In the Words of My Son

There is more than one writer in the family, my fourteen year old son wrote an essay on patriotism for his school. Whether he places or does not it makes his father and I very proud at his thoughtfulness and introspection. Even as I hope for a writer out of my creative brood,I am and will always be proud of him and his sisters. Their father and I are constantly amazed at our many blessings and good fortune.
This my friends is his blog today, I give you the words of my son.

PATRIOTISM
BY: H Peterson

Patriotism is the love of your homeland .It is also about the blood sweat and tears that are shed for it and the sacrifices that are made to keep it free. My father is in the military and has been away from home for 2 years, He comes home in December before Christmas this will be the first Christmas that we have had with him in that time. Patriotism is not always easy especially for military families. You can love your country and still struggle with the hard parts of that love.
Patriotism is more than just a word and only just a word until you see it in action. It’s the families left behind, the many moments you can’t get back, the holidays you miss and wishing for an end to fighting that will bring your parent home. It’s doing without because you know that why they are gone is important.
I am surrounded by people every day who can’t imagine being apart from their Dad for as long as we have, but could you imagine our country without people willing to do that to keep this nation free?
Patriots are the ones who are loyal to their country and stand up for what they believe in. No matter what branch of the military someone is in, we should make it clear that we are all thankful, even if some people don’t show it just know they are better off for what you do.
I have many friends and family members in different branches, the Marine Corp, the Air force and the Navy, they all have one thing in common, all of them sacrifice and so do their families. They have taught me pride and a sense of family.
We should honor our heroes at all times by keeping in mind that what they do doesn’t pay a lot; it has long hours and can be dangerous. When someone decides to support their military they also act like a patriot.

Candy Corn and a leaf Blower.

There is something about fall that makes me want to clean and organize and decorate. Forget spring cleaning, I save that for outdoor activities, who wants to be washing curtains and scrubbing like a scullery maid when it is gorgeous out? So this weekend I did our annual clean and purge. We try not to hang onto unnecessary things or things that might benefit someone else, we no longer need. It’s crazy to carry excess when you move every three years.

This means that no one in my family was happy except my husband who is in Germany and truant for the drudgery. It’s the story of his life, any odious task like moving or deep cleaning is done while he is in another country, witness protection or both.
So we set out to clean and make room for the holidays.
I try to instill in my children a sense of fairness and generosity, by teaching them to give toys to charity to make room for new things they will receive at Christmas. For my older children this task was difficult to do at first but once they got the idea, they now run with it every year.
Our youngest child has not nor will she ever I am certain, embrace the idea of giving things away. She could have a Barbie that looks like Sinead O’Connor, because she decided to get creative with her Fiskar scissors and still not want to surrender it. We did not want to leave her with a negative feeling about giving but are usually at a loss for what to do. Then one evening I was watching Clean House, the program where Niecy Nash promises gifts and items to homeowners if the obstinate couple lags or drags their feet as an inspiration to purge. I don’t understand hoarding, but that is a whole other blog.
I felt this was pure genius.
The youngest favorite candy of the season is Candy Corn, she loves it so much she once ate them dried glue and all, off a paper that she brought home from school for math and counting, bless her little candy corn heart.
I shamelessly used the power of the candy corn for my own selfish purpose.
A half of a bag of candy later I had a clean room and a happy child. I know it’s a lot like rewarding a dog, but don’t judge, three very bald Hannah Montana dolls are worth 6 candy corn. Every six broken happy Meal toys you throw out gets you one candy corn. My way is painless and tasty.
I also love decorating my house for the changes. We are lovers of gourds, pumpkins, bales of hay and colorful leaves swagged on the mantel. I like mowing the lawn for that last time and setting up my decorations, the family gets right into the spirit. Moving makes the rituals and decorations a constant for us, giving us a center and great memories. This is the time of year I make lots of chili and soups, it all feels cozy. We will press leaves and break out our sweaters.
This year for Halloween we are feeling a little Roman and are inspired to be Gladiators and or maybe wear togas. Last year we were Rastafarian. We have no shame when it comes to costume ideas. One year I wore pink camouflage.
I only have one complaint, I hate raking leaves. It is frustrating and time consuming. I am lazy and will not hesitate to tell you I have what I refer to as, “The leafsuckerblower” to do my dirty work. No, that is not the name, but what I, as a true chick decided to call it. There is a bag for mulching and it blows and sucks all errant leaves into submission. It is my favorite fall item ever. I love to attack leaves and see my progress. I am almost methodical and obsessed with this activity. No one else gets to touch it and the children speak of it in hushed whispers wondering if they will ever get the chance to wield its awesome power. Someday Grasshopper, if you can take the pebble from my hand… well maybe not even then.

Swine Flu

We are at war here in my house. The enemy has made headlines. Yes, dare I say it, Swine Flu, or as we have taken to calling it, Piggy Flu. It lessens the dark and odious feel that the official name carries. Our version conjures up images of Miss Piggy karate chopping Kermit in a fit of misplaced angst and unrequited love.
The other version has us making right with Jesus and asking our friends not to let our loved ones put a mumu on us as our final outfit or to have an open casket if they do.
I have been using Lysol like mace, to ward off my precious yet infected children and bleaching everything. The sad state of affairs is that as I write this my efforts are for naught.
I am feeling that familiar ache up my spine and in my shoulders; it seems as if the temperature has dropped a few degrees, my cheeks are flushed and it occurs to me that we are all doomed.
When I am sick it is what we refer to as a “code red.”
Whenever I get sick our world as we know it screeches to a halt on its already precarious if not maniacal axis. The laundry does not get done, the dishes pile up like a demented sort of Jenga and each person rather than actually doing them takes their turn to see who will be the king or queen of sink Jenga.
The dog, which in my estimation is already neurotic, senses I am ill and is now on death watch, refusing to leave my side, barks at everything, everything.
Loyalty is nice, but silence is better. I may have to kill him. I have considered a suspicious yet effective death due to an unfortunate Nyquil overdose in his Kibbles and Bits. Hey, it’s all about what you have handy.
As I lie here in self pity I begin to look around the house, surveying the damage.
There is a spider web in the corner of my living room. If I felt human, I might consider taking a broom and getting rid of it, as it is the words, “Some Pig” has already been woven into it.
The husband has called frequently from Germany. He claims it’s to check on me, I mostly think it’s to announce that I sound like crap. He wishes he were home, I wish he were home, but because I am an ass when I am sick it’s probably better for the marriage. The kids are still sick and my six year old has found a whistle so she can blow it when she needs anything, this too makes the dog hysterical, and may I tell you she apparently needs a lot?
It’s almost like some sort of medieval torture, I am just in and out of consciousness when the whistle blows causing Pavlov to bark and drool. So I decided to sit here on a Nyquil high and wait for the next whistle. I am so stealing it when she is not looking

Someone thinks I am funny

Apparently someone thinks I am funny.I was nominated for a Bloggers Choice Award. I am appreciative and grateful. So if you would like to go vote for me here is the link. Please copy and paste it to your browser as I am an uncivilized trog who can't figure out how to make the link portion of the page work.
http://bloggerschoiceawards.com/
Thank you!
Sunnyxxx

The Funeral, Costume Changes and a Bull Horn

It has been a while since I have blogged, how unprofessional of me, I know. Lately things at Casa Di Peterson have resembled the best of Chinese fire drills. We have dodged the bullet all military families have come to hate, the move.
We of course will stay here in Tennessee as the husbands request for Fort Campbell has been granted. Thank God for the ability to put down a few roots. We are happy and at peace.
So now for the real reason I am writing today.
I was looking over some Southern obituaries the other day and thinking about the funerals I had been to. Reading obits is a favorite pass time of mine.They tend to be so outrageous it makes you want to write your own before someone else does it for you and you are force to haunt them based on principle. There is way too much said that should not be said and the nick names fascinate me no end.
I believe funerals should be scripted and that good friends should be there as bouncers to avoid any post-mortem embarrassment from any spectators.
I want no obituaries in the paper that reminisce about the time my friend Elysha and I decided to moon people on A1A, only to accidentally on purpose moon, one of Volusia County's finest, earning me the moniker, "rump shaker". That would not be something I want told unless I am telling it of my own free volition, like now.
For example,I was at the funeral of an acquaintance to pay my respects and as I was telling her children how much fun the dearly departed was in life, the daughter felt the need to tell me how much fun she really was, “yeah, mama and I were close, she used to call me and tell me about her booty calls.” I looked over my shoulder to see if the dearly departed of whom she spoke was spinning in her casket, surprisingly, no. I of course did not know what to say to that.Write down that I was speechless,as I wasn’t aware she had booty or calls about it. Being a micro manager I decided to script my own funeral down to the last detail to avoid indiscriminate comments about my booty or any other secrets better buried with me.
When I die I believe that instead of being prone I want to be standing up and one of my friends should be there with cue cards, giving appropriate responses to those who decided to show up. If I liked you, there would be signs saying, “Hey thanks for coming, glad to see you.” If I didn’t care for you or you for me and you are there out of morbid curiosity or to gloat, there should be someone with a bullhorn to announce and embarrass.
“Hey you didn’t like her when she was alive why bother now you hypocrite. That outfit makes your ass look fat.” The list for bullhorn and cue card will be pretty even, I am sure. The bullhorn list consists mostly of school board members and the sheriffs department.
A funeral should be a celebration, like getting into a popular club, really. This will ensure no one shows up to your going away in tank shirts and flip flops, an occurrence I have witnessed, swear to God. There should be a velvet rope that you cannot cross unless you are appropriately garanimaled and shod. I want a disco ball and my favorite music, great food and laughter. Costume changes a la James Brown are a must. Make sure no yellow; it makes me look like death warmed over. Please put my cell phone in the casket I don’t want to miss any calls, plus it’s handy in case I am not really dead. I want everyone to either do the electric slide or the thriller dance and all my Pall bearers should wear loincloths and look like well oiled Gods. Instead of a hearse I want only the best when its time for that last ride, I want a low rider with hydraulics that plays La Bamba, fire engine red.

Lastly, will someone make sure the husband is coordinated but not too hot looking as it tacky to score at your wife’s funeral.Because you just know he'd wear his bass pro shirt that says, "I hunt because my wife can't climb trees" if we let him. The children will need meals because no one wants to think of them in the back yard eating bark off trees and responsible for missing pets in the neighborhood.
These are just a few things I can think of for now, but they are in print and a testament to my warped yet practical side.

At Forty

There is something infinitely gratifying about turning forty.
For some it’s the initial look in the mirror as we do inventory on our lines, sags and bags, finding it’s not as bad as we thought. For others it’s time to take stock on what you did or didn’t do up to this point in your life.
I wish I was as fat now as I was when I was twenty. I wish I was as broke now as before I had kids and spent it all on my then favorite person, me. It’s amazing how we are never satisfied then find out later, we really didn’t have it so bad. But alas that is Father Time’s cruel joke. My Gram Donohue used to say, “You can’t put an old head on young shoulders.” She was very wise indeed.
I remember sitting down on my 23rd birthday and crying because I felt my life wasn’t moving fast enough or in the direction I wanted.
Today I can honestly tell you it never went where I wanted it to, but most of what I wished for I don’t even desire today. I feel sexier and more confident today then in my twenties more comfortable in my skin. Someone else may look at me and say, "I just don't see it." But it's all about perception, my own. If you waved a wand and asked me if I wanted to redo my twenties I’d say hell no, but we can cruise by the thirties and holla.
I have learned at forty that “no” is a beautiful word and God does not kill a puppy if you say it, early and often. I have learned that the small lines and little wrinkles are inconsequential in the scheme of things.
That I will never ever be bone thin and it’s ok as long as I am healthy. That sometimes being with the wrong person is just as lonely as not being able to find Mr. Right. It’s ok for people not to like you; it’s their problem, not yours.
I believe in being youthful but not making a mockery of it trying to get back what you think you lost. Moving forward is much more natural, learning from your mistakes, even better. I think women who accept who they are and revel in what’s to come is more attractive than someone in their fifties trying to dress like Brittany or having a comb over.
I also believe it’s only too late when you’re dead. I am not dissatisfied with anything I have done or the time and order in which I have done it. I am wiser for the wear, the author of my own life. I decide how the story goes and whether or not it has a happy ending.
I don’t look down my nose at younger women wishing for what is past. The truth is simple, you need to be young and strong to survive your youth and all the jackassery associated with it. I don’t envy the journey, but I did appreciate the wild ride.
At forty, I no longer need to wage epic battles to get my point of view across, I no longer need to plot and plan. My youth has set a precedent of what I am capable of and the husband has a good memory. I now just remain silent and this is enough to upset the apple cart, because that never used to happen. It keeps the old boy guessing.
I also love better, with a fuller understanding of what I have and what it means to have it. Passion is different, it isn’t frantic and scary, and it’s deeper and subtle. We were never PDA peeps anyhow.
Yes, forty is good.
Society has made turning forty just as acceptable as it was unacceptable back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. It makes it a whole lot nicer to not have that mid life crisis everyone used to wait for.
At forty when I see a handsome actor I have to google their date of birth to make sure I am not in pedophile mode because it is so hard to tell these days, I blame it on the hormones in cows milk. They all look older. I have impeccable taste and I am happy to report there was only one close call with Taylor Lautner who might be barely eighteen, what a relief. I need no reminding I am old enough to have been his distraught teenage mother. But I appreciate his efforts in the gym, thanks from an old chick Taylor, keep up the good work.
At forty you can laugh because you willingly admit you are old enough to be Taylor’s mother and this freaks your kids out. They want to think of their parents as asexual starfish. At forty I enjoy telling them we in fact are not. There goes that filter they said I would lose. Anyone who knows me knows that happened earlier, much earlier.
I can’t wait to see what the next decade brings but hopefully I’ll welcome it as much as I did this one.

When Rednecks fish.

When you fish with a Redneck pretty much anything can happen and usually does. Keep in mind that any good redneck uses a much younger protégé to do their dirty work, ensuring another day above ground for the older Redneck. It’s all part and parcel of their training to grow up to be big Rednecks someday, truly a case of survival of the fittest.
Let’s just say for the sake of saying that we have these in our family. Jeff Foxworthy does not corner the market on this commodity we have them in spades in our very own family. We love them because they add spice to our lives. I am not of the red neck persuasion, so sometimes I stare wide eyed and horrified when they do what they do so well, being red neck.
Our token Redneck is not above the occasional beer and is known to speak in a gravelly voice with a cigarette clenched between his lips inhaling and exhaling with the finesse of a seasoned connoisseur of Marlboro. He also has a big heart.
We have a good time with the uncle he is goofy and fun-loving. In the absence of his hillbilly relative my very own husband he has made sure to pass the Redneck torch to our son Prince Bubba, heir apparent to my husband’s John Deere collection and photo albums of dead animals. You can tell which one my husband is in the pictures, he is smiling while the deer is not.
But we are off track.
So a rather large fish jumped the line and was floundering in an inch of water on the dry side of the creek. There was only one thing to do…. the uncle sent the young redneck to the creek bed to retrieve his catch. This is the same creek bed that has snakes and other creepy crawlies I don’t want to ponder. So down to the creek the boy slowly descends while our giant catfish flails and flops. The Prince has been on the business end of a catfish before and does not want to be gored by its horns. Our commander and chief is hollering directions over the bridge while the Prince dodges a hail of Marlboro ash and is thrown a towel to bring the catch up the bridge. This not working and you can tell it’s not going as planned by the elevated voice of the commander and chief and the Prince’s erratic dancing in flip flops over the rocks after Moby Dick. After the decision is made to bludgeon Moby a large branch is raised and it becomes a fait accompli. Wormy water flies all over my oldest child Princess Drama, who already watches too much Animal Planet episodes of the “Monsters Inside Me” and is certain he has flung flesh eating parasites at her. She does this frantic dance that matches her fears.
This all is happening while “Mini me” chants, “you’re gonna have to be de-wormed” to her already hysterical and very female sister.
Ahh, Good times.
You ask well where is their mother during all this doesn’t she have any sense? I could be found standing on the uncles Dale Earnhardt, Jr. cooler to get a better view and I was the look out for snakes. Before you award me with mother of the year, I was told this would be my job only AFTER he was in the creek, no need to alert CPS.I too was yelling over the bridge, “Boy, do not be a sissy, get that fish.” To which he rolled his teenage eyes at me as if to say, “Are you kidding, really”, I see sawed between horror and laughter.I have to tell you when you are with Rednecks it is very easy to get caught up in the excitement. Your own inner redneck sort of comes to the surface.
In keeping with his Redneck training the Prince came back virtually unscathed and without any snake bites and a story fit for any teenage boys “listen to this shit” files. He gleefully recounted the story to his father when he called, leaving no outrageous detail out. He even added a couple of inches on to the fish making it worthy of the name Moby. He thinks his uncle is pretty cool and carries the Redneck torch. Everybody wins.
Like any good hillbilly, my husband sounded sad and disappointed he missed the bludgeoning of Moby, almost like being told he missed a milestone like their first steps or losing their first tooth.
I told him not to worry there would be other chances to endanger or utilize the Prince when he got home. He seemed ok with this.