Videoville - Just for Fun

You know, if you dress up a little ratty, people want to pet them. It's that simple. Just ask this lady who makes beautiful costumes for pretty little rats.

Easy Scottish Shortbread Cookies With Healthy Variations

Very easy to make: Scottish Shortbread Cookies

The other day, I wanted to bake cookies, but realized that at the apartment, I didn't have many ingredients I usually use when baking cookies. No baking soda or baking powder, and just a bit of sugar. I looked in an old cookbook, and to my surprise, did find one recipe with only three ingredients: flour, butter and white sugar. They were so easy, and were gone in a jiffy.

Because the ingredients are so natural and simple, this is a great recipe to make with small children.

Here's the basic recipe:

Scottish Shortbread Cookies

1 cup butter, room temperature - beat until fluffy
1 cup sugar - add to butter
2 1/2 cups flour - gradually add to butter/sugar mixture, 1/2 cup at a time, until just blended, and it forms into a single ball (much like a pie crust texture)

When it gets to this consistancy, you don't need to mix anymore.
It will make a ball, pulling away from the sides of the bowl.

Place on a floured board. Roll out into a 1/8" to 1/4" sheet. Place the whole thing on a cookie sheet. Pierce with a fork, and cut into squares.

Bake at 300 degrees until brown (depending on how thick you rolled it, it may cook from 20 to 30 minutes.

Take from the oven and separate while still warm.

Easy as pie...

Rolled out and ready for the oven

Here are some variations which you may add individually or in combinations:

For higher protein and lower carbs, replace 1 cup of flour with almond meal (which I found at Trader Joe's).

Replace some or all of the white sugar with brown sugar.

You can cut with cookie cutters, or roll out in a circle and cut into wedges like a pizza.

Crushed lavender flowers (no more than a half a teaspoon, unless you really like the floral taste of lavender). Mmmm...

Crushed rosemary (very finely crushed, and only 1/4 teaspoon).

Vanilla extract (I use homemade: to make it, slice several vanilla beans lengthwise, chop into 1/2" pieces, and drop into a bottle of bourbon, coniac or brandy, and allow to sit for at least six weeks before use. Then shake well.)

Or you can just scrape the seeds out of a vanilla bean and use them instead of extract.

Lemon or orange zest (finely grated peel)

1/3 cup currants

Crushed walnuts or pecans

1 Tablespoon Cinnamon

A dash of fresh ground Nutmeg

Sprinkle with sugar or sprinkles before baking



Recommendation: If you do a lot of baking, you might want to consider purchasing a sturdy mixer, like the Kitchen Aid stand mixer. They come in a variety of sizes, are heavy duty, and last a lifetime. They also come in lots of pretty colors. You can buy attachments for them, like a pasta maker or meat grinder. I bought a new 5 quart one at Dillards last week, and am getting a free glass bowl with the purchase.

http://www.shopkitchenaid.com/countertop-appliances-1/stand-mixers-3/102020011/?WT.srch=1

Enjoy!

Friday Flash: Butter Frosting

Butter Frosting

It’s four-O-three in the morning and I am awake. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock…

Now it’s four-O-five and a half. I am alone in my wakened state in a large, empty house. It has been an hour since the last time I looked at the clock. Or so it seems.

I notice I am starving.

The Cake

It’s that damned homemade cake with butter frosting.

That confection has been on my mind ever since it came out of the oven, unfrosted. Now that it is decorated in butter and powdered sugar, it's calling me by name.
I shall ignore, I say to myself.

But it cries out even as the clock has halted its ticking. “It’s lonely down here in the kitchen under this stupid glass,” I hear a grumpy little voice rising from downstairs. “I’m afraid of thunder, don’t you know? Nobody loves me.” Is it whining, now?

The Storm

It started raining at precisely at midnight, tonight. I could hear dripping on the sill outside my window as I turned out the light. I was waiting to drift off into an artificially induced sleep as the sound of angry thunder came rumbling down the hill beyond the garden gate. It sloshed through the meadow and stumbled o’er the trees to rest upon the metal rooftop above my bed, where it pattered like a dozen barefoot schoolboys.

Strange thoughts had settled into my head as I lay there in the dark.

Luckily, that’s when slumber came. It swooshed up unexpectedly from out of my brain on the left hand side, slightly above the ear. Here. It slithered down across my shoulders and curled itself back up my neck, at last climbing into my eyes, holding them closed from the inside out, even momentarily against my will.

The dripping got louder for a moment, and then…nothing…

But the artificial sleep inducing pill doesn’t last long when the recipient only takes a quarter and not even a half a pill because of concerns with the possible side effects posted in a patchwork quilt of warnings on the bottle. This time it’s magic had lasted until just after three fifteen a.m., when I finally got up to go to the bathroom.

It was barely raining now, but the leftover drippings from the leaking gutters were much louder than they had been at midnight. They crashed into the tiny river that had now formed on the ground below, sounding more like clanging wind chimes than watery little plops.

The Labels

I got up again and flipped on the naked bathroom light, reaching into the cabinet for an hour's worth more sleep, when a label on the side of the label right beside the prescription label suddenly caught my eye. “Do not take the other half of that half at this time of night, or you'll be hopelessly out of your mind tomorrow. Get up, instead. Do not watch television or read anything disquieting. Don't eat. Do something relaxing until you are drowsy again. What? How would we know what relaxes you; surely something…”

That isn’t word for word what the label on the label said, but that was the jest of it. Yes, jest as in “You’ve got to be kidding”. For why would a bottle of sleep tell you to find something to do instead of taking one of its members?

The Cake Again

Back to the cake that troubles me still, with its winsome face and never ending chatter.

Why did I bake it when I could have bought a single one; a little cupcake from a fancy shop, enveloped in pretty paper, wrapped up in a bakery box with cellophane on top. That would have been so wise.

So chic.

So “2011”.

The Thief

I find myself rising from bed once again. I am painfully weary of listening to that naughty cake’s complaints. I descend the stair and enter the kitchen. Strange. The glass cover sits beside the cake, and the knife is out on the counter. A large slice has been removed. Whoever did it didn’t know how to slice a cake properly. They chopped off a hunk from the side…getting more than their share of frosting, I might add.

Breathing heavily, I consider this. My cake has been disfigured. I feel quite uneasy, for as I told you, I am alone in this house tonight. I hurriedly pull the curtains closed, and check the window locks and the kitchen door. All are secure, as usual. This makes no sense. Unless...

So, I think to myself:

This means someone must have entered through the door, perhaps with a key, and cut a piece of cake, (wrongly sliced and overly large) and left with it in their bare hand. As I brush a bit of hair out of my eyes, my fingers get caught on a sticky knot in my tresses. Then I notice a hint of buttery frosting under my fingernails. There are even cake crumbles upon my cheek.

Strange…and even more interesting…

…the intruder must have climbed the stair, hands full of cake, and sat upon my bed to eat his overly large and improperly sliced piece of cake as his watched me sleeping soundly during the storm. (It had to be a man, for no woman would ever take such a large piece or cut it from the side, even if they love butter frosting more than anything.) I hope I was sleeping with my mouth closed while he sat and ate…I’m glad I was wearing my lacy floral gown…I have a secret admirer…who loves cake every bit as much as I do!

Me and the Cake

I take down my finest dessert plate, pull out my favorite silver plated fork, and proceed to cut a chunk of cake from off the other side. “You know,” the cake says to me, “you should get a bigger slice of me than the one the ‘thief’ took. After all, it’s your house, and I am your beloved cake.” I sit down in the living room, and hear the little voice once more; this time coming from the plate in my sticky little hands. “You do love me,” the cake coos. “Don’t gobble, my love. But savor every delicious bite."
Goodnight.

Cadbury Eyebrows

Cadbury Eyebrows (official version)

I just wanted to share this with you. The best part is when she breaks out the pink balloon. My daughter Joie put this on her facebook page. The little girl reminds me of her.

I have never wanted to have fancy eyebrows before this. My tongue is sort of fancy, though.

Saving the Horse; a Kid's Story

I always wanted to be a writer. I had no time to read, mind you. I was much too busy playing outside, making up my own stories through what I now like to call "creative play". (Ordinary childhood imagination.)

Nevertheless, by fifth grade, I had a well developed novel in my head. (The "well developed" part may be slightly exaggerated.) I remember talking to one of my friends about it as we kicked dust about on the playground.

I was writing this story about a horse whose evil owner wouldn't allow it to have carrots. Why? I have no idea. But as a result, the horse began to go blind. (You understand the correlation between carrots and eyesight...my mom taught me that, I think.) The horse stumbled often, and became very depressed. That is, until a little neighbor girl (Moi, mayhaps?) began secretly sneaking carrots to the horse. Within a very short time, the horse began to see; first vague outlines, and then images. Suddenly one day the horse got a good look at the little girl and gave her a horsy kiss right on the cheek.

One night the evil owner caught the girl feeding carrots to his horse. He probably had a shotgun or maybe he just called the sheriff. Anyway, he was enraged and had her banned from...sneaking into the barn and bringing carrots. Again, the poor horse began going blind, and the little girl franticly continued to attempt to sneak carrots to her long tailed friend. Alas, to no avail. An occasional carrot could not save the horse's eyesight.

Luckily, one day the bad guy dies. I never got to the detail of how he died. I was much too innocent to have imagined that the little girl hero kid would kill him, so it must have been an accident or brief illness. A lady who inherited the estate didn't like the horse. He was blind. She gave him to the little girl. "Take him! He's blind. I don't want a blind horse." The little girl told the lady about carrots, but the lady didn't care. "Just get him out of my sight!" So the girl happily took him home and kept the horse in...her bedroom or something? I don't know. It didn't matter. She started giving him carrots again, and voila! You know the end. Happily sighted ever after.


So I always wanted to be a writer. Never mind that I hated reading novels. I loved reading illustrated children's books aloud.

So the moral of this story: feed horses carrots. There's no real point to this story...just "hello".

Visit http://deberklein.com to see my art and check out one of my blogs, Little Pink Spaceship Gazette. You also might enjoy http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com and http://cottageonthenew.com, and http://tarpapersubmarine.blogspot.com .

I can't help it. I am a blogging junkie.

Romancing the Chicken

It's almost Easter, and images of chicks are everywhere.
I recall when I was about eight years old, and Mama and Daddy took us kids down to the feed store the week before Easter. It was a thing in those days for feed stores to have big incubators full of chicken eggs, ready to hatch. Farmers could replenish their chicken supply after a long winter. Of course, before Easter, some of the eggs had been injected with dyes, so chicks would tumble out of the egg already colored a fashionable peach or green or purple. Easter chicks. That one year, our parents bought each of us a freshly hatched chick.

Geese, Gennie Hens and Chickens for sale at a flea market. I bought two geese that day, but that's another story.

Maybe that's why I found myself wanting chickens a few years back.
We had three acres in town and it was legal to have a certain number of farm animals. My husband is patient and tolerant. You might imagine that chickens make for good water cooler conversation at work. Besides, my daughter-in-law Jennipher wanted a half dozen chickens or so, but you had to order at least 25 chickens at a time. I don't know why. Free shipping or a chicken discount or maybe to get them sexed (where they just give you females or males). One day she stopped by with the Chicken Catalog and we split the order. Bill built a coop and a fenced in chicken yard, and I became a city girl chicken farmer for a while.


My grandson feeding the chickens, about 10 years ago. Every kid likes to feed the chickens.

Then again, maybe I wanted chickens because I come from a long line of farmers and chickens are in my blood.
When I was a kid, we went to my grandparent's farm every summer. Sometimes I'd get to help Grandmother do chores. Certain chores, that is. For example, Grandmama didn't usually let us go with her to milk Birdie, her beautiful brown cow. Birdie was a delicate old girl, and didn't appreciate cold little hands upon her sensitive teats. Icy, ill fitting fingers made her hold her milk back, as you can imagine. (Especially you nursing moms!) And that was bad business for Grandmama.

But if we got up early enough, we could help gather eggs. Grandmama would hand my sister and me a wire basket, and we'd go through the pasture, over the crude little foot bridge that straddled the creek, and up the hill to the whitewashed chicken houses. There were two of them. They smelled like old wood mingled with dirt, feathers and chicken feed. The smaller one was made from my grandparent's first one room cabin. The second one was their first two room cabin. Granddaddy had built nesting boxes across the walls, and when the chickens weren't scratching around on the farm, they were laying in those boxes.

There's something about being eight years old and reaching your tiny arm right up to your elbow between a straw filled nesting box and a chicken's soft, warm featherd body, feeling for eggs.


Granddaddy's farm from Echo Hill. The chicken houses are the two roofs in the front.



Soon the basket was full, and we headed back to the house, where we sat around the kitchen table cleaning and boxing the eggs for market.

Chicken Dogs are bad for business:
One day we saw Granddaddy walking thru the yard with his shotgun and a shovel. He had a big Collie by the collar, and he was headed for the back of the barn where he was going to shoot and bury it. Of course, my sister and I didn't understand. Why would our granddaddy want to kill Lassie?

"It's a chicken dog," Granddaddy said. "He got into the chicken house and killed about fourty hens. Most animals kill for food. But a chicken dog kills for sport. Once a dog started killing chickens, it'll never stop." I remember the crack of that shotgun. No more chicken dog. It was a hard lesson in reality.

Unfortunately, (speaking of chicken dogs and reality),  my own chicken farming days didn't last too long. They ended less than two years after they had begun, when two neighborhood dogs were running loose. They dug under the fence to kill all dozen of my poor chickens while I was out. In about 30 minutes, they managed to maul and slaughter every one of them, just for fun. Like Granddaddy said. The poor rooster, good husband and defender of the hens that he was, had fought bravely. But in the end, his limp body was carried down the road in the mouth of one of those dogs. Chicken dogs.

Every now and then, I miss those chickens. I miss hearing the rooster crow. I long for the cooing and clucking as the hens scratch around in the yard. Most of all, I want to experience once more the feel the warmth of a hen sitting on a freshly laid bunch of eggs as I gently reach in to gather them. 
Yes. The notion of raising chickens is romantic and old-fashioned these days; it's instinctive for many of us. But frankly, I'm getting too old to go out on a cold winter's day to feed chickens. But that's a story for another day.

My oldest daughter Kathleene, on Easter morning. About 1971. Sponge curlers, flowered panties and jelly beans.

Happy Easter!

The List: Evil Taskmaster or Best Friend Ever?

I hate lists. I have even been accused of fearing lists. Though I realize that a list is nothing but a piece of paper with words on it, words have power. Especially if each word is preceeded by a number, a period and a space. To make a list is to set requirements, either for someone you are in charge of, or for yourself; requirements that the list holder is obliged to either dutifully perform, or slothfully ignore.

List + Holder = Obligation

So, you might say, if there is no list, there are no requirements. Right? Wrong.

That's only how some of us would like to think things are. But the truth is, list or no list, there are things that must be done each day, each week, each month and each year, in order to keep life running smoothly and free of guilt, shame and needless prison sentences. Sample List follows:
1. Do dishes
2. Make bed
3. Get car inspected
4. Pay taxes
5. Feed kids/pets/husband
6. Buy toilet paper, milk, onions
7. Tote barge, lift bail, jump down, turn around, pick bail of cotton (or is that, "pick pail of cotton"?)


Obviously, #7 is where I personally screw it all up. #7 = Bad Attitude.

Instead of seeing The List as the simple tool that it is, I view it as Master. (Surely you have heard of Master List.) Suddenly realizing this, I find myself delving into why I see The List as Master rather than Tool.

Hmm. A mystery to be solved. Shall I make another list?


1. The first person to consider as the possible creator of this unsavory attitude would be dear old mom. ("Poor Mama," I say sympathetically, being a mother, myself. "Isn't everything her fault?") After brief consideration, I can't recall Mama ever making written lists for me. The unwritten Saturday Cleaning List was permanently emblazoned in her brain. She had only one written list. Her annual Christmas Card List. An unassuming, non-threatening, happy list for the even the laziest of list-haters.

2. The next possible source of my bad attitude must be someone who actually makes lists. Aha! (Why didn't I think of this immediately?) I can blame this Anti-List Attitude on my husband, Bill. He loves The List. As a matter of fact, his whole life is ordered by daily lists which pile up in his day planner, upon turned over pages scrawled on yellow legal pads, and scribbled on tiny, torn off scraps of paper on the bedroom dresser until completed. Yep. East of saved receipts and west of a well worn wallet which no longer fully closes, spattered with spare change.
Let me exaggerate...I mean, extrapolate upon the matter. Not only are these Lists long and complex, but they are often accompanied with deadlines which may or may not be invisible. "These things must be done by 10:00 a.m.; these, by noon. In all honesty, however, my hubby's chronic list making habit is hardly the source of my personal angst and defiance towards The List. (Don't tell him, but they may be the only reason things get done around here.)

At this juncture, I can tell that you see right through me, darn it! So I confess!

3. The true reason I hate The List so passionately is simple (and perhaps a little selfish). I'm an artist at the mercy of my own creativity. It ebbs and flows like the tides, only less regularly or predictable. So The List can interrupt my fragile creative flow. Once disturbed, I may never get that moment back again. (Sobs briefly.) This noted, I am learning that a list does not an evil taskmaster make. Instead, a list is a tool worthy of grattitude and admiration. You're no longer slave to the list but master of your world. With trusty list in hand, life can be effecient and managable, even in the wake of unruly creative whims.

Bear with me while I make one last list - a "How to Make a List" list:


1. (Via my friend Betty, of http://www.freekidscrafts.com/) Always make #1 be "make list". Then after the list is completed, you can check #1 off and take a celebratory break.
2. Keep the list brief, so you won't be overwhelmed.
3. Number your list according to priorities, if possible. If not, put a star * beside those things.
4. As things are done, check them off.
5. Put some easy things down so you'll be sure to have some "checks".
6. Remember. Checks are the goal. Get lots of checks.
7. And also remember. If one of those creative moments hits, go with it. The list will still be there when you're done.

Voila! I can now check off "Write About Lists". Really, that wasn't on the list. It was one of my moments. The list is still on the desk at the foot of my silver writing box. It says, "Change Sheets". That's half done. Later, gater. Happy List!

It's Scary Out There!

I feel troubled today, kind of like Mr. Monk whom we all know and love.  I'm feeling a little scared and out of place in this jungle we call home.

This is a crazy world, and growing crazier by the moment. As a matter of fact, it’s getting downright scary. And confusing. So I decided that the best way to comfort myself is to review what I know is true, and pass it on to you.


In my childhood world, right was right and wrong was wrong. It was a simpler time. Things were clear. Of course, I realize in retrospect that there were plenty of things that needed change. Serious things. But I was a child. I was only aware of my little world.

Now things are rapidly changing, and what was right (and should have been) when I was growing up is now becoming wrong. And what was wrong is becoming right. Logic and common sense hardly seem to exist anymore.

That’s why I am keeping my Bible closer these days. When I wake up in the morning, I turn to Psalms and read. Sometimes I copy it down in my own hand. Nothing comforts a troubled soul quite like Psalms.

Believe me, I’m not the “religious” type. I’m more of the rebellious type. If everyone says I should do something or believe a certain way, I ask questions. I reject political correctness. I try to observe only the honest for God’s sake, things that are true.

So, who is this God I talk about? Where does He come from, and how do I know he even exists? I’ve asked myself this many times. One day years ago, I asked God this; where he came from, and who made him. I prayed for him to show me, and then randomly opened my Bible to Exodus 3, the Moses story. I remember thinking, “There’s nothing new in Exodus for me.” I’d been raised on Bible stories, and knew Exodus well. God’s people, the flight from Egypt, crossing the Red Sea. Charleton Heston. (I mean, really.) My eyes went right to Exodus 3: 13-14, where Moses said to God, “…and whom shall I say sent me?” And God said, “I Am that I am. Tell them I Am sent you.”

I am that I am. I understood immediately, just as Moses had. I understood that I will never be able to fully understand this, for in our finite minds, we cannot understand some great things. It is up to us to just accept or reject them.

I can’t say that accepting God is a choice for me. When it comes to living this life fully, I know I can’t do that apart from God. He is my strength and my source, a very present help in times of trouble.

Whew. I feel a little better now.

Blessings, my friend.

deber

Hello, Baby!

We are grateful to God to be blessed with another little child in the family.

Hello, World!

On Saturday, my youngest son and his wife called to ask me a couple of “labor” questions, and then called the obstetrician. They next called sister Sydney to come and watch their 3 ½ year old son, and they headed for the hospital to meet their new daughter for the first time, face to face. She came into the world late that night. Tiny, bright-eyed and strong.

Izzy loves Annabelle

We went up to see the baby yesterday, arriving just a little after 1:00 pm.

I’d like to share a few pictures with you, and some thoughts on babies and new life. I doubt that anything in here is original. Birth is one of the greatest wonders of the human experience. We are all kindrid spirits when it comes to such a miracle. Nevertheless, I offer these thoughts to you:

Though Bill and I missed seeing my grandson meet his sister for the first time, we did get to see it on film. Big brother has been anxiously awaiting his new sister for months now, calling her by her name (one of the lovely things about modern technology and learning the sex of the baby before birth).

We were told that he ran back and forth in the room for a minute, until he could get his excitement under control. Then they sat him on the bed beside his mamma, and put the baby gently in his arms. He sang a song to her. “I love you Annabelle, o’ yes I do…” Twice.



There's something about a man who knows how to handle a baby.



Lots of people get teary eyed when they first behold their tiny new family members. I do, and some of my mushier daughters do. Looking into a newborn’s eyes absolutely melts me like warm butter on a summer day.



Grandfathers have a knack for rocking babies. At least, my husband does. He always has. There’s nothing quite like observing a professional, well seasoned father doing what comes naturally.

Good fathers (…eventually aging gracefully into granddads…) are incredibly sexy, by the way.



One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten little piggies.



As I said earlier, we’re grateful for another child in the family. Ten fingers and ten very long toes! But I also meant, we are grateful for this particular child. There's only one like this one. Sure, she may come into this earthly kingdom with Mama’s eyes or Aunt Joie’s gentle disposition or Grandpa Bill’s energy, but she also brings into the family her own special way of participating with and contributing to the family, and later, the world.

You may remember a certain TV mom who used to tell each of her children, “I love you best,” as she tucked them into bed.

I could always identify with that. If you’ve got several children, you know what I mean. The one you love best is the one you’re with at any given moment. (Of course, if you’ve got them all there for the holiday dinner, it’s the one who talks to you while helping you clean the kitchen. All of mine always help, so what am I saying?...I have to say that or else...)



The whole beautiful family.

 


I want to leave you with this verse from Psalms. It's good to remember the author of life at a joyful time such as this.



Psalm 139:13-16 ESV 

For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.


deber

Judging Mothers

I don’t think I’d been in the craft store for more than five minutes when I heard lamenting of Biblical proportions coming from the opposite end of the store.

It was a classic four year old melt-down. Five minutes later, it had not subsided. After 15 minutes, the mega-tantrum was still in full bloom, and I decided to mosey over and nonchalantly check things out, making sure the kid wasn't broken or being beaten or anything. Maybe I could encourage the poor mom with a smile. I don’t know…something.

The scene I stumbled upon was one I had seen before. One I have experienced before, I might add. Many times. Permit me to describe it to you in detail:


This thirty-something mother was trying to shop with her three children, two young sons and a daughter. Mother had a list which she was pretending to be looking over, but I suspected that she was just maintaining a calm exterior as she melted inside. She pushed the cart slowly as her youngest child, a beautiful dark haired little girl, sobbed bitterly, her fragile heart obviously shattered into tiny pieces like cheap glass on a tile floor. Deep, salty rivers streaked down her red cheeks from her eyes and from her nose. "Please, Mommy," she begged. "I want it! I need it. Please buy me that doll. I NEED HER! Waaaaa!" (Sob, sob, and so on and so forth.)

The stoic mother remained visually calm as she robotically repeated the words, “No. You don’t need another toy.” Meanwhile, her daughter continued to fling herself from side to side in the cart, lunging at the doll which was by now at least two isles away.

The two older brothers, wise in their youth, walked bravely and silently on either side of the cart. The whole event had the dirge-like feel of a New Orleans funeral, with piped in oldies playing in the background, instead of a home-grown blues band. It was somewhat poignant for me, believe it or not; I thought of my own children and how they had mourned over toys not bought.

At this juncture, I must add this “aside” about dolls and me. If you know me, you know without my saying that I wanted to buy this kid the doll. There’s nothing quite like a little girl and her baby doll. Little girls learn how to be mommies by playing with dolls. Besides, I’m a seasoned mother and grandmother, well able to be manipulated by tiny broken hearts and sobbing four year olds girls.

After all, I almost died for my brand new Tiny Tears when I was only three years old. (I hope I haven’t already told you this before!) She fell from my arms, and I dove into Little Lake Joe after her. My dad had to save me from drowning. I remember him pulling off his shirt as he ran into the water towards me. He carried me ashore, breathless and blue. Lifeless, they thought. But not giving up, an old man in the gathering crowd held me upside down until the water drained from my little lungs. Then I wanted my doll, so Daddy swam out to the middle of the lake to rescue Tiny Tears as well. My life was complete.

Back to the story at hand:

Once I saw that everything was normal and determined that the mother was not only not abusing her child, but was a living saint, I decided I must depart. I got in line and waited.

Soon I heard this twangy voice behind me saying, “Well!” (…deep breath in through the nose…) “That’s just bad parenting!”

I stood there in silence for a moment, pondering what to do. I could either say something to defend the saint-mama or be quiet. Again, if you know me, you know I couldn’t just stand there and let that lady criticize Saint-Mama. I turned only slightly towards the voice behind me. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see two thin, red painted lips tightly pursed in parental condemnation.

“You know, I don’t think it’s bad parenting,” I said slowly. “She’s doing the best she can. Kids have different personalities, and some are…”

“It’s bad parenting,” she interrupted.

“Well,” I said, persisting. (It was already time to pull the 8 Kids Card on her. I’m never above pulling the 8 Kids Card when necessary…it’s the undeniable privilege of having a big family…)“Well, I raised 8 kids, and I can tell you that some of my kids were well-b…”

“Well, I have raised TWO kids and they NEVER acted like that,” she said, her shrill voice raising at least two decibels. “If they had, we’d have gone right home. Then and there!”

I turned around and looked fully at her. Those little red lips were flexing now, ready for action. The Two Compliant Teenagers stood beside her, life-sized tin soldiers behaving perfectly, evidence of Sixteen Years or so of Obvious Superior Parenting.

My face was reddening. My blood pressure rising. I had two choices. One, I could say what I was thinking, which is seldom a good thing. I don’t like public confrontation, even when I am right. “People with two compliant kids are always experts on how everybody else should raise their kids,” I was thinking I should say. (My husband remembers it as “You had the luck of the draw, lady.” Because the rest of the afternoon I had told him everything I thought I should have said…). Or I might have simply said, “Are you serious?”
Option Two, I could turn back around and just let it go. Peering into the eyes of the friend standing next to her, I thought the friend was silently trying to convey something. I'd like to believe her eyes were saying, “Please. Say it…please!” But I think she was saying, “Don’t let her get to you, honey. You can't reason with a woman like this."
So I chose to say nothing. My face broke into a funny, uncomfortable smile and I closed my ready mouth and turned around. You know, they always say, “Silence is Golden”. They forget to add how painful it can be…

Why am I sharing this with you? Well, two reasons:

First for people who see a scene like that taking place in public: Have mercy. You probably had a tantrum or two when you were a kid. It’s part of growing up. Don’t tell me it isn’t. It is.

Then, for moms who are in the midst of the moment: Don’t listen to those people who are talking behind your back saying things like, “Why don’t she get control of that youngin’. I’d take him out and whup him” (That is what some folks say down here.) Or they say, “That’s just bad parenting,”…ignore them. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

Be brave. Never give up. And don’t give in.
This is temporary, I assure you.

Some day they’re going to be all grown up, and they’ll say, “Mom, how did you put up with me for all those years.”


And you’ll say, “Oh, you've always been a good kid.”