The Mother Of All Comfort

Can we talk comfort food?

Thank the Lord above for gifting me with a mother who could cook anything, and cook it well......and probably with butter and salt.
I know how lucky I am to have had a mom who could delight us all in the kitchen and who taught me how to as well. I'm not saying, by any means, that I'm any kind of chef. But I do alright.
One of the best, and most simple things, my mother ever made was Chicken Noodle Soup...always from scratch.
It's easy, it's cheap and it's comfort.
I had just made a big batch of Chicken Noodle this past Monday for dinner and then my dear friend Lindsay went and had her third baby this week!  I'll be making it again this morning for her and her family. You see, if you've had a baby, or have been sick, or have lost a loved one....I'll make you soup. Soup is good. Since I have these pictures, I'd love to show you exactly what Lindsay will be getting when she gets home from the hospital.


The main ingredients:

Chicken, Onion, Carrots, Celery, Salt & Pepper & Water

Place the chicken, chopped up veggies, salt and pepper in a roaster or crockpot and let it go!

A nice big roaster. You can certainly use a crock pot as well. I cook the chicken at 325-350 for a few hours.

I use 1 large onion

I use as many carrots as I can fit. I love carrots in my soup!

I use 1 stalk of celery

Chicken covered in yummy goodness ready to be cooked for hours. Be sure to put enough water to cover chicken.

I cook the chicken  for at least 2 1/2 hours, depending on what else I've got going on that day. Easy!

Chicken...which makes your house smell delicious...is done.

I remove the chicken from the roaster and place it into a shallow pan to cool. It should absolutely fall apart!

You're left with this delicious stock, which I then transfer to a soup pot on the stove, because I make a very large pot of soup.

Thank you Mervyn's Going Out of Business Sale for this amazing soup pot!

Since I like to make enough soup to feed an army....or freeze for a second meal in a few weeks, I do add a bit more stock. I find that liquid stock is better tasting than bouillon of any kind. But this is just a personal preference. Either one of these are ok! 

This next part is where I've deviated from my mother's plan. She always loved Kluski Noodles for her soup, and they are very delicious indeed, but when I was a child, my paternal grandmother made some homemade noodles that were just as tasty as they come. So, a few years ago, I asked her how to make them. Ever since then, I've been making the homemade noodles instead of store bought. 

Oh yes...my mother would be proud. 

Here's how to make the noodles:

Beat 3 eggs

Then take one half of the egg shells and fill it three times with cold water. Beat. After this, add about a tablespoon of salt. Then beat again

This next step is a bit of guesswork. You need to add flour to make the dough. I start with 2 cups of flour and if I think I need more, I add more.

There is only one way to mix this...by hand. You'll know if you need to add more flour by the consistency of the dough. Mix and knead by hand until the dough bounces back after pushing it down. If your dough is dry, just add a little bit of water until you're good with it.

This is the dough ball I'm left with. I like to work with half of this at a time, so I'll just tear this in half and roll out one part at a time.

The tools you will need: A cutting board, a roller and a pizza cutter or knife.

Cover your rolling spot with plenty of flour. I mean...plenty of flour.

Roll out your dough to your desired thickness. I try to get it as thin as possible because the noodles do get thicker when cooked.

After they are rolled out, I pull it up on my cutting board and start cutting. You can cut them any shape, length or thickness your little heart desires.

Place the cut noodles in a colander and when you're ready to place them into your boiling stock, give them a quick rinse in cold water. I mean quick....they will get mushy and start to stick together if you're not quick enough. 

Simply add your noodles to boiling stock and let them cook for a few minutes, that's all they need.

At this point, all there is left to do is tear apart your chicken (Which I do by hand) and add it to your soup.

Voila!

Chicken Noodle Soup. Delicious.

Some of the best part of this is letting the kids help....and play. Flour is easy to sweep up, so I let them go to town!

I'm not sure why he looks so angry....he was having a great time. 

Lindsay will also be getting chocolate chip cookies, but that's a recipe I don't feel like sharing just yet.

Bon Appetit!

Rite Of Passage

When I was six, I got my ears pierced. For it being so very long ago, I actually remember the day quite well. I was with my mom in the Northtown Mall in Toledo, Ohio…long before it is whatever it is now… and as we passed Claire’s Boutique, I remember telling her that I wanted to get my ear’s pierced. She didn’t hesitate for a minute. She smiled, she told me it would hurt and led me by the hand into the store. After picking out some ruby studs and using a marker to dictate where the earrings would go, a nice young lady quickly pierced the first one and I immediately teared up. Mom had to hold my hand and calm me down a bit so I wouldn’t have to leave there looking lopsided. The nice young clerk then pierced my second ear. And that was it. I had pierced ears.

As mom was paying at the counter for my newfound body jewelry, I firmly wrapped my arms around her right thigh and hung onto her jeans while a few tears fell down my 6 year old cheek. She rubbed the back of my head and looked down at me.
“See, that didn’t hurt so bad, did it?”
I smiled, “No.”
“Does it still hurt now?” She asked.
“No.” I giggled, realizing she was right. They had stopped hurting.

I remember all of this. It was a great day and I’m thankful for the memory.

This summer, just before Shelby turned six, she asked me if she could get her ears pierced. I had been waiting for her to ask. A lot of people pierce their little girls’ ears at infancy, and I’ve had plenty of Latinas in the neighborhood ask me why I hadn’t done it to my girl. My answer was always the same.

“I’ll wait until she asks.”

She did ask, and I was excited. I made her patiently wait until our summer vacation was over and yesterday I took her to the mall to get her ears pierced. She was so excited as expected. I was definitely more nervous than she, but I had been telling her that it would hurt to try and prepare her. Shelby picked out a very pretty pair of pink flower studs and as she sat in the chair waiting for her step into earrings, I was extremely emotional myself.

 This is what my mom did with me. I remember this day for myself and I pray that she’ll remember it too. I thought of how important earrings are to girls..Middle school…High School…College! Earrings are fun and make girls feel special. Shelby was sitting right in front of me, growing up. Literally, right before my very eyes, she was growing up.

Shelby asked me to hold her hand, and I did. My only tweak was to ask if they could do both ears at the same time, just to be done with it. They did, she giggled in the reality of it….and now she’s got pierced ears. She never cried.

 I am so happy for her. She’s been talking about them nonstop…to anyone who, well, has ears.

Lessons we're learning

This morning at an award ceremony at Shelby’s school, she won a few awards that would make any parent proud. She got perfect attendance and perfect Bible verse memorization. But one in particular had me in tears…it had my heart beating strongly and it had me questioning what kind of faith I’m living right now.

 Since she was young, I’ve always told people that Shelby was ‘sensitive’ when it came to God and spiritual things. I know God has spoken to me through her on more than one occasion. For example, a couple of months after my mother died, I was in the kitchen on the phone with my dear friend Angela. I was completely distraught and I had called her to talk about God and my faith…and its sudden disappearance. The kids were in another room occupied and I was speaking lowly as to not worry them, since I was verging on blubbering mess.
In walks Shelby tugging on my shirt, “Mom!.” She screamed.
“Shelby, I’m on the phone."
“MOM!” she persisted.
“WHAT Shelby?” I responded realizing it wasn’t very nice.
“God is here mom. Jesus is here.” She said calmly. Very calmly.

Too calm.

As Angela was listening on the phone, she said, “Did she just say what I think she did?”
I was beginning to cry again and was chuckling at her timing. But I knew it wasn’t timing that was happening.
I bent down so I wouldn’t misunderstand and so Angela could witness the words that came out of her mouth.
“What did you say, Shelby?”
“Mom. God is here. Jesus is here. They’re both here, Mom.”
And with that, I said thank you, I kissed her head and moved her out of the room. I cried more.

For her to walk into that kitchen and say those things to me, well…it was unreal. She was 3, and we weren’t exactly talking about God that much, let alone Jesus.
Cut to the award ceremony this morning. Don and I knew Shelby was going to get an award, but we were not let in on which one. So, when her Kindergarten teacher started describing the child she chose for The Best Christian Attitude, I thought that it could be Shelby…maybe…yes….and then she stated that this child held a lemonade stand and gave her earnings to the missionary fund at school.
It was Shelby. And I started crying.
Shelby had done things throughout the year that clearly showed the love she has for God with her words… her leadership… her friendship and her ability to love unconditionally.
Oh, my heart was joyed, beyond belief. Almost to the point of disbelief. I sit here still and think that I cannot possibly claim any kind of credit for her Christian attitude, when my faith has wavered and my own attitude has fluctuated. And I realize that it most definitely isn’t myself or her father’s Christian attitudes that are rubbing off on her…it’s God at work…on us.

The End Of An Era

I love breastfeeding. I do. I really, really do.
Now, don’t get me wrong…the initial weeks of nursing make you wonder if putting the child back in the womb is really an option. The sore nipples… the exhaustion… the aching back… the uterus shrinking contractions… all of these things really let you examine the whole “natural” thing, and question if people were really pulling your leg on how it’s supposed to go. Even with child two and three.

But here I am, three children later and I am at the end of breastfeeding.
Forever.
I’m done being pregnant…unless God seriously intervenes to let me know three gorgeous children are simply not enough for our family, and in that case God would also be telling me that I would no longer have a husband, because there is no way our marriage would survive a fourth child.

I’m also finished carrying an ‘infant’…as the youngest is on her way to walking and toddlerdom. She is also on her way to bumps, bruises, breaking things, tantrums, emptying shelves…cupboards and pantry’s too.

But, what I’m dealing with today is the end of breastfeeding. It became clear to me a few weeks ago that my sweet one-year old was no longer interested in the night feedings prior to bedtime. So I stopped those.
And two days ago it became clear that she no longer needed the morning feeding either.
So, yesterday, I picked her up from her crib, passed up the living room couch where our previous mornings for the past year have landed us to nurse…and headed straight for the kitchen to put her in her high chair for cow’s milk and toast.
And all was fine. She didn’t cry…she didn’t bat an eye.
She was fine…but I wasn’t.
I’m still not.


I’ll deal with it, I’m sure. I’ll have to give myself  a few more days to let my chest heal, both literally and figuratively. But, knowing how much this has been paining me, I’m afraid of the mess I’ll be when this youngest one heads of to kindergarten.

Yes, this is how awful I felt with Shelby in the beginning of nursing.

Sweet baby Hayden...holding my thumb while nursing.

Moments after Courtney's birth, just before our first time nursing.

Taking The Kids Out And About

This week, while Shelby was in school, I took Hayden and Courtney to a place we’d never been before. It was close, it was cheap…and it happened to be a cemetery.

I know, I know…what in the world is there to do with your young children at a cemetery? Well, over by the Burbank Airport, you can see a beautifully sculpted building from the outside of a fence at a park we frequent. I’ve been noticing it for years but never knew what it was. My curiosity finally got the best of me and I drove up to it only to find the fence locked with a sign saying there was an aviation museum inside and telling you where to enter. The entrance is a place I’ve seen plenty of times, about a mile and a half away…The Valhalla Memorial Park. 

So, I drove to the entrance, pulled in very slowly and immediately had a strong urge to leave, and if there had been a clear exit marked, I just might have. Right ahead of me was a funeral service in process. My hands went to ten and two on the steering wheel and grasped for dear life. I felt a small rush of blood go to my head and I tried to tell myself that I was just being dramatic, but the truth was, I wasn’t. I wasn’t over exaggerating how I was feeling at all.

I proceeded slowly through the parked cars of those attending this service, my eyes gazed upon the sea of people in black sitting and standing under a green canopy. They surrounded a casket, with presumably someone they love lying on the inside. I could hear my son asking me a question over and over in the back of the van, but I was sincerely unable to answer him as I was processing the fear going on inside of me. This scene is probably the absolute most horrifying part of death. Once you’ve lost someone, whether it sudden, expected or tragic…this last, final part of standing over a box and a deep hole is terrifying.

“Mom!” Hayden shouts. “Where are we?!”

I told him we were at a cemetery, and he was silent for only a moment. But in that moment, I saw a grave dug for a second funeral, I assumed was to be held later that day. The canopy was set, the chairs were out and the pile of dirt was visible. Beyond that was a man sitting cross-legged near the headstone of someone gone. I could see his lips moving as he read out of a small book to this person lying below him. Even farther down the beautifully landscaped road I saw a young girl, with her bike parked, lying on her side next to a grave. She had her headphones on and seemed to be sleeping.

“Mom, is this where Grandma Rose is?” He said softly. 
“No, honey. We’re here to go look at something. This is a different cemetery. Not the one where Grandma Rose is”
“Your mom died.” He said.
“Yes, she did.” I confirmed. Every time the kids say this, it takes everything I have not to yell. "You shut your mouth. I know she died. I was there! I saw it! She was my mom and I know she died.!!!" But obviously I never say that.......
“Why did she die?” He asked.
“She was sick with cancer.” I explained, regretting that this was not the first time my little boy had heard me explain cancer.
This is where people DIE?”
I chuckled a bit, not sure why. His infliction on the word die was comical.
“No, sweetie. They don’t die here. But when people die, we bury them here, remember?” I asked him if he remembered expecting a 3 year old to actually remember.
“We bury them in the grass?” he asked.
“No, we bury them in a pretty box under the grass.”
“In the DIRT?” Again…the inflection made me laugh.
“Yes Buddy. In the dirt” I replied.
“But why?”
“Well, Hayden. When we die, our souls are gone and we don’t need our bodies anymore. So we put people’s bodies in the ground to go back to the Earth.”
“Oh, yeah.” He said, as if he really did remember.

We moved on and I found my way to the building I was looking for. It was beautiful. It turns out it is a shrine to those lost who marveled the aviation world. There was charming scenery; beautiful headstones and evidence that loved ones had just visited a few of them. I spent a good amount of time looking around the building while I let the kids play in the grass and sit on the big rocks surrounding a pretty fountain. I suppose the location of this shrine didn’t quite get my attention until a large plane took off from the airport and I realized the flight path was directly overhead. Courtney, Hayden and I were all struck silent as we watched these planes fly feet above us honoring these men and women who spent their lives in aviation.

On our way out, I saw a young man with a child. He stood solemnly still, hands folded in prayer with his head low over a grave while the child seemed to be picking grass. The other man was still there reading aloud to his love one lost and I drove as slowly out as I did in with respect to that funeral service that seemed to be coming to a close. Oh, what a terrible, final part of death that is…the funeral service and burial.

Setting aside the extreme sadness I encountered upon entering, I have to say, I had a nice time with my children. It really was a lovely cemetery.

A Very Nutella Breakfast

About four months ago, I discovered something splendid…something divine…something chocolate. And for those of you who don’t know, chocolate should have been included in my name somewhere. While strolling the aisles of Costco…I stroll because I love Costco and if I could be stuck there like Jennifer Connely and Frank Whaley did in Target in that movie Career Opportunities, I totally would. Seriously, I’d be fine for weeks. Anyhoo…I saw a food made of chocolate that I had never tried before.

Nutella.

Ok, so most of you have probably already had this stuff by now, but as worldly as I like to think I am, sometimes I’m taken back a few steps due to slamming face first into that bubble that apparently surrounds me. I saw Nutella on an end cap near the coffee.

Sold.

Ok, so does anyone really need a chocolate hazelnut spread in a two pack? Why, yes. Yes we do. Thank you Costco. I told myself if I didn’t like it, I’d…who am I kidding, I knew I’d like it. And I did. I liked an entire jar of it before I considered seeking treatment. Immediately I turned my love affair into a Facebook post and as I learned, I may have been one of the last people on Earth to have a taste.

But even more peculiar to me, were the few friends who did not like it! Say what? One of these friends forwarded something my way a few weeks later. Since Nutella apparently has the same effect on her as Rene Zellweger has on me, she passed on the invitation. It was an entry for an opportunity to host a mom’s breakfast for 10, sponsored by…you guessed it, Nutella. She convinced me…not so tough to do…to enter to win this breakfast party. So I did, and I was one of many moms chosen. I immediately invited the mothers in the neighborhood to my house for a “Very Nutella Breakfast.”

Me, being my mother’s daughter, cleaned the house ferociously…shortly before the start of the breakfast. My alarm was set for 4am to practice making crepes and make the house presentable. Why 4am, you ask? Easy, because I’m a mom… and that was literally the only time I could find. Cut to me, focusing solely on when I will get the kitchen floor mopped before everyone arrives. I’m not sure what it is about the kitchen floor, but in my mother’s house, a kitchen wasn’t clean until the floor was mopped…by hand. I skipped the ‘by hand’ part and once everything was set…the floor was mopped.

Nutella had sent coupons, coffee mugs, recipes and a big fat jar of the good stuff for all of the guests.

The ladies had breakfast, coffee and conversation. I had company, a husband watching my children and confidence that making a crepe was not as hard as it sounds. Considering I occasionally let my children have pancakes and syrup, Nutella isn’t a bad substitute…but for the most part, it’s used as a friend to keep my pretzels and graham crackers company. 


Yes, I made this. It's bananas and Nutella wrapped in a nice warm crepe.

The Treasure Hunt

This week, my brother turned 31! So, the kids and I, and by that I mean...I, decided to make him a surprise birthday video. The kids went right along...this is what I came up with. Enjoy!

Opening Doors

Long before I knew who God was….or Jesus, or Harry Connick Jr., or my husband and my son, there was a special man in my life who taught me about love.

He still does.

I feel so blessed to have the father I have. I think most little girls look to their fathers for acceptance, guidance, encouragement, protection, validation and most of all, love. This role as daddy, to an innocent bright-eyed child, is such an important role. Some can get it very wrong, and because we are all human, all will fail now and again, it’s just inevitable. My best advise for that is forgiveness.

But my dad…he’s the original Valentine of my life.

I grew up ‘daddy’s girl.’ I’d like to think I still am and always will be. Of all the wonderful things my dad has done for me, I think the absolute most important was opening the door. My dad never let me open a door….to a restaurant, a bank, a grocery store or even the car. If he was there, he skipped ahead of me to open the door and let me walk through first.

He still does.
Every single time.

Here’s what his opening the door meant at age 5, and still means to me at 32…I’m worthy. I’m a lady. I’m loved and I’m thought of. This simple gentleman gesture helped me understand what love is and gave me an expectation of how I am to be treated.

Ok, hear me out, I know that opening doors for someone should be a common courtesy that the general public should do for one another, but the truth is, a lot of people don’t. Sure, some might hold the door for someone walking in behind them, but I actually encounter lots of people who don't even do that.  How many people actually open the door and let someone walk in first?

This week, Shelby had a Valentine’s party at her school. When I walked up to join the party as it began, the kids were outside the classroom door lined up. Boys were in one line, girls in another. The boys were wearing handmade paper ties and the girls donned a crown of construction paper. Two by two, the kids were paired to enter the room. The kindergarten boy was to open the door for the girl and let her walk in first. Then he went over to their “tea party” and pulled her chair out for her so she could sit down.

My heart absolutely melted. There are so many, many reasons why I absolutely love the school we chose for Shelby, but this really is at the top of the list. The manners they are teaching my child back up what her daddy and I are teaching her in the home. I was so happy for her to have this 5-year old boy open the door for her so she could enter first.

Grief Colored Glasses

I woke up crying just now.

Two years ago, New Year’s Eve, I had the last “day” with my mother. She was vibrant, alive and quite happy. The family was together and we ate crab legs, took wonderful pictures, laughed at the kids, hugged and just loved each other. It’s been two years and it feels like yesterday. It feels so close to me, it’s as if time has not passed since that New Year’s Eve that was her last.

I feel like it’s been my last as well.

Someone came to my home a few months ago and said to my husband, “Why is the house a mess…she doesn’t even work?!” An unnamed loved one said to me “Other mom’s don’t seem to have this difficult of a time.” This week, a friend commented that my house looked like an obstacle course. Indeed, it does. Everything I’m attempting to do has obstacles. I am constantly “trying to clean.” I am always “trying to keep up.” I am forever trying to “get organized.” I told my brother, I think I realized that I’m just not good at keeping house. Which is a big bummer, because apparently this is part of my job requirement. I’ve been seeking ways to rationalize this inadequacy in being able to keep up with anything. 

I think it’s the glasses I’m wearing.

I have been wearing these grief colored glasses for a long time now and the shade of grief they are seems to be getting darker. I am trying. I am really trying to be a good mother, a decent wife, a faithful friend….but I am failing at all of it. I can’t find a place to set down these glasses and it is making it really difficult to do anything. Anything. The pain of her loss is paralyzing me.

There have been two moments in my life that have changed me permanently. The first was the divorce of my parents. I remember waking up different. I remember thinking about that Jessica that existed yesterday, but is gone today. I was 16. I was forever different.

It has happened again. The Jessica that I knew before my mother died, is simply not there.

She is not here.

I’ve been trying to live normally. I’ve been trying to move on...having the third baby I wanted, producing shows, directing races, seeking counseling, praying to God, exercising, playing with my kids and even attempting to be a better friend to my husband, but trying to live normally is not really working well for me.

“It takes a lot of time,” friends keep saying. Sure it does. I know that, but a lot of time is too much time. I’m going to spend these years grieving with my children so young, I’m missing them. “Any grieving longer than 12 months is considered depression,” my doctor said to me. 12 months!? Really? I’m supposed to grieve for one year for my mother?

That cant be right.

“You just seem so angry about everything.” Another unnamed loved one has said. 

Yes. Yes, I am. I am angry about everything. Damn near everything makes me angry.

Oh, I am trying. I really, really am. I am trying really hard to deal with what I’m feeling. I’m sure all of it is normal….to an extent. Grief is really something, I’ll tell you that. And I will tell you that, because that is who I am. I tell everything.

My heart is on my sleeve. I suppose that is one thing that has not changed.

Bringing Religion Into It

This week, I commented on a friend’s status on Facebook. The status basically said something about their concern for their children’s well being when Christmas rolls around and suddenly presents come out of nowhere.

Completely logical concern. Absolutely. I think most caring, loving parents think about the ramifications of large amounts of gift giving for no apparent reason. This is why I wanted to post something to let my friend know that I don’t believe Christmas is a time to just give gifts. There is a reason to give gifts. We give gifts to celebrate life. 

To paraphrase my comment to their post, it went something like this, “Jesus Christ is the reason for the season.”  I wrote a small paragraph and I did mention Jesus Christ….and, of course, panties were bunched.

I cannot mention Jesus on anything without causing a problem. If I had said I thank God for Christmas….or I thank God for all my blessings….it may have been left alone…maybe. But, dare I say Jesus, and someone wants to argue with me every time. I’ve offended someone. Someone wants to start a fight, and can I just say that this is the real reason Jesus was crucified?! It does not matter if you are Christian or not, Jesus Christ was a person who walked this Earth and was killed for claiming he was God. Mentioning his name then meant persecution. Times have not changed.

Here is the reply to what I wrote:
(I have no idea who the person is who posted this, but since it’s on Facebook…I have no problems sharing it here.)

"Ummm what?!? Since we're bringing religion into this... Christian's took Yule from the pagans to use as Jesus' month of birth rather than the more true date. St. Nick and Jesus were merely put in as placeholders with the Romanization of Britain."

After reading this reply, I decided to take a moment, refresh myself on what the history of Christmas is and then respond. You see, I have a degree in Religious Studies….so as I, myself, choose to be Christian, I have in fact studied many, many other religions. Way back when….in a time before children, I went to College. So, I too, like many Athiests, and Agnostics, consider myself to be a bright individual.

I do not consider myself brainwashed. Let me say that again….I do not consider myself brainwashed. I have a very well rounded education…I did not grow up in Church. We went to Church on Christmas and Easter….that’s it. This is a choice based on experience, emotion and education.

So, as an educated person, I looked into what this Facebook reply said and refreshed my memory on Christmas, Santa Claus and the glorious pile of presents we so willingly give our children on Christmas morning. 

No Christian should ever argue the fact that Jesus Christ was NOT born on December 25th. He was more likely to have been born in the springtime when the weather was better, seeing as though a 14 year old girl gave birth to him outside. And not only that, but based on the life and death of King Herod, Jesus’ birth is probably off by about 4-5 years. This is common knowledge.

Winter Solstice, the middle of winter, has been a time of celebration forever.  In Europe, light and birth were celebrated in the dark of winter. The Scandinavians celebrated Yule from December 21 into January. Romans observed Juvenalia…Germans honored the pagan god Oden…and so it goes. Throughout history, winter was a great time to celebrate life, food, love and, well…..blessings.

In A.D. 525 Dionysius, a Greek scholar dedicated the end of December to celebrate Jesus’ birth, since his death was already known and Easter was already being celebrated. The Pope did not want two holidays celebrated so closely together, so the traditional Christmas date was born…pun totally intended. 

Turns out, St. Nick was an amazing man……who was Christian and wanted to be like…..wait for it…Jesus Christ. St. Nick was born to wealthy Christians. He was young when his parents died and left him their inheritance. He lived by Jesus’ words, "sell what you own and give the money to the poor." St. Nick, who became Bishop Nicholas, left a legacy after his death. This legacy evolved and spread into the Santa Claus we know here in America.

In the end, I deleted my original comment to this friend’s post, due to not wanting to take over their facebook page for a religious debate.

I think it’s absolutely absurd that I be called out for “bringing religion into this” as if I’m trying to start a fight…as if I’m some dumb Christian who’s trying to turn everybody Christian. As if I'm saying something that isn't true. The modern world celebrates Christmas because of the birth of Jesus Christ….IT IS A RELIGIOUS HOLIDAY!!!!!!!

You’re darn right I’ll bring religion into it.

I actually left the house.

Well, I had a hit or miss weekend with the kids. The husband was working, so I decided to actually get dressed and take all three of my babes out to do stuff……

Library…big miss. Note to self, don’t ever do that again.
Barnes and Noble….hit
Chevy’s restaurant….HUGE MISS…should have never left the house.
2 year old’s birthday party…big hit.
Lunch at sushi restaurant. HUGE HIT!! 

We love going to Momotaro in Burbank. Hayden cannot ever get enough of the Edamame. 

 Really, it's what he eats almost the entire time. 

Shelby loves Miso Soup. 

It was Courtney’s first trip and she had a blast too. 

 


Shelby tried new foods and got a star on her chart at home for doing so. 

She loved the first one, the second one fell apart in her hand. 

Shelby is awesome at entertaining the baby when I need to step away for a second.  I let Hayden use the restroom by himself (single person toilet), so I stood halfway from the potty to our table and kept eye on both places.

My kids are adventurous and up for anything.

I love that.

Gobble Gobble

There are a few jobs in this world that I have a hard time understanding. I don’t have a hard time understanding the job; I just can’t understand why people would do them. Let’s take the Esthetician, for example. This person, by choice, goes into the most secret parts of your body to remove hair. Why on Earth would someone want to do this? Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful….and in awe, but concerned for their well-being. Also, how does one become ok with the task of pulling up a shoulder length rubber glove and inseminating livestock by hand? I have nothing further to add to that.

There is…on my list of crazy, insane and most of the time necessary jobs, one job in particular I stand in deep respect for. My heart aches for the love the people who do this job have for life…or the caring of the end of it, rather.

The Hospice Nurse.

Tell me, please, how can a person possess so much kindness as to partake in the comforting of loved ones in the end times of a cherished person? How can those sweet angels of people do this job again, even after experiencing one single death? Because, I have to tell you, once was enough for me. One death was enough for me to witness, to know I don’t ever, ever want to witness another.

I know this is impossible. I am young, and I am guaranteed to lose more loved ones. And the truth of the matter is, is that I felt honored to be there with my mother as she passed. It was terrible, and traumatic in many ways, but I wouldn’t have been anywhere else than at her side.

Maybe this is how Hospice sees it? I don’t know, but whoever started Hospice care, was an intensely caring human being. Without our Hospice nurse, the end of my mother’s life…well, I don’t even want to think about how it would have gone without them involved. Thank you Hospice.

Obviously my mother is the reason I started The Rose Run, and a major sponsor of The Rose Run is helping to put on a run this Thanksgiving to raise money for Hospice. Dave’s Performance Footgear is sponsoring a “Turkey Trot” that has been going on for over 20 years in Toledo…and all I’m going to say, is you should do it. You should run it…walk it, get the kids to do the free fun run and encourage your family and friends to do it too. If for no other reason, than to burn a few calories before you consume the most in one meal than you had all week long.

The Smoke The Turkey Trot has fantastic prizes for top finishers and Schmucker’s pies for those who place in their age group. I don’t know about you, but if I won a pie after a race, I’d be eating it with my fingers in the car at 10am on the way home.

This cause is so worth it, and if I were there, you’d see me bundled up running….well, jogging, due to the massive amount of weight stuck on me post baby. (Forget what you read about the pie in the previous paragraph) But I’d be there. Oh, and one more thing...there is a prize for the best dressed Ohio Sate Fan or Michigan Fan! Run sporting your Maize and Blue....or those other colors.

Go for a run this Thanksgiving for those amazing people of Hospice.

For more information and to register online, visit
http://www.imathlete.com/events/EventDetails.aspx?fEID=6713






You can also email me at jessica@theroserun.com and I can send you a paper form to print and mail in or take with you Thanksgiving morning.