It took 143 years and the state of Montana to get into the room and another 90 years of working the room, but there’s finally a woman on top.
George, John, Sam and the boys jawed and threw back a few in September 1774 at the First Continental Congress in Philadelphia.
In 1917 they let Jeannette Rankin in the Sixty-fifth Congress.
And as the 110th Congress kicks off, 233 years in the making, Nancy Pelosi will lead the House of Representatives.
233 years. Work it, honey.
Christmas came early this year. And just when I needed it.
The PDA or Parental Display of Affection is uncommon in the Parent-Teen world. Even rarer is the TRPDA. Teen Request for Parental Display of Affection.
And so it was that I hit pay dirt very early this morning.
I was awakened around 5 a.m. to the sound of my seventeen-year-old daughter’s voice, timid, frightened. “Mo-mmy? I had a bad dream.”
The far right will be relieved to know that the hard wiring installed in me somewhere between conception, labor and delivery is still intact. Between the “Mo-” and the “-mmy” I was conscious, vertical and capable of brain surgery if called upon.
She stood at the side of my bed, hands clasped together against her chest, shivering.
Instinctively I reached out. Tentative yet aching. Afraid that she’d tighten and recoil as had become our custom.
My palms gingerly cupped her shoulders as I pulled her in. Before either of us knew what had happened, she yielded. And I was holding her, rocking back and forth, back and forth.
Cradling her, we walked to her room. As she lay in bed, murmuring how she didn’t like bad dreams, I stroked her forehead, her cheeks. Like touching the face of God herself.
And then, the rhythmic breathing telling me all was well.
The break of dawn brought a cup of hot coffee and dreary, low 40s rain. But I’m unaware. My heart is afire.
‘Twas a night in December, and all through the house
not a body was stirring, not even my spouse.
School uniforms were lost in the house without care
in hopes that Christmas break soon would be there.
The Teenagers were grudgingly prone in their beds
while visions of homework invaded their heads.
And hub in his boxers and I with my wine
had just settled in and were feeling just fine.
When down in the kitchen there came such commotion,
the mom in me bolted with a single swift motion.
On down the stairs I flew in a blaze
then stopped - half-asleep, still in a daze.
The bulb on the stove shed just enough light
to illuminate the setting now clearly in sight.
When what to my misty eyes did appear?
Two toddlers in pjs, grins ear to ear!
With sippy cups of oj and blankies in hand
they whispered and giggled, then away they both ran.
But sure like the sunrise the bickering appeared
and they whined and they shouted, then taunted and jeered:
“No, Hannah! No, Caleb!” Now push, shove and pinch -
“Stop, Caleb! Mine, Hannah!” Neither one gave an inch.
To the top of the couch, to the top of the chair!
More shouting, more whining! And pulling of hair!
Then almost as quickly as the bick’ring had commenced
the chaos subsided, their voices less tense.
As I peered ‘round the corner to take just a peek,
they were cuddled and quiet, peaceful and meek.
The alarm broke the silence, the coffee is on,
All the noise in the kitchen soon will be gone.
My son now a senior, off to college next year,
His sister, a junior; It’s becoming quite clear.
In Christmases future we may be apart,
and those Christmases past take a piece of my heart,
So I’ll live in the moments we’re given this year
And cherish the gift of my babes being near.
The view out my dining room window this morning sucked. Brown. Dirty. Dead leaves and dog poop popping through the receding foot of snow we got last week.
Oh great. Two weeks to Christmas and now this.
It put me in that end-of-February-when-everybody-but-me-goes-to-Mexico humor.
If I lifted my gaze a few degrees, I could see the same snow sans the yuck. Just beyond my back yard, in the field and on the ridge leading into the woods. But even when I looked straight out, the foreground of ugly was still in my line of sight.
Then I tried tilting my head back, chin pointing north, in an attempt to look at the distant white snow while blocking out the dead leaves and dog poop. All that got me was a cramped neck muscle and crossed eyes.
I figure that into every life a few dead leaves and dog poop must drop. Some days you get the snow to cover it. Some days you don’t.
Dear God. It’s me again. And I know that you’re there in the dead leaves and dog poop, too.
But a little fresh snow wouldn’t hurt.
There are several joys to a snow storm, frigid temps and a foot of snow in early December.
An early end to a week of subbing for 8th graders. The darlings. They’re so special. I love them. Seriously.
Camouflaging the dog poop in the back yard. Bonus for the frigid temps transforming an odorous, messy task into a popping-poopsicles-into-the-plastic-Target-bag adventure.
Providing when-I-was-your-age manual labor for the 18 year old.
An opportunity to witness the 17 year old put a real winter hat over her 45 minute hair.
Hearing the glee in the Teenagers’ voices as they leave the house 15 minutes earlier to de-ice and warm up their car.
An excellent reason to transition from Jack Daniels to Bun Warmers.
Yes, I’m still here.
No, I don’t have the flu.
No, the Black Hole has not come a calling.
Yes, I’m well.
I’m subbing.
Yes, Jack Daniels is a doll.
Thank God for some parents in Shiloh, Illinois.
If it weren’t for them, the stacks of the Shiloh Elementary School library would have remained surreptitiously infested with yet another attempt by the gay propaganda machine to corrupt the minds of our children.
As a result of the efforts of these noble morality warriors, the light has been shone on the darkness of And Tango Makes Three, the illustrated children’s book based on the true story of Roy and Silo, two Central Park Zoo male penguins who shared a nest and raised Tango, the chick who hatched from a fertilized egg given to them by a zookeeper.
Move that book to where it belongs - behind the curtain in the basement.
Perhaps a bit too warrior?
Not to worry. The Shiloh parents only wanted to have Tango banished to the “mature” section of the library. Require a parent’s signature to check it out.
Amen. That way there’s more room in the children’s section for those lovely war books.
Hey God. It’s me. How you doin’?
How you doin’, Sandy?
Eh, okay today, god. Whoops. Missed the capital there, God. Sorry.
No problem. It doesn’t matter. It’s dressing. It’s not who I am.
Oh. I thought you’d be offended.
Why?
Well. It’s due you. After all, you’re God.
I don’t care how you spell my name. Or what you call me for that matter. Just talk to me. That’s all.
Yea, I know. Not done too good a job with that lately, have I?
I understand.
Why? Don’t you get pissed at me for ditching you so much?
No. Sad. But not angry.
Why sad?
Because I miss you. I miss our talks.
Yea. Me, too.
Uh, same time tomorrow?
I’ll be here.
to the tune of “Bye Bye Blackbird”
The Democrats put on quite the show
Now it’s time for Rums to go
Bye bye Donald
You sure put up one helluva fight
Thank god, George, you saw the light
Bye bye Donald
I know how no one ever understood you
But you kept stepping in big piles of doo doo
You’ve made your bed, turn out the light
The new boy arrives late tonight
Donald, bye bye!
All I wanted to do was buy two potholders and a box of soap dispensing scrub wand refills.
The big box store had them.
Willing buyer, willing seller.
I give you money, you give me the stuff.
In. Out.
I don’t blame the cashier. She just asks the questions.
But for the love of Sister Jean Clare, enough.
No, I don’t want to give you my telephone number.
No, this won’t be on my big box store account.
No, I don’t have an account.
No, thank you, I don’t want one.
No, I don’t want to donate $1 to Charity X so you, big box store, can donate a collective mega amount to write off as a corporate charitable deduction.
Oh for the good old Woolworth days.