and for food. I was living with a guy at that time and the two of us managed to make rent, barely. I wore thick Coke bottle glasses and walked around with an air of worried anticipation because I still couldn’t see the future. There was the constant wondering if I was making the right decisions with my life and worrying that I would never get my life in order.

No, I don’t miss those days. Now I can look at that young woman, the one worrying about the small stuff, the one whose Coke bottle glasses were a bit too far sighted, I can look at her and smile. The smile is sad and grateful: Sad because all that young vigor was wasted on worrying, and grateful because now I know better. Myself at 24 was a leaf floating on an ocean and trying like mad to catch just the right breeze to take it in the right direction while all along, it was the deep current of life that was pushing me along, all I could do was stay afloat and do my best to navigate the waves. 

And that current has taken me for quite a ride so far. There have been peaks and basins, stormy skies and clear blue waters. There are still times when I worry, especially over those things I cannot control, but more and more, with age, I worry less and simply appreciate the current of life I am floating on. I love that I write, I love that I garden, I love being a goofy wife and guiding mother, I love my earthy sense of humor and my wit. I am beginning to really appreciate who I am after 15 extra years of floating on this current and I am looking forward to giving less of a damn over the small stuff as life progresses. Instead of looking at birthdays as a year of aging further, I like to look at birthdays as a year of extra experience, and I survived it.

Don’t get me wrong: It wasn’t all bad 15 years ago. I actually took time out from worrying and managed make a decision that was one of the most important and wonderful decisions of my life. Remember that guy I was living with? Fifteen years ago, I stood with him in city hall and said, “I do.”

The Need for D!

By Jennifer Caddell

I live in an area that rarely sees the sun. In fact, if you look it up on Wikipedia, you’ll see that over 150 days each year is dedicated to ‘liquid sunshine’. I would add another 100 days of cloudy skies to that number which only leaves us a bit over three months of sun. If you were to visit my neck of the woods, you would see plenty of white skin and a bustling tanning salon business. (Not to mention the occasional sparkling vampire or Grimm creature) So what is a Portlander to do with only a small amount of blue? 

Well most us living in Portland get a bit batty due to the lack of vitamin D.  We wash our cars in the rain and don shorts and Birkenstocks when it is 60F. Most of us drink lots of beer and coffee to help us endure the constant gray and have pedicures to disguise our webbed feet.  But there comes a time for drastic measures (usually around March) when we need to get the heck out! 

So, every other year (when we’ve earned enough miles on our card), my family and I like to hop a plane with other pale Portlanders and fly to that tropical miracle known as Hawaii.

We even bring the kiddos with us.

Yes, we are THOSE people.

And once we land, we spend the first day of vacation passed out on the sand as the hot rays from the sun smack our skin before injecting us with that happy vitamin D drug.  Our cheeks grow a rosy bloom (all four cheeks), and our moods swing up above those daily Hawaiian rainbows.

But of course we become greedy, addicted, and foolish with the glowing wonder drug and soon we find ourselves skipping the nice golden tan and heading straight to chili pepper red.  So much so, we find ourselves spending the rest of our vacation covered in a shiny layer of aloe and peeling skin off our bodies on the flight home.  But that one day: That blessed day when those beams of light fill our bodies with sweet, sweet joy.  Yes, that one day is worth the scowl from our dermatologists.

The only problem with these sunny trips is coming home.  Our bodies joyfully become accustomed to the sunshine and warm air.  But arriving back to wind and hail quickly throws our sun-soaked bodies into Post Nirvana Traumatic Syndrome.  The symptoms include an immediate feeling of depression followed by hours spent looking at job opportunities and houses in Hawaii.  Once we realize jobs in Hawaii are scarce and houses are expensive, we find ourselves curled up in our beds with the covers over our heads and slathering ourselves in mango-scented body lotion.  PNTS is no laughing matter and it can last for up to a month.  However, Hawaii eventually becomes a distant dream and our sun-deprived bodies give up the battle while hoping for a long, hot, sunny summer that will last through all of July and half of August. (Crosses pale fingers.)

Jennifer Caddell is often found in her office conjuring up science fiction stories,  writing poetry or hiding in a corner while her children are looking for her. She blogs about food, crafts, and writing at her new site http://colanderhat.wordpress.com

The Twelve Days After Christmas

by Jennifer Caddell

On the first day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Crumpled wrapping paper under the tree.

On the second day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under the tree.

On the third day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Three days to prepare for New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under the tree.

On the fourth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Four calling in-laws,

Less than three days to prepare for New Years Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under the tree.

On the fifth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Four calling in-laws,

Wishing I had three days to prepare for New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that tree.

On the sixth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Six bottles of champagne,

FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Four calling in-laws,

Three drunks on New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that tree.

On the seventh day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Seven bottles of Aspirin,

Six empty bottles of champagne,

FIVE MORE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Forget those calling in-laws,

Wishing it was still New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that damn tree!

On the eighth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

8am school bus is leaving,

Seven bottles of Aspirin,

Six empty bottles of champagne in the recycling bin,

STILL WORKING ON THOSE FIVE LOADS!

Ignoring all phone calls,

Burning three photos taken during New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that damn tree!

On the ninth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Nine spinning classes,

8am school bus leaving,

Seven bottles of Aspirin,

Six bottles of vitamin water,

FINALLY DONE WITH THAT LAUNDRY!

Still ignoring the phone calls,

Keeping resolutions from New Year’s Eve,

Two stale cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that damn tree!

On the tenth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Ten pounds to lose,

Nine spinning classes,

8am school bus leaving,

Seven bottles of Advil, (muscles ache!)

Six cups of coffee,

ANOTHER FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Four calls to my mother,

Three days keeping those New Year’s Eve resolutions,

Two tasty looking stale cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under a brown tree.

On the eleventh day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Eleven minutes of rocking and mumbling to myself in a corner,

Still ten pounds to lose,

Not doing anymore spinning classes,

8am school bus leaving,

Seven bottles of Advil,

Six jiggers of Baileys in my coffee,

BURNING FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Four calls to the fire department,

Three firemen arrive,

Two tasty cookie crumbs,

And I used that wrapping paper to light the flames.

On the twelfth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Twelve boy scouts collecting that brown tree!

Eleven minutes of rocking and mumbling,

More than ten pounds to lose,

No more spinning classes,

8am school bus leaving,

Seven bottles of Advil,

Six cups of Baileys, no coffee,

NO MORE CLOTHES TO WEAR!

Four calls from the psychiatrist,

Three days on Prozac,

Two licks on the cookie plate,

And only a few pine needles left of that brown tree.

Jennifer Caddell is often found in her office conjuring up science fiction stories,  writing poetry or hiding in a corner while her children are looking for her. She blogs about food, crafts, and writing at her new site http://colanderhat.wordpress.com

The Vestibule

by Jennifer L. Caddell

The pull was excruciatingly long. It felt like thousands of minibots were invading his body and tugging on every organ, every nerve, even every follicle of hair with needle like talons; trying desperately to pull them through his flesh an into the oblivion beyond. He wanted to scream at the dark but he couldn’t, not when his breath was being sucked from his lungs.

Then, everything stopped.

The pulling, the tingling, everything ended immediately and he gasped for air. He tried to focus his eyes on the figures before him but they where merely ghostly blurs of light and dark shadows fading in and out of his vision. They would not come into focus. But the figures saw him. He knew that instantly when they began to shout at him. They were alarmed by his presence and it didn’t take long for the figures to throw objects at him. The objects didn’t hurt though. They seemed to sail right through him, but the shouting, that hurt. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, they all sounded as though they were underwater, but the noise was so amplified, it shook his ears and his head was ready to bust apart from the sound waves reverberating in his skull. He ran away from the blurred crowd, he didn’t care which direction he ran since nothing seemed to be in his way. He ran through walls, through fences, even through other people until he was once more yanked back into that excruciating pull. The imaginary minibots invaded his body again and all the visions and the shouting figures disappeared. The shadows replaced them with darkness. Once more, he couldn’t breathe until it was over.

The experience never got easier. Every time was just as painfully long as the last. Every damn time it was like this. But he knew he would put himself through it again, and again, because it was a small price to pay for genius.

Eventually the pull faded from his body and the darkness once again faded from his vision. However, instead of seeing blurred figures, he saw a familiar woman peeking at him with a documentation tablet in her hand. She was smiling.

“Well, anything different happened?” The woman was wearing an ancient looking dress, complete with bustle under her stark white lab coat. A wireless communicator was embedded in her forearm. The flashing lights on the communicator told him she had three messages waiting for her, but he also knew she had a habit of ignoring incoming calls.

It took him a moment to shake the nausea from his mind and gut. He tried to step forward but had to brace himself inside the metal vestibule. Lights along the sides of the walls flickered out as the machine shut down.

“No, nothing different.” He managed to crumple into a chair beside the machine. “The same thing, every time. It is always the same exact reaction.”

“Could you at least hear what they were saying?” She handed him a metal bowl and although his stomach turned, he denied the bowl.

“Nope. Just the same reverberating speech.”

Disappointment wavered for a moment across her face before she smiled again.

“I think I know what will work this time.”

“I am not going back through that again today.”

“I’ll do it.” She began to take her lab coat off. “This time, I am going to use one of these primitive hearing aids.” She held a small flesh colored device in her hand and inserted it in her ear.

“It not only amplifies sound, it also filters out sound waves from extraneous noise. I believe it helped people during that millennia to focus on a single sound wave, for example one person’s voice in a crowd.” She paused before entering the vestibule.

"I'd be willing to try anything now." He said while rubbing his own ringing ears.

“See you when I get back.” She squeezed into the vestibule making sure every bit of her dress was tucked safely inside. Once she was ready, he closed the door and flipped the switch. The familiar high whine of the engine’s magnetic turbine vibrated in his ears and his brain. If he kept this up, he would need one of those archaic hearing aides…indefinitely.

The flash of light signaled she had vanished inside. He peered into the small peephole window just to be sure she was gone before opening the vestibule’s doors again. Then he waited while listening to the whine of the engine and making further notes in the documentation tablet. After ten minutes, the shadows of her skirt could be seen reappearing on the floor of the vestibule, then the faded image of her continued to strengthen until she was back to a solid form. She looked ill, but she was also smiling.

“Well?” He asked while grabbing the nearby bowl.

“It worked.” She managed the words just before emptying her stomach into the bowl.

“So?”

“I heard them as plain as I can hear you.” She threw up again, but still managed a smile.

“But.”

“Well, I could hear exactly what they were saying. It was the same word over and over. However, I have never heard this word before, and I’ll need to look it up.” She set the bowl down and slowly walked over to the data base system.

“What were they saying?” His curiosity peaked with excitement. Hearing their words was a HUGE step in their research. He was thrilled.

“Ghost.”

“Ghost?”

“Yes, ghost.” She typed the word into the database.

“What is a ghost?”

“According to the database, centuries ago civilizations thought a ghost was a spirit or soul of the dead that stayed visible to those who were still living.”

He furrowed his brows, “Um… ok. So what is a spirit or a soul?”

“I have no idea. I’ll need to look that up too.”





Jennifer L. Caddell is a published science fiction short story writer who is currently writing her first book in a space trilogy. Jennifer lives in the wet and wonderful Pacific Northwest with her superhero husband, stellar children, and two crazy chickens. Come and check her out at http://jcaddell.wordpress.com

The Date

by Jennifer Caddell


(Sung to the tune of ‘Do You Hear What I Hear’)

Says the dressed-up mom in her husband’s ear,
“Do you hear what I hear?”
There is silence while her husband drinks his beer.
“Do you hear what I hear?”
The calm,
The calm,
Before the food arrives,
Just a quiet date with her favorite guy,
Just a quiet date with her favorite guy…

Says the dad in his darling wifey’s ear.
“Do you see what I see?”
He is whispering to his lovely dear.
“Do you see what I see?”
No looks,
No looks,
From the patrons near,
No glaring eyes or trembling looks of fear,
No glaring eyes or trembling looks of fear…

Says the waiter to the mother and the dad,
“Do you know what I know?”
He’s a handsome and dashing younger lad,
“Do you know what I know?”
“The menu,
The menu
It has no mac and cheese,
There are no jelly smudges on its sleeves
There are no jelly smudges on its sleeves…”

Say all parents to the people everywhere,
“Listen to what I say!”
Toasting their glasses everywhere,
“Listen to what I say!
A date,
A date.
We’re finally on a date,
No one’s arguing for the fondue plate,
No one’s arguing for the fondue plate…


Jennifer L. Caddell is a published science fiction short story writer. She is currently writing her first book in a space trilogy. Jennifer lives in the wet and wonderful Pacific Northwest with her superhero husband, stellar children, and two spacey chickens. You can visit her site at http://jcaddell.wordpress.com

The Winnebago Tribe

by Jennifer Caddell


The American Indian tribe was nestled safe in the bosom of the high dessert hills. Very little activity could be spotted from my vantage point. It seemed as though they all retired to one individual abode and were perhaps preparing their evening meal. However, I felt the need to kneel down behind a clump of cacti and sage, just to be sure I couldn’t be seen.

For the longest time, all I could hear was a distant call of a coyote. Behind me the sun was setting and it cast a vibrant vermilion light against the rocky and jagged hills. A red-tailed hawk seemed to appreciate the view as it called from overhead. A lonely cry to untrained ears, but I knew she was busy searching for a jackrabbit to fill her own belly.

The granite and shale ground below my feet crunched when I shifted my weight. I was waiting a long time for my target to appear. A cowboy: An Indian killer. A heartless man who saw the local tribes as mere savages. But I knew better. I knew each tribe was filled with families; parents who loved their children as much as the white man loved theirs. They weren’t savages, they were as important to me as water and air. The remaining tribes in this area were symbols of freedom, of carving a life out of the wilderness and thriving, of feeling the wind through your hair as you ride a painted pony. Freedom.

A snap of brush caused me to look back. It was just as I had predicted. The cowboy would arrive with the setting sun. To attack the small camp as they were inside, enjoying their supper. Anger boiled up inside of me. How dare this man kill for no reason? How dare he take the lives of innocent people just because of his own ignorance!

He came closer, holding his horse’s reigns in one hand and a rifle in the other. I could see his graying mustache warming his upper lip like a fur cape. My stomach turned at the site of him. I looked over to where I left my own pony. She was hiding behind an outcropping of rocks nearly thirty yards from where I was hiding. I wasn’t sure what my next move would be, should I run down the hill, shouting to warn the camp, or lead the cowboy away towards my horse? When I looked back at him, his steel eyes were staring at me!

My heart leapt as I ran down the hillside, hurdling over barrel cacti and sagebrush. I would warn the others of his arrival, I would save the tribe and ruin his plans, I would…fall into a yucca plant.

At that moment, as I pulled myself from the spikes of the yucca and yanked a needle out of one of the knuckles of my fingers, the cowboy disappeared, the pony disappeared, and the tribe I was trying to save turned into a green and white Winnebago motorhome. As I held my injured hand and gingerly slid down to the campsite, I knew there was a medicine man inside that Winnebago; a medicine man called ‘Mom’ with a box of Band-Aids.


Jennifer L. Caddell is a published science fiction short story writer with a BA in English. She is currently writing her first book in a space trilogy. Jennifer lives in the wet and wonderful Pacific Northwest with her superhero husband and stellar children. Check out her blog at http://jcaddell.wordpress.com

The Tell Tale Twitch

by Jennifer Caddell

Get down. Get funky.

It all began the moment we walked through the house for the first time. As the realtor led us from room to room, our minds wandered around fantasies of what the house COULD look like. The bones of the house were perfect. But our wallets were hollering at all the 1970s touches: Dark faux wood paneling, mirrored walls, green shag carpet…

“We’ll take it.” My husband said. We were both in such a hurry to get out of our temporary apartment; we completely ignored all of those rose-colored warning signs. (And that slight hint of cat urine.)

During those first few months, we hired painting contractors, carpet installers, counter top installers and the fire department to put out the flames on our smoking wallets. Three years later we had our mustard-colored broom closet (aka master bathroom) demolished and rebuilt while we slept in the same room with the children for over a month. A year after that, my husband’s foot fell through the floor of our balcony. Twenty thousand dollars later, it was rebuilt with a patio cover to protect it from our cold and wet winters. Fortunately the bank promised to return our arms and legs once the loan was paid off.

Each project was a test in our own relationship, from fights over linoleum floors to the threat of a legal battle with a pilfering contractor. But with each completed room, we were able to look at our house with some amount of pride.

That was, until we looked at our kitchen. Dark blue walls and darker wood paneling made the room look like a cave. So, last month, we rolled up our sleeves, grabbed the paint rollers and made the decision to paint every square inch. The walls were given four coats paint and the dark brown cabinets received six coats to make them white. It was major ‘sweat equity’.

It was nearly my last straw.

On the day we evacuated our cabinets and piled up the food and cookware in the middle of the kitchen, my eye began to twitch. It was a small twitch and one I didn’t notice until I looked in the mirror. But it was there, *twitch*, dancing right under my eye. *twitch*

The week continued with more painting and more cooking from storage boxes. The twitch didn’t go away. Another week came and went, and the twitch was still there. I was almost ready to call the doctor and get a Botox injection to relax that muscle when suddenly it stopped. I realized that it was no coincidence it stopped twitching on the day we put our kitchen supplies back into the cabinets.

I think it was a sign. That twitch was a little ticking time bomb ready to explode the next time we start remodeling a room. I haven’t discussed this with my husband yet, but I think it would be best if I go on vacation before he picks up a paintbrush.


Jennifer L. Caddell is a published science fiction short story writer. She is currently writing her first book in a space trilogy. Jennifer lives in the wet and wonderful Pacific Northwest with her superhero husband and stellar children. You can read about her writing adventures at www.jcaddell.wordpress.com.

Image credit: thekitchendesigner.org

"Those Days"

by Jennifer Caddell

Do you remember those days of sitting in your car, snapping your seatbelt, and driving away from home?

Me neither.

Now leaving the house, the parking lot, or the even the drive-through is an event. Instead of carrying a sweet little purse and placing it demurely in the passenger seat, my hands are now filled with extra sweaters, snacks, water bottles (stainless steel!) and backpacks. But that usually isn’t enough. Driving away from the house is merely a suggestion of actually leaving. Inevitably, there is something left behind and often the neighbors are witnesses to a dance known as ‘The Flight of the Minivan.” We leave, come back, someone runs into the house and back, then we leave again only to return again as another member of the family runs back into the house for a much needed object and perhaps, after twenty minutes of leaving and returning, we are finally able get to our destination. Or not. Usually by then one of the smaller passengers needs to use the restroom.

Heading into a store from the parking lot? Perhaps. Or, perhaps I am actually preparing for an extended stay in that store. No longer do I grab my purse, lock the door, and simply walk into a store. Nope. Now there is another dance needed that resembles a primitive ceremonial dance around the minivan as supplies are gathered and kids are unbuckled.

No, I don’t remember those days: Those days of simplicity. The days were heading into a store only took a minute, leaving the house happened only once per trip, or driving away from Burger Palace and having all of those hot, steamy fries to myself. I don’t remember those days because that simple life isn’t important anymore. Now, as I buckle in the munchkins, I receive hugs and kisses. Now, as I take some extra time to put on a little sweater, I receive hugs and kisses. Now, when I rush from the house during a second stop and arrive with the forgotten sock, I receive hugs and kisses.

I don’t want to remember those simpler days. I know those days will arrive again. They will be back when the children are grown: When all I have is a half-full purse and an empty passenger seat. When I will drive away from the house on the first attempt and not see any fingerprints on the windows and the car will be silent. Those simple days will arrive, and when they do, I WILL be remembering these days.



Jennifer Caddell enjoys writing science fiction and has a short story published in an anthology. She also spends her time being a mom, a wife, a gardener and a photographer. She shares her adventures in her blog “Building Character” at http://jcaddell.com

photo credit: toyxperts.com.au

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

 by Jennifer Caddell

It’s the most wonderful time of the year,
When school bells are ringing
And kiddos are dreaming
Of summer next yeeeaar.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

It’s the hap-happiest season of all.
When homework’s forgotten
And socks made of cotton
Turn brown, in no time at all
It’s the hap- happiest season of all.

There’ll be children out whining
Over friends who are trying
To show off their ‘Twinkle Toes”.

There’ll be scary school stories
Of TP wad glories
And a school toilet that overflows.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
When those ‘fun’ teacher meetings
And principal greetings
Lead to report cards hidden in fear.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

There’ll be much nose blowing
And cold germs corroding
Every surface you know.

The sneezing will ring
And noses will sing,
With booger mustaches aglow.

It’s the most wonderful time,
The most wonderful time,
It’s the most wonderful time of the yeaaarr!

Always Practice Safe Gardening

I love to garden. So when there was an opportunity to volunteer in a garden, I immediately signed up for the task. Our elementary school has a fairly large garden consisting of ten raised beds located in the preschool playground and the school needed people to tend the garden for a week during summer break. It’s tending a garden for a week while reaping the benefits of the crop and providing my children with an opportunity to learn a little about agriculture. Totally a win, win, win situation for me and one that was working out just fine …until one day.

By Thursday, I had already spent the previous days weeding, watering, and harvesting. So on this day, I figured I would stop by with my two children and spend a short time simply watering the garden. At first the kiddos were happy to help and made frequent stops at the hose to fill up their little plastic watering cans. But after a few minutes, the empty playground called to them and they left their watering cans for some exploration and imagination development.

I didn’t think anything about it. They were welcome to help when they wanted (which was often) and of course welcome to run off and just be kids. So I finished spraying down the other beds while occasionally glancing at my little munchkins playing in a corner of the yard. I thought it was nice that the two sisters were getting along so well. No whining, no bossing, just two buddies working together doing… something over by a fence.

Once I was finished with the last bed, I called for the girls to clean up their watering cans and get ready to go. Both ran from their fence and approached me while I was winding up the hose.

“Mom! Look what sister gave me!” Shouted the youngest (4) as she scampered across the yard with some found treasure clutched in one of her little hands.

“Yes! I recycled it by re-purposing it and making something new!” My 6 year-old’s voice was filled with pride while she shared her eco-friendly knowledge.

I finished rolling up the hose and turned to see this ‘treasure’ that was the result of their teamwork. My 4 year old was beaming with the gift from her older sister and still making her way towards me. At first I wasn’t sure what it was she was holding. It was stuffed with wood chips and I saw a yellow dandelion flower tied to the top. Then the realization hit me. I even gasped.

Dangling from my little child’s sweet and innocent hand was a large, purple, shiny condom.

My reaction was shock and anger, but the biggest feeling was disgust. I quickly snatched the ‘prettily decorated item’ from my child’s hand and hollered for both the girls to follow me to the nearest bathroom. (Hoping that they would be open seeing that school was out for the summer) My youngest immediately screamed at me.

“Gim me back my treshure!”

My oldest had caught up to us and joined in with her little sister, “MOM! Its not trash! I recycled it and made a fancy purse!”

Meanwhile I am trying to explain that it is junk and very yucky junk while wondering the school hallway looking for an unlocked bathroom with a purple decorated condom dangling from my hand. Visions of VD and germs swarmed in my head and I was in a panic to get their little hands clean ASAP.

Horrible thoughts flashed before me. What if they thought it was a balloon and tried to blow it up? So I asked the eldest if she or her sister tried to blow it up.

“No”

Whew!

I finally reached the bathrooms and yep, the doors were locked. So I found the nearest dumpster and tossed the item in it.

Youngest renewed her screaming efforts, “YOU FREW AWAY MY TRESHURE!”

Eldest backed off and joined my defense. “It was yucky trash.”

Eventually I make it back to my minivan and snatched my purse from under the console. Fortunately I don’t go anywhere without goop. (a.k.a. Purelle)

I drowned both their hands and mine in the potent potion of germ fighting goodness, locked them in their car seats, (youngest still screaming) and called husband to tell him what had happened.

“OH YUCK! Gross!! That’s awful! Is that our 4yo screaming in the background?”

I sighed, “Yes.”

“Tell her I am going to Target to buy her a treat.”

Dad likes to use the ‘treat’ method to solve tears. (It turns out; he bought me a treat too. Chocolate covered macadamia nuts.)

Once I got home, I called my dad to tell him what happened and received a different response.

It took a few minutes for him to stop laughing.

So, I’ve added a new note in my gardening journal. “Always practice safe gardening.”

Vacation is all I Ever Wanted…

Back in the long long ago, (before children) the hubs and I went on a vacation to Kauai. We LOVED it. It was so much fun to go snorkeling, kayaking, hiking, and biking all over that island. It was also a turning point for us. That was the vacation when we seriously took a look at the idea of having kids. We finally realized why we wanted to bring a new life into this world. We wanted to share these experiences with them. To take them on adventures, to show them the beauty of nature and to enjoy the playground we commonly refer to as Earth.

Seven years later, with one child who is four and another who is five, we decided to take things full circle and bring our kiddos to Oahu. I can honestly say, instead of taking them on an adventure, the munchkins BECAME the adventure. But I didn’t come back from this experience empty handed. I have a plethora of traveling adventures, tips and warnings to share with you…

1.) Tip - To keep the munchkins occupied for a 6 hour flight, we brought the following: Paper, crayons, Littlest Pet Shop Pets, iPod Touch, Smart Phone (for playing games), two laptops loaded with movies, and reading books. (It still wasn’t enough to keep the whining at bay, but it was enough to keep the other passengers from throwing their plastic wrapped dinners at us.)

2.) Warning – Littlest Pet Shop Pets can and will fall between the seat and the wall of the plane. If you attempt to leave the plane without it, chaos will ensue. Our youngest screamed and cried from the plane to our car parked in the long-term lot. (Approx. 20 minutes)

3.) TIP – Bring Purell. Lots of it. I visited EVERY PUBLIC RESTROOM ON THE ISLAND. (This really should be a warning too.) During the first couple of days on our vacation, these bathroom adventures would consist of a child doing a potty dance while I stack layer upon layer of toilet seat covers to protect her precious bottom from the germs of society. The toilet looked like a baklava with stacks of thin papery phyllo dough seat covers. By the end of vacation (50 bathroom trips later) I was letting the girls walk into the public beach restrooms barefoot and allowing them to handle things on their own. As each child emerged from her stall, I gave her hands a squirt of Purell. Trust me, bring Purell.

4.) Interesting Fact - To a child, the most beautiful sunset and amazingly expensive Polynesian show is NOTHING to the excitement of a roaming chicken.

5.) Warning - Little ones really do believe they can breathe underwater. Never leave his or her side. In fact, don’t even blink.

6.) Interesting fact – Yes, a four year old can live on french fries and bananas for an entire week and yes, a five year old can live on shrimp and mahi mahi for an entire week. (I wondered if the amount of mercury in her blood would set off the metal detectors at the airport. It didn’t.)

7.) Warning – Time zones are unknown to little ones. Yes, we woke at 4am almost every morning. Be prepared with an automatic coffee maker.

Here’s the really good stuff though. My five year old went snorkeling for the first time and actually saw the Hawaiian state fish, Hunuthisfishhadsuchalongname. My four year old learned how to body surf and probably swallowed half the ocean. Both learned how to make the shaka sign (hang loose) with their little hands and both giggled and laughed more times then there are stars in the sky. I can honestly say, I would trade 50 more trips to the public toilet to do it all over again.

Toddler’s Breakfast

Pineapple pancakes and a jar of jam.
A cup of cranberry juice
And a slice of fried Spam
Two green grapes
A mound of grits,
Blackberry crepes
And that should be it.
With a fork in one hand
A spoon in the other
I look at my plate,
And smile at my mother.
It’s my favorite breakfast!
“Thank you very much,” I say
Then pop a grape in my mouth
“Now can I go play?”