I first came across the corner view series through my Italian blog pal Francesca at #mce_temp_url#. I was so fascinated with her corner views and the ones of the other participants, that I asked to be put on the list too.  Jane, the creator of the series and residing in beautiful Spain, kindly obliged. Visit Jane at #mce_temp_url#.

I was given this paperweight about twenty years ago by a boy that liked me, but one I wasn’t too fond of.  His parents were friends with mine, and there had been some hope that the two of us would unite the families.  There was nothing wrong with the boy other than that he talked a lot, and as I liked being the center of attention his constant jabbering turned me off.  When he gave me the paperweight I told him I didn’t want it, and that I didn’t want to be anything other than friends.  He insisted that I keep it, and so I did and gave it to my mom.

Whenever I visit her I see it in her bookcase, keeping company with my other discards, each with its own story to tell.  Sometimes I look at them and wonder at the person I had been, and how easily a different choice might have propelled me on a different path.  And I start panicking at the mere thought that I could have led a life totally absent of the love of my husband and my children.

(Every comment on this post is entered into the drawing for the giveaway specified in the previous post. The more one comments, the better chances one has to win.  Good luck!  Now go visit Jane and check out her sidebar for more corner views.)

When I was a child, every March 8 dawned fresh and glistening.  In our country it was a national holiday, a celebration of being a woman, a mother, a wife, a colleague.  Children at school worked on crafts and wrote letters to their mothers.  Men brought flowers and chocolates for the females in their lives.  Mothers sent children to school with bouquets of spring flowers for the female teachers, and after saying, “I kiss your hand,” the obligatory child to female adult greeting, we would give them the flowers.

In our house, my dad prepared the breakfast on March 8.  We usually had a simple one of chunks of homemade bread liberally spread with sweet butter and homemade jams or clover honey, a boiled egg on the side, and mugs filled with hot milk in which a dark chocolate bar would be broken into several pieces and stirred in until all melted. It was a delicious breakfast made even more so by the anticipation of handing our gifts to our mother.

In honor of this day I am having a giveaway for each of the following books:

This is an international giveaway, open to all my female readers from every beautiful city and village on this planet.  Leave a comment on any post between today and Thursday at midnight, and you will be entered. The winners will be announced in Friday’s post.

Happy International Women’s Day to all the beautiful, amazing females out there, be they young or old, single, married, divorced, or widowed.  We have come a long way, and yet we have so much more to accomplish.  And although I know that stopping violence against women and children was the theme for 2009, as long as I am a mother and I have children, that will continue to be my goal. What will be yours?

I was in 6th grade the first time I found out that there were evil men out there who could and would hurt children, and rob them not just of their innocence but of their life.  We were all at home one evening when the phone rang, and being the closest to it, I answered.  There was a man on the other side who asked for me.  Apparently he knew my name and he wanted to buy me clothes.  A beautiful gift for a beautiful girl, he said.  Could I just tell him what I wanted?  There was something familiar about his voice, but I couldn’t place it.  My parents were in the other room and I didn’t see the harm in answering his questions.  He said to keep it between us, and that he would call again the following day.  And so I hung up and didn’t say a thing to anyone that night.

The next morning I was so excited about getting new clothes from this person who was so obviously good and caring, that I blurted it to my mom.  She demanded to know it all.  Who was he, but most importantly, why would a stranger buy me clothes?  I remember I got angry at her, thinking she was going to ruin my life with her old fashioned ideas of not accepting gifts from strangers. I remember I stayed angry that entire day at school, and thought up of ways I could get the clothes and keep them.

That evening at dusk he called as he had said he would.  My mom was in the kitchen, busy with the dinner preparations and my little brothers.  My dad and a friend co-worker of his (a huge man who boxed daily and was always telling jokes) had come home earlier from work.  The friend would join us for dinner before driving down to San Bernandino where he lived.  My dad answered the phone and handed it to me without bothering to ask who it was.  The two of them left the room.

I did not notice that someone picked up the other phone.  I explained to the nice man that I couldn’t accept a gift from a stranger.  My mom would not allow me to keep it.  The nice man laughed a normal laugh, and said something I cannot remember.  He would be there in 10 minutes though, parked three houses down.  Why didn’t I just go and see if I liked it?  Maybe I could hide it from my mom and just wear it when she wasn’t around.  It didn’t make sense, my mom was always around, I had thought of sneaking my gift past her all day, yet I found myself agreeing with him.

And so I hung up and waited for the 10 minutes to pass, wondering what excuse to give as to why I was going outside.

I never made it out of that room.  My parents came in, closed the door behind them and sat down to talk.  They explained about strangers and how dangerous they were, and how some were so evil that they saw nothing wrong with hurting and killing a child. But I didn’t really get it until my dad’s friend came in a few minutes later, his knuckles bloody, his big face red, and for the first time, without a smile on his ever smiling face.

The music teacher quit the next day.

Please visit my blog pal Crystal’s post: #mce_temp_url# for resource information on teaching children about what they could do to help prevent child sexual abuse, as well as in-depth ways for us, parents, to recognize it and stop it in it’s tracks.

“Mom, is there anything you want to ask me?”  My son asked on our after dinner walk, a few days ago.  Now, whenever he says this I know that he’s the one with the questions.  ”You know, like anything?”

“Why don’t you ask me first while I think about it.”

“Well… when you and dad make out what exactly happens?  Are you trying to make babies, because there’s something I don’t get.”

“What sweetie?” I was trying so hard to play it cool and not panic at the thought that he is at that age where he needs to have the facts of life explained.  By his parents.  And we weren’t ready.  Or in any case, I wasn’t.  And I’m still not.  Growing up, I learned about it from my friends and from books.  When I first started menstruating, my Tanti Marie baked a pretty cake.  She giggled and winked.  My mom called me into the bedroom and told me that from that day forward I needed to be careful and not get pregnant.  She said nothing about how that might happen.  I was curious, but didn’t ask.  We were going to the crazy church at the time.  She was under its influence, and most likely under the influence of that age old propriety between parents and children as well.

“You said that no more babies, but you keep making out.  Why?  And I think I’m old enough to know how babies are really made.  I know all about the birds and the bees, but I know nothing about the humans.”

And I want my kids to know.  I don’t want sexual intercourse to have that mystery and allure for them that could get their lives off track because they develop an obsession with the taboo.  I want them to know that teenagers experimenting with sex, will still remain teenagers, and won’t be turned into adults no matter how much they might wish.  I want them to know about love, about responsibility, about consequence, and about how beautiful it is that we are given choices, yet how important it is that we make the right ones.

At the same time, I don’t want to overwhelm them.  So I told my son that his daddy and I will sit down with him after his 10th birthday, and we’ll have a conversation about the things that we feel he’s ready to know.

To which he replied, “But I want to know it all.”

Across the street from us, in a lime plastered, ivy-covered house, lived the shoemaker and his wife. As children, we loved to play in their rose filled garden, or sit with him at his workbench, eating bowls of stew with homemade crusty bread, and watching him cut the myriad colored leather for the shoes ordered. His wife always had gold foil wrapped chocolates for us, in the many pockets of her apron.

They were old and stooped. The only child they had ever had, long dead of some childhood ailment. Children had a tendency to die back then, the old shoemaker used to say, his eyes filling with tears. And because I cried easily as a child, I would tear up alongside him. His wife would hear me crying and come rushing out of the kitchen, scolding the old shoemaker for saddening children with his stories. She would take me in the cool, dark kitchen with her, where she was always pickling or making jams, and give me a blue velvet covered box out of an old walnut armoire, to look through.

It was a treasure box of sorts, with mementos of their child and the trips they had taken while newlyweds. Amidst the smiling photos, train ticket stubs, and christening gown and bonnet, there was also a teddy bear. A small, skinny one with a chewed paw. It bore the importance of having belonged to their baby. Out of respect for the old shoemaker’s tears (or most likely, because I was afraid to touch the plaything of a dead child), I didn’t touch it, although my young fingers craved to.

The ivy-covered house with its fragrant rose garden is no longer there. In its place is an ugly concrete building with shuttered windows. The people within are silent and secretive, and the only time one sees them is when they back their car out of their gated yard.

Yet, the bittersweet memories of childhood remain deeply rooted in my mind. A treasure box of them, that I’m determined to document before old age sets in, and I forget. Colors and textures, and sounds, and sensations. Life lessons learned at a young age.

(Daughter holding a ballerina keepsake box created by the amazing, multi-talented Pamela of #mce_temp_url#. Please go and check out her enchanting site.  Just don’t forget to come back!)

I have been spending a lot of time with my children lately, and paying close attention to the little things they do and say. There’s such growth and change from one day to the next, and I want to catch that moment of transitioning and record it down, so that I can look back and say that I remember it happening.

For the first three years of my son’s life, I made periodic journal entries about his progress, my thoughts on motherhood, and my hopes and dreams for his future, and our future as a family. Reading through the leather bound journal now, I either cringe in embarrassment at my naivety as a young mother, or am impressed at the insight I had into specific situations (mostly I cringe). 

When my daughter came along, I meant to repeat the process, and bought the perfect journal for it. Needless to say, the journal gathered dust on my bedside table for a long time. Then one day I read in a magazine about how a family writes things down as they occur, on pieces of paper, which they then drop into a box to read at the end of the year. As bits of paper are always fluttering around my house, I decided that this is what we must do.

The only problem? None of the boxes I had were worthy of their soon to be contents. But I knew what just would. I had been eyeing a collection of gorgeous vintage apothecary jars at a local antique store, hoping to find a justifiable reason for making them mine. They were five in all, and, of course, could have been individually bought, but I felt they had to be displayed as a group in order to be fully appreciated. The price was a bit steep, but as a house of transitory moments in my daughter’s life, nothing else would do.

I saved the tallest for my daughter, and filled the remaining four with fleeting objects from nature. They glint and sparkle, and fill me with joy almost as much as my daughter’s being does. Occupying a prominent place in the family room, they’re a daily reminder to record what I see and hear, and enjoy my life with my children to the fullest.

How do you keep track of the memories you or your darlings are making?

Ever notice how when a few girls are out for lunch or dinner, no female walking by passes their inspection? In the split of a second that poor woman has been evaluated, judged, found lacking or viewed as a contender.  I was talking to a friend today about this and she assured me that her husband and his buddies are no different.  They just don’t say anything about it.  Not unless it’s something negative.  I don’t know though.  My husband isn’t negative or judgmental about other men.

I often wonder why women are so critical of each other.  Could it be just a learned behavior?  Something we’ve seen our mothers and aunts do?  I have a certain friend who scoops out double-edged compliments by the shovel.  It’s an art form.  Almost makes the one receiving it happy to be selected, until later when she realizes that there was a double meaning to the attention paid her.  I’m guilty of it too.  Every once in a while, I catch myself being unduly critical and am disgusted for sinking so low.  It really isn’t my business.

At this moment I’m sitting in a cafe not far from home and watching and listening as a group of girls are dissecting another sitting at a different table with her boyfriend.  I’m supposed to be working, yet I can’t help listening in.  I am fascinated by this characteristic so many females seem to acquire.  It is clear that they don’t know the girl in question, or her boyfriend.  What isn’t clear is the reason they feel so threatened. There is nothing about the girl with the boyfriend to make her stand out. Other than the fact that she has a man with her.

I will admit, there’s a certain bonding that takes place between us through our mutual consent to trash.  We feel part of a team, a bit more attached now that we’re all guilty by association.  It should make us question our friendships though. And how real and true they are.

It was my daughter’s 4th birthday this weekend.  Amidst all the celebrating, hubby and I recounted those early days of hope and wonder at the little life making her presence known from the start.  When I found out I was pregnant I didn’t dare tell anyone about it.  For years I had tried to get pregnant, only to experience miscarriage and shattered dreams.  There were also girlfriends of mine around, who claimed they had no issue with fertility nor pregnancies, and callously reminded me of that while I was pouring my heart out in the grief only known to those who have failed and lost.

Yet here she is.  The sunshine that warms my heart.  In her four year old glory of intelligence, curiosity, selfishness, and tenacity.  With her love of pink, of ballerinas, of working in the garden with her daddy, and of fashions.  How beautiful, extraordinarily beautiful she is!  I offer up prayers of thanks and pleas for a lifetime of happiness, love and good health to her.  May she always be assured of my love and understanding, of my undying loyalty and unwavering support.

As for me, I pray that I will guide her in wisdom, in love and in truth.  Happy birthday darling girl!  I love you!

Okay, so here’s my biggest pet peeve: people who refer to themselves as over-educated. Excuse me? What?! How is that even possible? I was talking to this person I had just met, a thirty something New York woman waiting tables in one of the restaurants hubby and I frequent, and she referred to herself as, “your typical over-educated New Yorker.” It’s a good thing I have something called manners, well some manners, in any case, because I so wanted to ask her what exactly is she over-educated for, waiting tables?

Instead I smiled a tight little smile and raised my eyebrows to let her know exactly what I thought of her over-education. I didn’t say anything to hubby about it because he sometimes thinks I’m a tad too mean and judgmental, which by the way, is VERY true. I am. Certain things bring that out in me. In my defense however, mostly the culprit is stupidity disguised by seemingly intelligent words or actions. Intellectual pretentions that border on a suave sort of condescension, are the worst.

There are some people out there who fool many with their copious accumulation of liberally used learned phrases and words.  (I may be guilty of this too.  Not the fooling part, but the trying to fool part.)   Take this quote from Hilary Mandel’s, An Experiment In Love: Their manner was weary, as if they knew everything and had seen everything, and they paused often, perhaps in the middle of a phrase, to make a snickering sound that must have been laughter. Oh, and this part is my favorite: Their remarks reached no conclusion; at a certain point they would become slower, more sporadic, and finally peter out.

Finally, I hope that over-educated waitress will see the error of the self-portrait she draws for her clients and will quit with the attitude. At least until after they have tipped her.

(This isn’t directed at those who work in jobs beneath their education level, but rather at those with the attitude that they are way above what they do, and use their education as a part of their introduction of self.  ALSO, I have nothing against this profession.  In fact, I am often asked if I am a waitress and I can never decide if it’s because of my over friendly nature, my sometimes snobby attitude, or because I dress like one.)

ALSO: If anyone wants to email me, to tell me what they really think about me, click on the *About Me* link, upper left corner.

The ever lovely, super stylish and beautiful Paris residing Susu of #mce_temp_url#was kind enough to award me with this:

Please stop by and say hello after you’re all done gawking at her gorgeous clothing ensembles, storefront windows, desserts, and photos of Paris.  Make sure you read her messages which are little jewels themselves.

Now, one of my newest blogging gal pals, Jeanne residing in the UK and blogging from #mce_temp_url# awarded me with this little thing:

And it makes me feel all toasty and such to know that I bring sunshine in the lives of people I didn’t give birth to.  Take a moment and visit Jeanne.  Her blog is sweetness itself.  A real pleasure to the senses.

And last, but certainly not least, ever faithful, soul searching Autumn of #mce_temp_url# presented me with this:

Autumn is one of the handful of God loving bloggers I love to read.  She is not shy to admit her daily struggles and shortcomings, and as I am attracted by honesty and purity of heart, I am pleased to call her a friend.  Visit her.

And now because this is my blog and like to make my own rules, I want to share these awards with all of you.  So leave a comment, grab an award and visit my gal pals.  But first read my list of things I cannot stand.

1.     Women who think they fool others when they act as if their life is perfect and their hubbies would die the day after, because they cannot imagine living without them.  You know who you are.  You aren’t fooling anyone.  Get over it.  You aren’t all that.

2.     Men fixing their genitals in public.  This mostly has to do with years of having no choice but to see the pastor at a childhood church I attended do this every single time he stood up.  Super gross!  For the love of whatever it is you love, leave the boxers at home on Sundays and wear briefs.

3.     Men mouth kissing in public.  Yes, I know it’s a cultural thing, and again this happened untold times at my childhood church too.  There was a visiting pastor once whose dentures fell out in the process and rolled right off the pulpit and onto the floor.  The horror of it was audible.

4.     Pat Robertson.  Joel Osteen.  And the vast majority of the TBN crew who exhibit the entitlement mentality status by preaching a gospel not of the Bible, but rather geared to their own private ambitions and spreading fear and hatred.  As if there isn’t enough of that in the world and more is needed.

5.     People who lick their fingers after they eat.  Okay.  I like most of these people, but cannot stand the finger licking.  It is gross.  And if I do not eat anything when I visit you, this is the reason why.

6.      One-upmanship. I KNOW that not everything that happens to me has happened to you.  Let me tell my story before you interrupt with yours.

7.     Interrupting.  Low-class.  Bad manners.  Of course you have something extremely important to say, and it just so occurred to you in the middle of my story.  But wait your turn, or I won’t listen.

8.     Cleaning noses in public.  Never fails.  I drive down the freeway and there’s always a pretty woman or good looking man in some car going at it.  If you absolutely must, at least wait until it’s dark out and there are no cars around.

9.     Tailgaters.  I am forever tempted to slam on my brakes.  Back off, will you, or you’ll pay for it.

That’s it.  My mood today may or may not have anything to do with hormonal changes, yet it is highly attributed to my friend Corine from #mce_temp_url#whose last post inspired me to tell it like it is.  At least once in a while.