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Through The Looking Glass
I saw myself in the mirror the other day.
It wasn’t like I do each night before I go to bed when I wash my face and brush my teeth and go through the routine of doing what I do before I sleep. It wasn’t like each morning when I repeat the nightly routine, brush my hair and apply my makeup to ready myself for the day to come, as I stand in front of the mirror either. This moment was not like those at all. I hardly ever take the time, at those times, to really see myself.
This was unplanned. It was different.
Like a rabbit emerging from a dark hole, I was blinded by the light of my own reflection and found myself for first time in a lo
ng time, seeing myself, through this looking glass. It was an instant that gave me pause, compelling me to stop just long enough to really be present in the moment and look deep inside of who I am -today- after these last few tumultuous years of growth and change.
I didn’t look away. Instead, I contemplated the glimpse I caught and was content with what I saw. I could look myself in the eye and feel confident with the person I am and continue to strive to be; imperfect but honest, open-minded and willing to do whatever-it-takes to help myself and my kids continue to move in a forward direction.
In that moment also, stood the handsome young man who now has whiskers on his chin where sweet, velvet skin used to be when he was a boy. He doesn’t need me to tend to his bruise or tie his shoes anymore. He’s capable, focused and tenacious now and he makes me so proud I could burst. There too in my mind’s eye stood my beautiful little girl who has managed to outgrow me in shoe size, height and heart. Her endless compassion for others humbles me. Truly.
It gave me pause, this unexpected glimpse, that moment.
Time waits for no one. It has no patience, empathy or understanding. With great determination and complete indifference, it barrels its way through good days and bad, sorrows and laughter. It constantly transforms life as we know it, right before our very eyes; only we don’t always see it as it happens. We’re too busy and often blinded by the blur of our own living.
It’s important to climb out of our holes every once in a while, to take a step outside of ourselves, so we can see ourselves. It’s important to take a moment, pause and contemplate what we see.
What do you see when you stand before the looking glass?
Photo Credit #1 Through The Looking Glass ~ Google Images
Photo Credit #2 Emerging From The Rabbit Hole ~ Google Images
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Drinking Hot Chocolate Takes Skill
Everybody has their limits.
After all the build up and anticipation, it’s hard to believe that another year of fancy-feasts and holiday-hoopla with friends and family, attending parties and opening presents have come and gone inside the span of just about two weeks. Throw moving from one house to another into the mix of merriment-making and you may find yourself like me, teetering on the fringe of insanity because even though I am truly 100% exhausted, like that crazy “Energizer Bunny” I seem to push myself to just keep “going and going” until my body refuses to go any further, rendering me motionless, forced to stop and (gasp!) relax. That’s exactly what put me in my PJs and drove me to my bed just shy of 6pm a few nights ago. I couldn’t go on for one-more-minute. With my daughter in tow, we set ourselves up to catch up on all of the Once Upon A Time TV-episodes from the new ABC series that we missed, by being away and being busy.
Just after the first episode, Hannah asked me for “hot chocolate”. Rarely do I indulge in drinking hot chocolate myself, let alone drinking it in my bed but since I had no intention or strength left for making dinner, I figured, it was the least I could do and did what any good mother in my weary position would have and said, “sure”. I put the TV on pause, dragged myself out of the comfort I had just settled into and made us each a cup, the only way I know how; piping hot and piled high with whipped cream.
Toward the end of the 2nd of 4 episodes, I began to feel a lot better, in a jittery-caffeinated sort of way and realized we had both sipped through the white mound of sweetness that lead to the pure-chocolate-heaven that filled our mugs.
“Pause it!” I said unexpectedly, and she did.
With a burst of sugar-ized spontaneity and false energy, I jumped off the bed and ran out of the room to retrieve the red-topped can of Reddi Wip from the fridge in the kitchen.
“Mom, what are you doing?” she called from the bedroom.
Ignoring her, I made a mad-dash from the fridge, back to the bedroom and apparently, in my crazy, creamy, sugar-filled stupor, I forgot just how exhausted I really was. With can in hand, just as I rounded the corner from the kitchen to the hallway, my slippery, sock-covered feet hit the hardwood flooring at a speeding angle that sent me crashing into the wall and smashing my whole-self down, breaking the skin of my elbow and jamming my ankle awkwardly into the point where plaster meets wood. It was a ridiculous effort to break my fall without letting go of the chemical-laden can containing “REAL Cream” that I couldn’t seem to live without. 
Success! The can was saved but my body ached as I lay there moaning for a minute, hoping there was no blood and that nothing was broken. Hannah poked her head out of the bedroom, barely holding back her laughter at the sight of me sprawled out on the floor holding the can up in the air.
“Mom, are you okay? What the heck are you doing?” she asked before bursting into uncontrollable laughter; the kind that makes you snort and sends liquid squirting out of each of your nostrils if you’ve just taken a sip of something, which she had.
In the throes of pain and hysterics, I feebly got myself back up, limped my way back into the bedroom and wordlessly poured clouds of dairy whipped topping back into our mugs until they were over-filled and the can sputtered, forcing out its last drop of “REAL Cream”. I resumed my position on the left side of the bed and with a great sigh, started licking my Reddi Wip. I was the power of example as Hannah proceeded to do the same and we sat, pleasantly making our way through another mountain of sweet, white fluff, once again, warming our bellies with chocolate goodness.
Silence ensued.
Three-quarters of the way into the third episode of Once Upon A Time, Hannah looked over at me with a huge smile on her face and said with confidence,
“Drinking hot chocolate takes a lot of skill, mom.”
Yes, it does, my dear. Yes-it-does.
I always try to be cognizant of moments like this, ones that end up meaning so much. Had I not been so exhausted that my body forced myself to stop, I’m not so sure we would have found that precious time to spend together. I wouldn’t have shared that hilarious laughter with my girl and I could tell it meant as much to her as it did to me.
It was the true magic of the season showing itself. I got it. I’m grateful.
And it was very simple.
This past year has been chock-full of complicated, unexpected occurrences and while many of the events of the days behind me are a bit of a blur now, the future, even with all it’s imperfection and uncertainty really does look a little brighter, a little clearer and feels a little calmer.
I don’t think I’ll be making any elaborate New Year’s resolutions this year. I think I might drink a little more hot chocolate than I usually do and run a little less in my socks on hardwood floors but mostly, I think I’ll just try my best to simply, keep it simple.
How about you?
May your year be filled with lots of peace, love and joy!
Photo Credit #1 Energizer Bunny
Photo Credit #2: Hot Chocolate
Photo Credit #3 & #4: Reddi Wip Google Images
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The King of Birds Has Come To Stay
There’s an American bald eagle living on my fence. He’s brown and white and has an awesome wing span. He is also made of wood and appeared a day or two after Halloween.
I have NO IDEA how he got here.
At first I thought, maybe this is a mistake, he’s lost and somehow got left in front of our fence. Someone picked him up and hung him here so his owner would see him and could retrieve him.
He is after all,beautiful.
But it’s been nearly three weeks now and no one has come to claim him. His wooden presence is beginning to feel very deliberate and I’m starting to think this is not a mistake. He is not lost.
In fact, I believe this king of birds is here to stay.
Life is a journey, a constant learning experience. I seek meaning and reason for the people, places and circumstances I encounter. I always have. After the second week of “no sign of this bird leaving his new nest”, I started to try to make sense of him. I couldn’t seem to get him and how or why he came here out of my mind. I don’t know much about these birds of prey or what they represent so I decided to see if Google could enlighten me.
Maybe, I thought, there is a connection between this raptor and my life.
Here is the first thing I found, leaving me with no need to look further:
Eagles and the God Jupiter
“Jupiter believed that the Eagle could look directly into the sun, and many stories link Eagles to both the Sun and to Jupiter, as a symbol or sign of strength and courage. Images from the ancient Near East and Iran show the sun with an eagle’s wings, a sign that the bird was linked to the sun god; as well as other symbols in various cultures-usually divine associations showing strength, power and freedom.” ~ Squidoo
Karma? Coincidence? Fate?
It’s Ironic that a few weeks before I begin the trepidatious process of moving, this lion of the sky has come to rest on my fence.
I’m certain of it now; it’s a good sign and it makes me feel much better about taking Edward. There’s a replacement; something else to watch over this house that no longer feels like a home to me. The eagle stays.
What is the message?
It takes strength and courage to spread your wings and fly but with that, comes freedom.
Photo Credit #1: Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit#2: Jupiter (Zeus) King of the Gods
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Note To Self: DON’T QUIT!
Sometimes you have a week that just seems to drain you on every level. One where you’re pulled in so many directions, you feel like you’re a moving target, unable to zig-zag your way fast enough or far enough away from being wounded by the incoming arrow that seems hell-bent on piercing you right in the center of your heart.
You just feel like you can’t do it any more. You’re tired and you want to give up.
BUT, for the Grace of God (and the stubbornness he’s bestowed upon you or in this case, ME – thankfully) you can’t and you don’t and you make yourself get up and you just,
GO ON.
And since I have and I’ve gotten my second wind now, I say,
BRING IT ON!
This is for my friends and readers who might need a little help getting up……
Don’t Quit
by: Unknown Author
When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
When care is pressing you down a bit.
Rest, if you must, but don’t you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns.
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out:
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow –
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out –
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are.
It may be near when it seems so far:
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.
Photo Credit #1: Google Images
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It’s Not That Easy Being Green
“It’s not that easy being green …but green’s the color of spring and green can be cool and friendly like and green can be big like an ocean or important like a mountain or tall like a tree.” ~ Kermit the Frog
So, it’s the first full week back to school and at the end of my work day on Friday, the Director and Fitness teacher ask me to take off my “office” hat so they can speak to me as a “parent”.
You know this can’t be good.
It’s about my 10-year old daughter of course and it seems there was an issue in her fitness class. There are 25 multi-aged children in this class on Mondays and Fridays and my little “lemon drop” happens to be the oldest. Many of the younger kids look up to her, literally. She is also the tallest kid in the school and would perhaps be, by any other standard expected to “set the example” maybe?
“Ahem.”
Okay. So, it seems my little “apple dumpling” is the only one, out of these 25 kids that said “no” and flat out refused to sign a goal oriented agreement that has the following requirements:
- Everyone feels safe and no one gets hurt.
- Everyone has an equal chance to enjoy each game.
- Everyone learns how to be a better team member.
- Everyone has fun.
Not unreasonable, in fact when queried, my little “butter-cup” said she had no problem with setting these goals as a group. She just didn’t understand why she had to sign her name to it.
Her argument:
“They know me, Mom.
I just don’t know why my ‘word’ isn’t good enough anymore.
If they don’t trust my word what difference does my signature make?
Either they trust me or they don’t.
Besides, it didn’t say ‘pacificly’ that it was for fitness only.
I am the biggest kid — in the entire school. What if I hurt another kid by accident?”
They know her, indeed. She was welcomed by this school well before she ever spent her first full day there as a student at the age of three. From the time she was about 9-months old, she would tag along on school trips to the farm, to pick apples, pumpkins and attend theater shows with her older brother’s class. When she finally got there, it was in this fine progressive, hands-on learning environment that she was truly encouraged to be herself, to think, to ask and to imagine. She was the child who wore a communion veil to class every day for the second half of second grade, even though she never made her communion. She’s the kid who never wears matching socks and when I tell her in the morning…
“You either brush your hair or wear a hat to school,”
…nine times out of ten, she chooses the hat.
This school nurtured her, told her in no uncertain terms that she had a voice and helped her to find it, so there was really no disrespect when she said “no.” Her response, in effect was a culmination of seven years of being taught the importance of being your own person.
That day, she was told that if she wasn’t going to sign the paper, she wouldn’t be able to participate in the fitness program. She would have to sit out, and she did. That’s the price isn’t it, of taking a stand or being different, not following the crowd, standing up for something you believe in, even if you’re the only who believes in it? There could be a consequence.
There could also be a compromise, which is why I love this school.
After a few discussions with her fitness teacher (who just happens to be a former student of this fine school) the two exchanged positions and she understood the need for all the kids in the class to know they were all on the same page. She agreed to verbally acknowledge the four points and she did not have to sign her name. A resolution born out of mutual respect.
Many of the younger kids look up to her. Literally. She is after all the tallest kid in the school and the oldest and would perhaps be, by any other standard expected to “set the example”…..
……and maybe, she did just that.
She is her own person and while it may not be that easy being who she is, she’s cool and friendly like, she’s big like an ocean, important like a mountain and tall like a tree.
You can visit her blog at I’m Thinking Happy! if you like.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Photo credit #1: Kermit
Photo credit #2: ©Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Video Credit #1 YouTube
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Blink
And in the blink of an eye, it was over.
Whether you have the summer off or not, everyone feels its’ end, most likely in a melancholy kind of way. With a slight pang of apprehension, I can’t help but recognize that the season has already begun to show hints of turning. The cycle has begun, again. Yes, in the blink of an eye, the summer is nearly over. That’s how life is though isn’t it? One minute they’re babies, the next they’re in school. Before you know it, they are driving and off on their own. I see it clearly now. Change is going to happen, regardless.
Life is fragile and passes quickly.
About a year and a half ago, I resigned myself to living in the moment the best that I could and as painful and beautiful as that has been at times and with all that’s transpired since then, I don’t think there’s much left that can surprise, shock or even hurt me anymore. Life is fragile and passes quickly.
And now, I am resigned to living it to it’s fullest.
The challenge for me, is embracing it in a mindful, peaceful way.
Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson
In seeking peace for myself and in effort to make the most of my last week off before going back to work this Monday, my daughter and I drove Upstate to spend some time at our place in the woods. Her teacher joined us for a few days. As we puzzled and hiked and ate ice-cream, Irene was churning away, gaining strength as a category 3 hurricane in the Bahamas. I watched her unstoppable force rapidly move toward the east coast. I debated whether to stay put on the outer reaches of harm’s way for however long it would take her to pass or go home where my son was, much closer to her destructive path.
My heart belongs to two children. I chose to go home. But I leave here, a glimpse of the peace I found, with my girl, in the woods.
Welcome!
She's soooo Hannah!
On Thursday, we headed to the "upper field" for a hike.
A bobcat resting in the high grass interrupted our hike, sending Hannah, her teacher and I scurrying back toward the house! Not peaceful but definitely exciting!
Again, not peaceful but after our near-encounter with the bobcat, this fella was no challenge.
Evening sky....definitely, peaceful.
Before leaving, we baked Chocolate Chip Oatmeal cookies to eat during the storm ~ Baking always helps me feel peaceful!
Life is fragile and passes quickly. How do you find your peace?
Photo Credit #1: Blink
Photo Credit #2-14: ©Karen Szczuka Teich and http://www.Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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Football: Our New Religion
It seems that while my “Angel Boy” was residing on the Mother Ship all these past months, he was breathing, eating and sleeping Football: his new religion and he’s been returned to me, an athlete.
Face-masks, girdles and pads, Oh My! You would think I was outfitting a girl with a list like that. The only real tip-off that I was buying equipment for a boy was the “cup” mixed in with the rest of the must-haves. And when you have to buy and wash these things, you start paying a little more attention to what they’re for, especially when they’re designed to protect.
Thank God for these manly items made to keep my boy safe from bodily harm and all of the other revelations that come with the-playing-of-football.
The Knights began their “training” this summer and not only was my boy’s name placed on a football team’s roster for the first time, a few of my prayers have been answered to boot! With over two and a half hours of grueling practice, five days a week and scrimmages on the weekends, this boy is EXHAUSTED! I give thanks to the coach, praise his name and confess: I’m happy to witness the transfer of electronic play over to this all-American, out-door, physical play. Gone are the late nights of video chatting, skype-ing and texting. They’ve been happily replaced with what my boy needs most: SLEEP!
Hallelujah!
She's thinking football! After reading this article, click this pic for some of her Happy Thinking!
Making the team requires lots of my driving time. It’s just too far to drop him off and come back and where-ever I go, the girl goes, making this, for the most part, a 24/7-whole-family-commitment.
It’s worth the sacrifice.
I’m getting a crash course in the Pop Warner Football culture. Sure, I was a football cheerleader in high school but honestly, all we really had to know was the boys’ names. Every once in a while we’d throw out phrases like “hold-that-line” or “Defense!” but it didn’t mean for one second I understood why I was saying that. I even went to a few Bills and Giants games in my day. I love live sports. But let’s face it, all you really have to do is follow the crowd to make it look like you have a clue.
And although, I’ve attended my share of Super Bowl parties and hosted enough Monday Night Football gatherings to know it is a big deal, truth be known, I was mostly there for the food and the company of the other women in the same boat. But now it’s my boy that’s playing in the game and although I don’t have to know what’s going on, I want to know!
Plus, I’m grateful for the little things, like the new respect for personal hygiene for instance, that prior to his “return” seemed to go completely unnoticed by the “Alien Child” that was living in my angel boy’s room for so long. Seriously, he is so dirty and smells so bad after practice, even he can’t stand it! Showers abound – daily!
I’m not worthy.
Even his usual grunting that for so long was the norm response to any type of communication directed his way, has been interrupted by a few real, pleasantries like, “Mom, can you please get me…, drive me…, feed me… and wash my…..?” It’s a blessing to hear his voice again! And although the “good word” now comes on the pages of a playbook, at least he’s studying something!
Don’t get me wrong, the boy is certainly not “the Beav” and I’m no June Cleaver.
I still get the occasional …
“Mom, I told you, don’t talk to me during practice!”
But hey, I’m not expecting miracles!
I am however beginning to believe there is a God and I think SHE plays football.
Consider me converted.
Photo Credit #1-4 ©Karen Szczuka Teich & Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit #5 Google Docs/TV’s Most Coveted Mom
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Summer Lessons From My Father (That’s Right – I Went There!)
Lesson #1.
When it’s 100° outside, QUICK — get in the kitchen and start baking!
Despite this past week’s sweltering heat, I gave a nod to my Dad and decided to spend one of those triple-digit temperature days baking. As a kid I used to think my dad was crazy because he would bake on the hottest of days. As an adult, I realize it’s only crazy, if you don’t have air-conditioning; which we never did.
I try real hard not to snack after 8pm and quite frankly it’s becoming increasingly difficult. Actually, it’s almost impossible since my daughter and I are obsessed with watching multiple cooking and baking shows in the evening. Yes, we’re foodies and we watch just about every food related program that comes on DirecTv including but not limited too, Chopped, Diners Drive-Ins and Dives, Tough Cookie with Crazy Susan, Ace of Cakes, Cake Boss and our favorite, Cupcake Wars. We’re also fans of The Little Couple, Say Yes to the Dress, Clean House and House Hunters. We’ve even watched Hoarding: Buried Alive twice but honestly, I just found it too disturbing.
We prefer the “sweeter” programs and nearly every night we torture ourselves watching them.
Believe it or not, I never heard of red velvet cake or its connection to the Waldorf-Astoria until recently and for some reason this summer it keeps coming up, especially on Cupcake Wars. Intrigued, I looked up several recipes on the internet, put together what I thought would work best, ramped up the A/C and decided to give it a go, this week, the hottest week of the summer, so far.
It reminded me of when I was a kid and how my Dad would bake on the hottest day of the year.
I’m not sure if it was me or my daughter who was the genius behind the thought but we decided to do a little red-velvet-ice-cream-cone-cupcake thing and at least give the illusion that we were eating something that would help cool us off!
Yowza…we were so excited!! They turned out AWESOME!!
When we were done, we figured if there was one person who’d appreciate our efforts on this sizzler of a summer day, it would be my Dad, so we decided to take some over to him to see what he thought.
We plated a few cones and were on our way……………………………………………………………….
Lesson #2.
When it’s 100° outside, be sure to shut every door and window in your home before turning on your biggest, loudest, most antiquated, metal-fan and when possible, place it backwards in your window. This way you are sure to suck any air that’s in the house, out of the house, making it just a hair more unbearable and uncomfortable than it ever should be.
Thankfully, because I have air-conditioning in my house, there’s no need for the gigantor window fan to make it worse.
At Dad’s house however, we couldn’t stay too long. It was literally 100° degrees outside and with no A/C and all the windows and doors shut, it was probably close to 112° inside. At least the attic fan was off for our visit. Mom says it’s so loud, she goes crazy when it’s on. Dad says, it’s “physics”; draw the hot air out and …. I don’t understand it but when my 10-year old daughter questioned the logic of it and started to argue the point with him, well, I knew it was time for us to go.
Dad really enjoyed our cupcakes though. We put a cherry on his!
Lesson #3.
Freeze an orange and then slice it (or try to anyway). It’s better than sherbert!
Not really but it’s an option. As an adult, I choose to buy the sherbert.
Oh, and there’s also these lessons I’ve learned from my Dad:
#4. Whether your a toilet-cleaner or the CEO of a big company, take pride in what you do and do it well.
#5. You can do anything, if you put your mind to it.
#6. “Book-smart” has nothing on “common-sense”. Use the resources that you have.
#7. There are some things in life, that are better left unsaid.
Thanks, Dad.
Photo Credits #1, #2, #3 #4: © Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.TakingTheWorldOnWithASmile.com
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Who’s In Your Cup?
“Three grand essentials to happiness in this life are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.” ~Joseph Addison
Tea. When I was growing up, there was one flavor, two brands: Lipton and Red Rose. Nowadays, there’s a thousand flavors and ten-thousand brands. My favorite is licorice root by Celebration. Tea. It was an afternoon staple in our home and when Tante Rita came over, it was an all-out party.
“Rita saw it in my tea-cup. I swear!”
That’s what my mom told my dad after Tante Rita read her tea leaves and saw that she was pregnant before they’d told anyone. My parents had agreed to keep it “secret” for a while but no sooner had they found out, than Rita saw the “stork” at the very top of my mom’s tea-cup.
Oh, Vera! You’re pregnant! How far along are you?
Rita also saw “the young man in uniform holding a gun”, which was my brother going into the military, well before he graduated high school. And she described a trip I would take to Ireland with my mom and sister about 10-years before it actually happened.
Tante Rita was one of my mom’s best girlfriends. They’d worked together as bookkeepers in the bank when mom was single. Rita never married or had children. Always smiling or laughing, Rita was tall, thin and had milky-white skin and a red-headed bee-hive hair-do. She was from Scotland and had a very heavy accent. A lovely woman who was loads of fun, Rita was more like an “aunt” to us, which is why we called her, Tante.
Rita read all of our tea-cups. It was something she learned how to do in Scotland as a child from her mother; something she taught my sister how to do when she noticed she had a natural knack for it. Tea leaf reading (or Tasseography) is the ancient practice of interpreting the patterns made by tea leaves left behind in a cup – usually a bone-china cup.
From the time I was seven-teen and just about to embark upon life’s journey out on my own, until nearly thirty, I had my tea–leaves read on a fairly regular basis. Throughout the years, Rita would see and describe people in my cup who would become very important to me. Not the everyday people in my life, but the people who would come into my life and change it.
When I was in high school she saw “the initial A, next to a young woman”, who turned out to be my college room-mate of four years and a life-long friend. In college, “the older, harsh and demanding man next to the letter M” that kept appearing, would be my boss for nearly seven years after I graduated.
Ten years after Rita first saw the “unusual two-diamond ring” accompanied by the “proposal from a dark-haired man I would work with”, I married the “dark-haired man beside the letter L” next to the ring and proposal. And there was always the “tall man in my cup standing next to the initial T”. He’s been seen at the bottom, which is further into the future, midway which is somewhat in the distance and occasionally, at the top. Sometimes his facial features and hair color would change but he’s always been there. I’ve never quite pin-pointed exactly who he is, although coincidentally, I’ve had two significant “Ts” cross my path over the years, both with different hair colors and facial features. Both appearing and disappearing in my life at the most unexpected of times.
Tante Rita passed-on many years ago now but I still go back and check my “notes” occasionally, remembering her fondly and cherishing our tea-times together. All those readings gave me hope, things to look forward to. Maybe it’s hog-wash. Maybe it’s self-fulfilling prophecy as I suppose in hindsight, anyone could easily make sense of, and make the words work, if they wanted to but I’d rather believe that there really was something to this ancient art of future telling.
Now, here I am again, embarking upon a whole new chapter of my life, with the same sense of trepidation and excitement that I had when I was seven-teen, wondering what my future holds, wondering, what would Rita see in my cup today and who would be there?
I’d like to think she might see an owl, indicating I have a little more wisdom and confidence this time around. I’d like to believe my cup is filled with impressions of kindness, forgiveness and lots of hearts for love. And while I suspect Rita would find a little sadness at the top, a few tears even, I imagine the bottom of my cup to be hopeful, clear and wide open for all kinds of adventure and opportunity.
Yes, I’d like to think there really is something to the leaves left behind in a tea-cup.
So, the next time you have a cup of tea, leave a swallow at the end, turn the cup three times counter-clockwise and let it rest upside down on its saucer for a few seconds. When you pick it back up and peer inside, think about what you see and imagine what could be.
Who knows what the future holds?
Have you ever had your tea-cup read?
Photo Credit #1: Google Images
Photo Credit #2: Life in a teacup
Photo Credit #3: Croque-choux
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Crazy For Cannolis
After researching several recipes, I chose what I liked best from each and then threw in my own secret ingredient!
As a first generation AMERICAN with parents who emigrated from Germany and Ireland, I ate lots of sauerkraut and Irish soda bread as a kid. I suppose it’s only natural then, that as an adult, I would want to learn how to make Cannolis.
Let me connect the European dots for you. My best friend’s Dad was from Italy. Once a year he would take us to New York City to the San Gennaro Feast in the historic Little Italy. The smells alone were enough to make a young girl giddy. Her mom used to make mostacciolis during the week and her grandmother would nurse a sauce all-day-long on a Sunday. Mid-afternoon she’d come out of her kitchen, wipe her hands on her apron and wave us inside for a serving of spaghetti and sauce with Italian bread. Heaven.
I grew up loving and yearning for what was on the other side of the fence, Italian food.
My love for all foods Italian may also (in a twisted sort of way) have something to do with the fact that when I was very young, we rented a second-floor apartment in a house owned by an Italian family who had three boys: La John-o, La JoJ-o and La Carl-o. We were often invited down to their basement to share a meal that always included home-made pasta, bread and wine.
Go ahead, turn me on my side, coax a little girl inside, close the lid and roll away!
I have a very strong and clear memory of the two younger boys coaxing me into a wine barrel one day, closing the lid and rolling me around their front lawn, just for fun.The smell of wine inside the barrel was so pungent, it too resurfaces every time the memory does. In addition to the obvious trauma that would accompany such an event, I truly believe this is why I don’t like confined spaces. It was also probably the first time I ever got “tipsy”. I think I was five.
Back to making Cannolis.
This holiday weekend I’m spending a few days Upstate New York with my daughter. I always try to have a few activities in mind for my kids when we come here and ever since they could stand on a stool and hold a measuring cup, my children and I have been creating in the kitchen together. I love doing things with my kids and the kitchen is a wonderful, natural classroom that provides a great opportunity to bond, learn and teach. We’ve made everything from soups to nuts, — including pasta, cakes, cookies and this weekend, Cannolis!
The ingredients.
Just check out the visual above for a clear view of what you’ll need. I guess if I was Italian, I’d know where to buy fresh ricotta but I’m not, so I settled for Sorrento brand from the supermarket. I didn’t need the granulated sugar or farm fresh eggs but they seemed to complete the photo so I left them in. And yes, those are boxed (store-bought) Cannoli shells you see in my picture. They were the only ones my grocer carries. I’m Crazy for Cannolis that’s true but I also know, what I don’t know and what my limitations are! Making the shells from scratch was not an option, this time.
Here’s my I’m-Not-Italian But Here’s My Very Delicious Cannoli Filling Recipe:
2 lbs. ricotta cheese
1 1/2 cups confectionery sugar
1/4 cup half ‘n half
4 tsp. vanilla
1-2 tsp. cinnamon (more if you love cinnamon like us – more cinnamon will result in a darker filling complexion)
Semi-sweet chocolate morsels (enough to make you happy)
1-2 tbs. honey (my secret ingredient that’s no longer a secret)
Drain the ricotta of any excess moisture. Mix ricotta, confectionery sugar, half ‘n half, vanilla, cinnamon and honey together until smooth. Fold in chocolate chips. Chill and fill the shells using a pastry bag or small spoon shortly before serving. Sprinkle with powdered sugar. Makes about a dozen Cannolis.
Yummy! Not bad for a first try.
It’s that easy! Have a safe and happy holiday and most of all, enjoy!
Photo Credit #1: ©Karen Szczuka Teich
Photo Credit #2: Google Images
Photo Credit #3: ©Karen Szczuka Teich
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Unsolicited Journey
Some days, weeks or months hold a certain significance in your life that trigger specific memories.
It was a year ago this month, that I faced my neighbor, Brian Quain, in court for a second time. I was given the opportunity to tell him about the impact his actions had on our family in a statement that I wrote and read during his sentencing. The first time we met in a courtroom, was five months earlier at the beginning of February, when he was being arraigned for felony charges of burglary and a few other misdemeanor crimes including possession of stolen property. He was wearing an orange jump suit and mouthed the words “I’m sorry” to me when I looked over to where he was seated next to an armed guard. This was a few days after he was caught coming out of our home by a young, smart, quick-thinking State Trooper who is a credit to his profession in every way.
NYS Trooper Timko, heard the “burglary in progress” call come over his radio and knew he had limited time. He also knew this was for real. He managed to get to our house in less than three minutes, coming from across town, nearly five miles away. Even though six local squad cars also responded to the call, Timko was the first to arrive on the scene. He’d been checking in with us throughout the winter after responding to our initial complaint in November. As a result, he knew exactly where to go to at our house and indeed, found the perpetrator coming out of our backyard. When Timko apprehended him, this tough (creepy) guy was wearing slippers, a hoodie and his sister’s sweat pants. He also had black gloves and a blue ski mask on his person. That would account for why my husband didn’t recognize him when a flurry of images showing a burglar in our home, were transmitted to his iPhone via email, thus prompting the 911 call.
The “burglar” was wearing the ski mask as he crept up the stairs to our living room.
Imagine this image coming through your email while you’re at work. Brian Quain would actually change into this outfit in our basement bathroom before coming up stairs. © 2011 Karen Szczuka Teich
Imagine now, seeing this and having no idea who this is, in your home. CREEPY. © 2011 Karen Szczuka Teich
Seven weeks earlier we hid a motion sensor camera in our living room at Trooper Timko’s urging and after being robbed six times in three months.
It was a Tuesday. I was off and had gone out for lunch with friends. Before leaving I did the same thing I’d done every day for the past seven weeks. I unlocked the window leading to a crawl space underneath our porch in the small bathroom just off the family room in our basement. I glanced around the family room confirming that there was a few dollars and some loose change lying around, ran upstairs to the living room, made sure the camera was on, dropped a five dollar bill on the coffee table in direct view of the camera’s eye, locked the front door and left.
When I got home, I poked my head downstairs just long enough to immediately notice that the money was gone.
“Oh My God — he was here!” I thought to myself. Although at that time, I had no idea who “he” was.
My heart pounded wildly as I ran upstairs knowing with absolute certainty, that the five dollar bill I’d placed on the glass coffee table two hours earlier would also be gone and it was.
The words tumbled frantically out of my mouth when I called my husband,
“He was here! Why didn’t you call me? He was here! Did you check your email?”
My husband had no idea what I was talking about. There was no email from the camera. No pictures.
I didn’t understand. What the hell happened?
This was burglary number seven and by far, the most invasive. This was the one where much of my jewelry was taken, including my engagement ring and the first pair of gold Italian droplet earrings my husband gave me 18-years earlier. This was the time when it was blatant that my personal drawer and private things had been touched, taken and rooted through. I couldn’t speak. I was devastated. The long wait was over and we blew it. Surely, he would never come back. Why would he? There was nothing left. He had cleaned us out. I went to bed at 4pm.
It took my husband all night and several technical support phone calls to learn that in fact, the camera received 45-minutes worth of constant “hits” which began 10-minutes after I’d left the house but because of a windstorm the day before (and unbeknownst to us) our internet was “down” that afternoon and no pictures were saved or transmitted.
Forty-five minutes of constant hits.
The next morning, I performed my daily ritual before leaving the house but truly, it was only out of habit. I was beyond discouraged and didn’t even bother to leave money on the coffee table.
That’s why it was so hard to comprehend what my husband was saying when he called me at work that afternoon and calmly said,
“I just called 911. There’s a burglar in our house right now. I can see him. He has a weapon and he sees the camera. I think he’s going to break it.”
I was stunned.
This makes me sick, to see Brian Quain creep beneath the picture my daughter drew of me and my husband when she was in Kindergarten. © 2011 Karen Szczuka Teich
The “weapon” turned out to be a screw driver. He unplugged the camera and saw the police coming through a bay window. © 2011 Karen Szczuka Teich
It was shocking to learn the thief, was our neighbor; 20-year old Brian Quain, a boy who had been helping himself to our money and jewelry, who had ripped our screen windows, cracked our doors and broke into our lock box. It was someone we knew, who had gone through our little girl’s bedroom removing holiday money from jars on her dresser and cards in her drawers. It was the boy next door, who had taken my son’s little, silver bear-bank filled with coins, the one that held the picture of him as a smiling infant in his crib. A quick and cursory search of my neighbor’s bedroom by law enforcement agents after his arrest, uncovered a few personal items that belonged to my family. I identified them and they were taken into evidence.
Once the initial shock wore off, we had a brief stint with elation. It was over. Over. Woohoo! We had caught this CREEP ourselves and it was finally over. Or so I thought. What I didn’t realize, was that it was just the beginning of yet another long journey I had no idea I, we, were meant to take. It began with five months of dealing with phone calls, court dates and an overworked Assistant DA who seemed confused by our level of “participation” and whose comment to me that he just couldn’t get over “how interested” we were in our case, left me dumbfounded and disheartened. Luckily, we had a DA friend from a neighboring town, who coached us along the way.
Sometime at the end of last summer, a NY State Trooper’s car pulled up onto my lawn and Trooper Timko came to my front door. He was personally returning the items found in a sock at the bottom of a closet in my neighbor’s bedroom during that cursory search after his arrest. Returned to me was one of my Italian droplet earrings, a gold “K” charm my dad gave me as a child and the now empty, silver bear-bank that was taken from my son’s room.
Of all the things he took, the one thing I miss the most, is the little round picture of my smiling baby in his crib that sat in the frame attached to the bank. It bothers me, a lot that he removed that picture.
And even though we were awarded full restitution of over $10,500, honestly, I would just like to have the picture back.
It was a year ago this month that I began a new and unsolicited journey, one that opened a Pandora’s box and hasn’t seen fit to close itself yet. One that has taken me to a place in my life now, that I never expected to be, interspersed with equal parts of immense joy and pain. One that in the past year, has brought forth many surprising twists and turns in the form of a variety of people, places and things, bringing me face to face with who I am and who I strive to be. It has re-surfaced old truths; the hard kinds, the ones that have been buried for a long time and will no longer go away. This journey leaves me a little sadder but much stronger and more determined than I have ever been. It’s difficult at times but it’s also hopeful, open-ended and holds great promise for the future and clearly, it is far, far, far, from over.
#realifeburglar #brianquain #thief
Previous posts related to this subject: My Edward and Life’s Terms – Not Mine
Photo Credits: #1, #2, #3 & #4 – © 2011 Karen Szczuka Teich. All rights reserved.
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A Wet Haven
Think back to when you were a kid in grammar school. What would it have been like for you, if you were able to throw a bucket of water over your “favorite” teacher’s head without fear of retribution? What if, once a year, you were allowed, encouraged even to get the principal or head of school soaken wet?
My girl soaks her math/science/this is how you build a rocket, teacher!
And what if, even after you left that school, you were still allowed to come back at the end of the year and take part in a wild and wet, water-splash-out of students vs. teachers and parents?
My boy gets to come back and relive this thrill even after being gone for two years!
Six years ago, I began working at the small progressive school my kids attended so I could be near them and see firsthand, what it was all about and why my kids barely got any homework. Coming from a catholic grammar school and an all girl catholic high school, I was a little skeptical of the progressive education that I’d signed on to for them. I ended up getting an education for myself, on what it means for a child to be in an environment that nurtures their curiosity and fosters the development of a life-long love of learning. For eight years my son went to the Randolph School. He left after 5th grade. My daughter is finishing up 4th grade. Next year will be her last. I’m already feeling sad.
The curriculum at Randolph School is project based. Several months are devoted to one study at a time, such as birds, Native Americans and human flight. Math, English, Social Studies and Science all get incorporated into the study using a hands on learning approach. These kids are out and about, seeing, doing, building and loving what they’re learning. They’ve done some pretty awesome things too, like making paper and cooking an annual ThanksGiving meal with 
vegetables they planted and harvested themselves. They’ve tapped maple trees, collected sap and boiled it down to make their own syrup for a pancake lunch. They’ve been schooled on tracking people and animals, building shelters in the wilderness and trebuchets in the back field. They know how to use the resources they have to solve a problem. Each child builds a rocket and launches it every year and each year ends with an adventure day which usually involves a hike along the Hudson river or in this year’s case, a walk across the Hudson River on the newly opened, Walkway Over the Hudson. After the adventure there’s an all-school barbecue. After the barbecue, the older kids, students in kindergarten through 5th grade, get to camp-out behind the school with parents and teachers. Tents are pitched at the bottom of the same hill the kids and teachers, sled down during the winter. A bon fire is made, songs are sung, stories are told, s’mores are eaten.
Somewhere in-between the end of the adventure and the beginning of the barbecue, a twenty-plus-year-old tradition lives on. It began when two teachers who overheard a plot being hatched by two students to bring water guns to the camp-out, staged a surprise counter-attack, fully equipped with their own loaded water-guns and behold, a no holds back, teacher-parent-student water splash-out filled with 100% pure fun was born!
A wet haven for kids of all ages! Splash-Out June 2011
It’s tough being a kid. Society is drenched with all kinds of peer pressures and technological enticements. Finding a place in early childhood where children are free to be themselves, free of some of these stresses just long enough to give them a solid footing is a blessing.
So much of parenting is like playing pin the tail on the donkey. Without foresight, you point yourself in what you hope is the right direction and move forward, praying that you hit the target. Sometimes, you get lucky and hit it dead center. Other times, you veer way off to the left or the right and have to go back and try again.
Sending my children to a school that encourages kids to be kids was a “hitting the target dead center” move — a blessing.
The result, is that they love to learn, they always will and I am very grateful.
What do you love about your child’s school?
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Better Late Than Never
I was slightly preoccupied last week, what with having to break into my house and all. 
I didn’t get a chance to really acknowledge Mother’s Day or the millions of moms out there that make their children feel as special as my mom still makes me feel, even at 46-years of age. Maybe it’s because she used to tell me that all the time when I was growing up.
“You’re special you know.”
I believed her too, ’cause well, she’s my mom and everything your mom tells you is true. It wasn’t until well into my adulthood that I learned she used to tell my brother and sister the same thing. I wasn’t upset. I was glad they grew up feeling the same way; special.
When I had my son twelve years ago, I was ill prepared. After all, what did I know about how to take care of a baby, let alone a boy? Enter, Nana. My mom only lives 20-minutes away but after Noah’s birth, she slept at my house for two weeks anyway. When she left, I cried, even though I knew I was going to see her the very next day. She had just retired from the bank. How lucky, for me! For the next two-and-a-half years, we went from Fishkill to Redhook and everywhere in-between, in search of the best places for lunch and the best playgrounds for my boy to explore in. Precious, happy times.
When Hannah was born, my mom was in the delivery room. They share a unique, unbreakable bond and have been partners in crime ever since. Nana is the first person Hannah calls when she’s sick.
“Can you come and watch me today?”
“Of course, love.”
is the reply, 99.9% of the time, no matter what she has planned that day.
Selfless. She never makes you feel like it’s a bother or an imposition. She operates from the purest point of unconditional love. A gift she gives freely, a quality I strive to emulate.
She’s an awesome babysitter for sure but truth be told, day or evening, the chances of you coming home to find her asleep and your child wide-awake, “shh-shing” you as you come through the door, are more than high.
“”How long has Nana been asleep for?”
is usually my first question.
Nana is famous for accidentally, “letting the cat out of the bag”, realizing it in the moment and immediately trying to take it back. For example, she once left a message on my answering machine that went something like this…..
“Hi love, I guess you’re not home. Okay, well, I’ll see you at the surprise party on Saturday. (pause) Oh, wait! I didn’t mean that! (pause) I don’t know what I’m talking about, there is no party. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Bye. It’s mom.”
One of my favorite things about Nana is how much she loves to laugh. Seriously, my kids and I purposefully try to make her laugh because once you get her going, it’s very contagious and really hard for her to stop. If you take her to a funny movie, be prepared for all eyes to be on you, when she literally doubles over in laughter. Take her to any other kind of movie and chances are, all eyes will still be on you when she starts snoring after she’s fallen asleep.
For a time, mom had a German Shepard named Schatzie who was abandoned on a highway, 
picked up by my brother and left at mom’s house for an extended “weekend”, that lasted several years. People often joked about how she must have given birth to Schatzie because she treated her like she was her fourth child. People also joked about how Schatzie used to “walk” my mom, rather than vice-versa. Schatzie was huge, carefully eye-ing anyone who approached my mom or came too close to her; often trapping me in my car while barking ferociously, when I’d come to visit.
They loved each other dearly.
Nana’s 74 now and while she’s adamant about NOT having a face book page, she does read my “block” faithfully, when she can get to it, that is. Even though she subscribes to it, for some reason, she can never “open” it from her computer. I finally told her,
“Mom, just google my name and it will come up.”
So, the other day she went to Google and typed in: “google Karen Szczuka…” Guess what? It came up.
I was able to visit my mom for a while on Mother’s Day and it occurred to me, as it often does, just what a blessing it is to have her around. I don’t take her for granted. I’m grateful. I love that my kids love her and I love that she loves them as much as she loves me. She makes them feel just as special. I know this to be true and I guess that’s because she’s so special.
She’s kind and thoughtful and she’s my mom.
She’s been a wonderful power of example in so many ways, I suppose it’s better late than never that I say,
“Thanks for being my mom, Mom! I love you.”
I hope you and the millions of moms out there who make their kids feel special, had a very Happy Mother’s Day!
Please, tell me something special about your mom.
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Spring Break: Blizzards, Blossoms And A Belly-Busting Belch!
Sometimes, life has a way of throwing you a curve ball (or snow ball) when you least expect it.
I left a mini-blizzard behind in 
Buffalo, NY after visiting for a few days, right before heading out to meet my children in Washington, D.C. to see the blossoms for Spring Break last Monday. Yes, that would be April 18th and yes, I said blizzard, as in snow. A good friend of mine who lives in Buffalo text-ed me while I waited for my plane to be de-iced, and I quote:
“Even the locals are dumbfounded!”
It felt like winter was literally smacking me in the rear as I flew from it.
Luckily, I was sitting in the first row and had no checked baggage. We arrived in Boston 12-minutes before my connecting flight to D.C. was due to take off. I was the first one standing behind the stewardess when she lifted the plane door to the gateway. I was off!
Think O.J. Simpson, running through the airport years ago wearing a three-piece suit and carrying a brief case while hawking Hertz rental cars. That was me, strategically racing through the airport looking ahead, planning my next maneuver so as not to knock into or over, anyone. Only I’m a 5-foot tall, Caucasian female who was wearing 3-inch heeled boots and instead of a brief case, I had my computer in my backpack and a rolling carry-on to deal with. I sailed through just as they were shutting the cabin door. I was out of breath for the next 20-minutes, but I made it!
I’ve always wanted to see the Cherry Blossoms in Washington D.C. and I have a penchant for all things political. My kids are old enough to appreciate both. It seemed like a good fit and it was. Our country’s capitol has much to offer, for free! Although if you plan on having lunch in any of the free museums, be prepared to spend nearly $20 per person. Air and Space, Native American and American History were our top three. I was particularly impressed with the African American exhibit and the First Lady exhibit in the American History Museum. An over-all favorite find, was stumbling upon Carmine’s Restaurant in downtown D.C, which is related to the two Carmines in NYC that I love so dearly. Other than soft rigatoni, the food was delicious!
We drove back to New York but I’m not a night driver so when the lights begin to blare and I can’t see the horizon, we need to pull over and get a hotel room.
“The restaurant closes at 9pm.” the hotel clerk said upon check-in. It was 8:20. We dashed up to our room, dropped off our bags and arrived back down at the entrance to the eatery by 8:30. With no one there to greet us, the bar tender glanced our way and said, “Go ahead, sit anywhere, she’ll be right with you.” Only two other tables were occupied so we pretty much had the pick of the place. We hadn’t eaten since 2pm and that was three states ago so I chose a far-enough-away-from-the-other-patrons table to make sure we gave them their space. My 10 and 12-year old kids were hungry and punchy. If you’re a parent, you know how that can go. After realizing we’d been sitting at our table for nearly 15-minutes with no sign of service, I asked my daughter to go find us menus in an effort to be prepared for when the waitress finally did get to our table. Hannah came back with one menu.
“That’s all there was, mom,” she said.
Pork Chops and Penne alla Vodka were their dinner choices. But having worked as a waitress all through college, and knowing how fickle each kitchen’s cook can be around closing-time, I knew enough to advise them to pick something from the sandwich menu too. Plan B. We were becoming impatient and just as I uttered the words, “Jeez, Sistah needs to put the move on it”, under my breath, “Sistah” came out of the kitchen and it was clear why it was taking her so long in the first place. With no disrespect intended here, Sistah, was probably 75-years old and while she seemed surprised to see us, she was pleasant and not in any rush at all. After several minutes, she took our drink order and found us another menu to share. Then she vanished again. At five to nine, she took our food order and at 9:05 she came back to say, the cook wouldn’t do it.
“You’re too late.” she informed us. “He stops making dinners at 8:30. Snack foods only.”
(Um, okay, it would have been helpful to know that ten minutes ago.) We revised Plan B and ordered a few appetizers although when it came to Hannah’s turn, before she could speak, the waitress said,
“You can have chicken fingers.”
After writing, repeating and re-writing our order, she once again disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors. There are two ways you can handle a situation like this. We chose to take the humorous route and laughed at our silly circumstances. Still no drinks. One calamity seemed to follow the other from that point on, interspersed by short, uncontrollable fits of laughter. Several times, Sistah came out of the kitchen looked around and went back in. A couple of times she walked over to the other two tables to check on them and finally at around 9:15 she brought us our drinks. From the moment Hannah got her diet-coke she kept complaining that it just didn’t taste right. We all took a sip and agreed there was something off about it. We concluded a mix-up of sorts, possibly root-beer and coke combined. Another ten minutes passed before Sistah re-appeared with our food. The loaded nachos were loaded indeed, with processed Cheese Whiz and remained for the most part, un-eaten. Our mozzarella sticks never showed up. We all shared Hannah’s chicken fingers.
For dessert our waitress said we could have ice-cream only — even though we saw a variety of cakes listed on the menu. We settled on one chocolate, the rest vanilla. Fifteen minutes later Sistah emerged with one very large bowl of chocolate ice-cream hidden under a mound of whipped cream and topped with a cherry for Noah. She turned to Hannah and said, “Sorry, no vanilla but we have cake,” and proceeded to list the cake options we saw earlier on the menu. After that bizarre exchange and before Sistah came back with Hannah’s carrot cake and the remaining ice-cream, Hannah took another sip from her soda. I watched her as she set her glass down and began to open her mouth, I thought to complain again, but this time something completely unexpected happened.
A small explosion seemed to occur within her little body.
Similar to that of a volcanic eruption, a loud, growling BELCH blasted from her throat filling the room, startling everyone in the restaurant, including herself.
Honestly, it was a monster burp of epic proportions. 
Even the bartender and the three men who came in to watch the hockey game, all turned in our direction. The elderly couple in the booth looked affronted. The middle-aged man dining by himself simply gaped at us with his mouth hung open in disbelief at what came from my sweet little 10-year old daughter’s body. Under ordinary circumstances, I would be mortified. I would admonish her for burping at the table but I can’t even be certain that was a burp! Clearly it was not something she could control and neither was the laughter that ensued. There was no reprimand, instead we nearly fell to the floor doubled-over in bellyaching hysterics. Really the timing was impeccable. It was truly a price-less moment.
After dessert (and regaining our composure) came the bill.
“I took $4 off because you had to wait so long at the beginning,” said Sistah.
Upon further scrutiny, I saw that she also gave us $4 in coupons for our next meal and we were not charged for the mozzarella sticks that never came.We were also not charged for our drinks. Nor were we charged for the ice-creams and carrot cake. Our bill came to $21 and change. It was 10pm.
I can’t remember the last time we laughed so much together as a family. I left a $15 tip. Thank you, Sistah!
Tell me, what curve balls has life thrown you lately?
Photo Credit #1: Jet Photos
Photo Credit #2 & #3: Me
Photo Credit #4: Google Images
Photo Credit #5: Brian Gray -Monster Burp
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Everything Must Go – Including Me!
“The only thing constant in life is change.”
François de la Roche Foucauld
This June, I will have lived at the same address for 19 years. It’s where my kids were born, learned to swim, catch a ball and ride a bike. It’s where I greeted trick-or-treaters and decorated for the holidays, where I chose to put my career aside to become a stay-at-home mom; planning day trips, hosting play-dates, pool parties and birthdays. There are no regrets. I wouldn’t have had it any other way for my kids and while many things have changed over the past 19 years, my address remained a constant.
Now, that’s about to change.
In preparation for this event, my daughter and I are having a MEGA lawn sale. For weeks we’ve been gathering items to be sold and we’re selling, EVERYTHING! From the attic to the basement, she and I have been cleaning house. We’ve gone through every closet, including the ones we used to hide in, from Nana, when she’d come to visit during the toddler years. We went through boxes, like those filled with plastic play-food my kids served in the restaurants they’d “open” on a weekly basis. We emptied drawers that housed costumes, like the one this “craft-challenged” mom fashioned out of a black pillow case by cutting holes in it for arms and eyes and then just putting it over my two-year old son’s head. (Who makes a ghost costume out of a black pillowcase??) He LOVED it and wore it all-year-long.
We cleared shelves full of games we played so often, so long ago. The ones they are too big for now. We even found the Spy-Alarm my son put on his bedroom door a few years back. Meant to be a deterrent, to keep his little sister out, a blaring alarm would sound if anyone (usually me) tried to enter his room without knowing the code. Of course, she figured out the code, every single time. He finally gave up and took it off. We’ve washed, sorted, bagged and tagged everything from Cinderella, Belle and Snow White dress up outfits, to books, baskets, Barbies and blankets. It’s been a wonderful opportunity to say “hello” again to so many treasures that have been resting in the dark for such a long time.
A heartwarming experience on several levels, working with my daughter has been a real treat. She’s been a driving force behind this endeavor and has been pretty amazing about giving up much of what she’s amassed over the past 10-years, even willing to say “good-bye” to Pooh.
“I don’t really play with him anymore. Maybe some other kid will. You know mom?”
I’m taking as little as possible with me. I don’t want to bring things from this house into my new home. Much of the sentimental value attached to a lot of our stuff was robbed a year ago, along with the over $10,500 worth of cash, jewelry and small electronics that walked out the door or should I say, climbed out the window, that winter. That whole occurrence plays a large role in why this house doesn’t really feel like a home anymore — to me anyway. And it’s not really what was taken, as much as what was left behind, that brought me, to this point of needing to go.
It was the constant discovery of yet another missing something that left behind feelings of anxiousness and wonder. It was the months of worry leaving behind so many sleepless nights. It was knowing that a “stranger” was watching our “comings and goings”, mine in particular and taking advantage of the “goings” by taking his time to root through our precious closets, boxes, drawers and shelves, our bedrooms and private things and taking our things, that left behind feelings of anger, fear and helplessness. It was the repeated invasion of privacy, more than eight times in four months, that ultimately left no love-loss between this house and me. Much as I tried, I just couldn’t continue to make it a home anymore. After a while, I didn’t want to.
In her little heart of hearts, I believe my daughter is as eager to leave as I am. She gets it. She always has.
A home should be a sanctuary, a haven, a warm peaceful retreat from life’s daily stresses. Honestly, it could be in a cardboard box, as long as it’s a happy place to be. A home should be and feel safe. When it doesn’t, it’s time to go.
I’m ready to go and to let go, eager to get on with this next adventure and continue life’s journey. And although I may not be taking many things with me, I will be taking all of those treasured memories that resurfaced while going from the attic to the basement. Those, I will keep forever in my heart.
Everything else, must go! Including me.
(And Edward of course. He goes where-ever I go.)
Tell me, where are life’s changes taking you?
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