Having a vision for the future is one way to avoid the winter blahs.

I always have my six month dental check up in December and June.

The best thing about the December visit is setting a date for the June visit…whatever day it is it will be warm and sunny…a lot nicer than the December date.

Well here’s my first resolution for 2010:

Avoid inane conversations.

According to Webster, inane is an adjective meaning “lacking significance, meaning, or point.” See also empty and pointless.

This won’t be easy considering the interesting potpourri of people with whom I live.

But my philosophy on resolutions and goals is to achieve a progressive realization of a worthwhile, measurable task, goal or resolution.

That means in English…it is a journey not a destination. At least most of my goals are journeys.

You could also say, if at first you don’t succeed…keep on trying.

I’ll quit before I become inane.

Two and Two A, and Three and Three A are going to the Big Apple to see the ball drop in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

I miss them.

I miss them and I want to go with them.

One day we’re all together laughing, eating, drinking, opening Christmas presents and the next day they are off pursuing their own bucket lists.

It is bittersweet.

Bitter hbecause I miss them as I have said.

Bitter because I am envious and want to go with them.

Sweet because I would like to think that I have inspired them with my own dreams.

Like the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young song (Teach Your Children) goes…”and feed them on your dreams…the ones they pick’s…the one you’ll know by”.

Yes they were in ships in safe harbor with us at home but that’s not what ships are made for!

So, I’ll have to feast on their dreams realized when I see them again.

In the mean time I’m sledding down Mt. Lucy off the back deck in a cardboard box with Nine!

She says I’m the most fun adult she knows and she loves me.

Thank God for our big brood. The are my compass.big

I love Christmas morning at our house!

Growing up my family always opened Christmas presents on Christmas eve but I always wanted to open presents on Christmas morning like in the classic Christmas movies.

We have always opened gifts on Christmas morning and what a blessing it has been to watch our gathering grow.

What started out as just two of us has grown to sixteen counting 1, 2, and 3A’s.

We always start with the picture of the family on the stairs – many in their PJ’s.

When we had three, four, then seven, they often wore matching PJ’s just for the occasion.

Then we open presents by the tree.

That amazing Santa color codes everybody’s wrapping paper so you know just which presents belong to you.

The starting with the youngest and moving to oldest everyone opens a present while we all watch on.

It took three and a half hours this year!

There’s lots of food too.

This year Two, Two A, Three and Four made Mom cry when they gave her a necklace with an “L” for Lucy and a baby’s foot.

I was very pleased with my gifts…especially new running shoes.

Five received the Detox patch (as advertised on TV). Something she could use after a rollicking time at college!

Being the anal one I spent half an hour organizing the garbage and recycling. We have filled seven garbage cans and five recycling bins and garbage day isn’t for three days.

Christmas is always special at our house!

How could it not with so many people plus friends!

Thankfully, we’ve always had children around to infect us with their wonder and amazement!

For the record we opened presents from others on Christmas eve saving the good gifts from Santa and each other for Christmas morning.

Seven opened a microscope and set about to analyze his urine! No kidding. The gross out of this Christmas.

A couple years ago he wrapped his own belongings and gave them to everybody.

He found an assortment of all occasion cards in the basement and used them as gift tags.

You might get one that said “Get well soon” or “Happy Anniversary” or even “Congratulations on your new promotion!”

Other years we would read Seven’s letter to Santa pronouncing all his misspelled words.

One year we thought Eleven may be autistic but it turned out she wasn’t. Seven wrote on her greeting card, “Merry Christmas…I wish you were Autistic!”

How do people celebrate Christmas with out kids like ours?

After presents we ate with some good friends.

Nine sang in a candlelight service that we all attended to really get us in the mood.

Then we rushed to Two and Two A’s church for their candlelight service.

What fun at a small church where the pastor plays guitar and is one fourth of the worship team.

Where else can you request Christmas Carols from the audience?

We’ve celebrated Christmas this year in a mega church, a large church and a small church. All fun. All great reminders of the reason for the season.

Oh yeah….I was reminded that I knew so many of the classic Christmas carols…because I’m old…and because when I was in public elementary school we could sing the ones that reference Jesus, God and the savior.

I’m not sure what Seven will be analyzing tomorrow but we’re making him carry around a bottle of hand sanitizer.

I saw two back-to-back children’s Christmas performances today.

Seen one…seen a hundred.

Scrubbed faces. Party dresses. First tie…very uncomfortable.

Always some kid picking his nose the whole time or doing an Elvis impression without even knowing “The King”.

Everybody laughs…except his parents.

Never was one of our child thankfully.

Our angels, Nine and Eleven were just that…angels.

Sometimes I think we have these kids so we can justify all the expensive photographic equipment.

Or maybe it is for the teachers to show us taxpayers what they have been doing all year.

Or maybe it is to launch these little angels on a life that will place them on one side of the stage or the other.

Christmas or whatever holiday is only secondary…it is the growing up process.

It’s bitter-sweet.

We let go a little but today.

But they say the only way to hold on to something is to be willing to let it go.

Henry Havelock Ellis once said “All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”

I think that’s true.

That was a trick headline…a carryover from my Yellow Journalism days.

Bet you didn’t know I worked for an underground newspaper when I was in college.

Anyway…Seven is at school but I feel like he is still in the vicinity.

I get in the car I used to chauffeur him to school and I could swear he was with me.

Ah Ha!

It’s the dollar store deodorant I bought him the other night.

Note to self…not everything you get at the dollar store is a bargain.

I tell him he smells…well…like a locker room.

He says maybe he should switch to cologne.

Why?

Because all the guys at school do.

We all know the parental response to this one – right!

In fact, he says, some people asked me where I got the great smelling new cologne.

You didn’t tell them did you?

Sure – Macey’s.

Whew!

Well, maybe we should invest a few more bucks and get Seven some deodorant that is a little tamer.

Just another day in the life of the warden of the family asylum.

Did you know I am a linguist?

A linguist is one who speaks several languages fluently.

If you know me this may come as a surprise. You thought I only knew American English and a little bit of pig Latin.

Hah!

The bible says in John 10:27: “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow me”

I live a backwards version of this verse. “It goes something like this: I listen to my sheep; I understand their language and I can serve and communicate with them”.

Confused? Let me explain.

Six has braces and a lot of other things going on in her sinus region. To make maters worse she speaks very fast (probably because so many people are speaking at once in our family). I am around her the most so I often find myself translating for others. I speak Six.

Seven is autistic. He doesn’t always say what he means. I usually understand what he means because I understand him. It’s a gift. I speak Seven.

Ten is a creature of habit and order. She eats pasta at most meals…served in a special yellow bowl…with the “Tony the Tiger” spoon only “Tony” is worn off. I can pick the right spoon out of a sea of many similar looking spoons.

When these criteria are not men she usually throws herself on the floor.

I speak 10.

If eleven doesn’t like what is for dinner she heads for the bathroom where she spits out dinner in the waste basket. Those of us who speak her language usually head her off to be sure she swallows before entering the powder room.

I speak Eleven.

Eight is a people pleaser. She also has an unquenchable appetite. She will say she likes everything we serve for dinner but if it doesn’t vanish from her plate in 30 seconds then we know she is not be forthright.

I speak Eight.

I think I speak everyone’s language.

It’s a gift.

A gift to be a linguist…and to have so many people I love around me that I have developed this occupational vocation.

Hey – another skill for the resume!

Well some of them held sparkling grape juice for the junior members.

It was a remarkable day. A wonderful day. One of the best days of my life!

My darling Three is engaged!

And we couldn’t be happier.

“Three A” as he has been referred to in this blog, is a welcome addition to the family.

The engagement wasn’t the surprise – just the timing.

We’ve known 3A and his family for about 20 years.

He’s almost the boy next door – or down the street and around the corner.

Given the season, what else can I say but, “It’s a Wonderful Life!”

Stay tuned as we enter the months of planning.

I could have grown up into a depressed cynic, who lost the happiness lotto because of life experience and baggage. But, deep down in me always lived the soul of a happy child and an almost boring stability. I was not particularly brave or articulate as a child, but a child nonetheless, like all the multitudinous hordes of children in the world today. As a former child, I remember what it felt like, and lucky for me, my personal stars aligned in such a way as to break the bonds of generations of sadness, and here I am, about to be 53. As Oprah says, “This I know for sure…” This I know for sure, the best things we are told are true, and only love lasts.

If you are randomly stumbling upon this blog you might want to know some of the back story. I grew up in the Philippines. Far from being half this and half that, I am 200%, Filipino to my cells, and American to my cells too. Some things I love like a Filipino, my family for instance. Don’t tell me that political dynasties or benevolent dictatorship is the only solution for my troubled heart-home. Something in me that endured an Atlantic voyage to a wild, untamed land balks at that. We can change our future. It’s un-American to think otherwise.

Which brings me, dear blog readers, to touch on a shadow in my childhood. My dear Daddy, God rest his soul, was afflicted with bipolar disorder before there was a term for it, before there was medicine. Certain things could trigger an episode, like Christmas.

Naturally, my siblings are split between memories of beautiful Christmases, and memories of sad Christmases. Christmas is a loaded time. I have found that the road of acceptance and open-heartedness is my path to a beautiful Christmas.

One time a medical intuitive who has a radio show told me that I have tried to recreate my own childhood positively. That is true. I wanted the big family, all the kids around the table. I married the most stable of men, but not before marrying one who killed himself.

Awareness is all. We don’t want to repeat what we don’t have to.

That’s enough about sad things. I always want to remember how happy my parents were when Daddy was stable. Nowadays, there is medicine, therapy, and many interventions that can give a bipolar person a long and happy life. The latest brain research shows that rumination, the reliving of sad events, messes up the brains’ frontal lobes. As my positive psychology class taught me, gratitude, faith, goals, and positive experiences are the upward spiral that counteracts the down-the-drain of negativity.

When I was little, just ten, we had a magical Christmas at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. Mama decorated the house with gilded red ribbon, a parol, poinsettias, a great Christmas tree, the Belen (Nativity Scene), stockings. We all had new red flannel nightgowns sewed by our live in seamstress. We went to midnight mass at the base chapel, and home to Noche Buena (the Philippine reveillion), and opened our presents.

I remember the music, the feeling of contentment and security, how we all were together. I remember how the next morning, the hot Pampanga sun baked the flowers outside and how the arch of the acacia trees shaded our house.

That year, on Christmas Day, we piled into the car with all the kids and a yaya (nanny) and went to Manila to visit Lola at Lourdes Hospital. I won’t forget that either. Lola, with her hair down, smiling sweetly from her bed. Lolo, sitting on the bed by the window. I remember Uncle Sonny coming in with Auntie Lou. Uncle Buddy and Auntie Lynne and my sweet little cousins.

Auntie Lynne’s parents lived near the hospital on Kanlaon Street. Their house was all wood paneled and dark with rooms and corners that were a place of endless fascination for me.

A few days later, my Lola Mercy died. She had been sick for about a year, and her death was unexpected. The whole world shifted when she died. It was my first encounter with death.

Two more Christmases followed that, one raucous in Albuquerque where my cousin D. came with her parents from California. She was an only child and all her presents came with her. She shared, though, as she always did- as she shares to this day.

The second Christmas was in Hawaii, and Daddy was hospitalized at Tripler Army Hospital. That Christmas Day was bright like the Pampanga Christmas, but oh so lonely. I couldn’t wait to return to the Philippines.

In that time of waiting for my uncles to raise our airfare back, one thought gave me courage. We were going to live in the old house in Baguio, Casa Blanca. In our Hawaiian kitchen there was a box of Lipton tea, with a picture of a tea cup and a hillside. It looked to me like Baguio. I would imagine sitting in the old dining room, looking out over Mt. Santo Tomas, and conjure the safety and security of that faraway place.

I recently looked on the net and saw that our old house in Kailua is a luxury home now. I hope the successive owners were happy in that house, with it’s indoor fish pond and beautiful garden. It was not meant to be for us. I remember a sunny kitchen and how even in Hawaii, the streets outside were quiet like the rest of America that I experienced. I missed the street noise and lively parade of people who colored our life in the Philippines.

The next Christmas, 1969, was spent back at Cresta Ola, my grandparents’ beach resort in La Union. It was a happy place and through these years via the Internet, I have heard from many former children who spent holidays there with their families. That Christmas was our first there since Lola died. I could tell the difference, but still it was jolly.

Lolo handed out presents to the staff, and I remember their glee at the gifts. When they went forward to claim them, it looked like a scene from a story about a good king, beloved by his people. Lolo sat in his arm chair, and the staff- waiters, maids, grounds people stepped forward with a kind of a bowing posture and gave heartfelt thanks. While watching it, I was thinking of how hard my own heart was, at 12, there were many things I wanted, but could not have. I noted how these humble people were so grateful and determined to grasp that elusive quality they had in abundance.

A few days later, Lolo died of a heart attack and the lights went out in our big family again.

The next year we found ourselves in Baguio. If you don’t know where Baguio is, let me tell you. It was a beautiful city built during the American era in the Philippines. It’s in a pine forest called a cloud forest by botanists. On some of the twisting roads you might think you were in New England, because so many of the places were painted white with green shutters. In that place, the air is pine scented. You could sleep under many blankets with open windows and breathe the beautiful air all night long. At sunset, the geographic location and the closeness to the ocean blended the air and sky for a spectacular show.

In my Baguio, there was a green-gold light as it turned from dusk to evening. The twilights were lavender, violet, purple. The sky was as colorful as the Aurora Borealis, with the tropical clouds colored orange and red. I have read that other cities in cloud forests, at similar latitude and longitude and proximity to water have the same phenomenon.

Christmas in Baguio was Filipino with a touch of Frank Capra. The old timers in Baguio, the older folks who set the city up, were largely still there. Their grandchildren were my friends. We owned the city with an affectionate hold, feeling far luckier than the Manila folks who only knew it for Holy Week, the summer break and the dash between Christmas and New Year.

In Baguio, the firewood was a local pine, sappy and resinous and aromatic as incense. This was the smell you inhaled with great breaths, if you took a walk on a cold night.

There was caroling. Finally in high school, we filled cars driven by big brothers and made our caroling calls on family and friends. All girls, singing away with hoarse voices, we wouldn’t stop and we were fed at each stop. Who could say no when we were greeted with tables laden with special treats? I am sure that today, the sound of “Give Love on Christmas Day” brings mist to the eyes of my classmates who are mostly away from Baguio now. Such is life in the diaspora.

No matter how difficult it was for me when my Daddy had an episode, there was the surrounding bounty of the city, my friends, relatives, and general nurturing culture of the Philippines. To make things better, my relatives had an attitude of making things happy for children at Christmas. Auntie Mary Anne comes to mind. There was no family time spent in talking about the upheavals. There was lots of family time spent in support of my mother, and attention to the festivities of Christmas.

So, during those difficult times, I simply turned a switch, and if things were too noisy at home, I simply escaped into my richly colored outside world. Unlike in America where people can retreat into madness and silence, the show goes on unabashed in the Philippines. The phone kept ringing with friends planning outings, the doorbell kept ringing with friends passing by, the relatives kept their Christmas visitation schedule. Life went on, in spite of the cross we carried.

Looking at this practically, given that there was no awareness of this illness, there was nothing we children or my mother could do, except surf with it and not judge it in the long run.

We all grew up and moved back to the United States, for a spell there were trips to California at Christmastime. We moved to California. Then, one year, Daddy died leaving a hole in our extended family.

Today, my older sister and cousin are the junior matriarchs in their region. They have a tribe, and the season is kept with light, color and food. There is a lot of togetherness, and distant folks are welcome to fly in. They keep the feast and have given their children an unbroken stretch of years colored by stability, bounty and family.

Our Christmases here in Massachusetts are happy ones. Always, there are the six children and their pets and their friends. There is music and food. No matter what twinges of memory there may be, I remember that I loved my Daddy dearly, and all that is best in my family culture, I owe to him.

Because of his illness, he was larger than life. He loved my children intensely, and that deep attachment shows in how they have taken pieces of him for their permanent selves. At my bravest I am my father’s daughter. At my most optimistic, I am his student of positive thinking. At my most stubborn, I am the one who will not compromise on that-which-cannot-be-bent. When he was dying, I spent so much time with him and made peace with all the past.

Two nights ago I dreamed of my sister, Lizzie who died in 2000. I miss her so much, not only because she was delightful, but because she was stalwart, faithful and true.

Last night, I was going through boxes in the basement and found stash of letters she wrote to me from Oxford. She wrote me every week, and I daresay I was the only one of our siblings she wrote that often, because at the time I was widowed and she was watching over me from afar. Her letters are funny, and full of her ganas. After she died, I sought to fill her void with my other sisters. They are so different from Lizzie that it is impossible. I love them but Lizzie and I spent years together with a shared vision.

I continue this road without her, grateful for the time we had together, and secure in the faith that she watches over us all.

In my dream, she was carrying her youngest child and looked so happy. She looked as she was in real life when she carried that baby. One of the treasures of this internet era is that I am in touch with her friends who share memories of her that are in perfect synchrony with mine. She made friends wherever she went, and was beloved by people. I daresay that if someone had a problem with Lizzie, there was something wrong with that person.

So this is how it is, at this age dear blog readers. All my Christmases are rolled into a giant ball of life. It is more jewels than coal. But for as long as I can remember, Christmas is the stretch from my birthday to December 25th. It’s an ongoing feast of memory and nostalgia, and missing and relishing. It is full of my babies, who tower over me, and their memories of Bud and me, and all our pets and this old house.

I still miss Baguio come Christmastime, but pine firewood is for sale in New Bedford, and we are really lucky we’ll have some snow during the season. God’s birthday is celebrated all over the world, and from where I type, grateful for my family and friends, that is a good thing.

Speechless and humbled and filled with joy, I am. Stumbling upon this on this great and bountiful holiday, time stopped.

Thanks-filled

by my daughter, Ana-Maria

I.

I am thankful for this sturdy table,
worked by hand, and cloaked in handworked linen
to mask the stains and gouges left
by the feasts and frolics of many generations.
Lost legacies, stowed away in cupboards,
in antique pots on piano-tops,
deathless witnesses of time, recalling
memories of those who made us.

I am thankful for the feast that fills us,
the enduring gifts of Eden — God’s plentitude
thinly veiled by the toil of mankind;
for my father’s tirelessness,
my mother’s generosity,
for these two, who have taught me, by the fierceness of their love,
Love’s gentleness.

For my brothers and sisters, my best friends,
who have kept me, all my life,
or all of theirs,
from ever being lonely,
I am thankful.

For this home that we have built together,
this cradle of idealism, nest of dreams;
For the things it has taught us, and taught us to be:
Defenders of Truth, Men of Integrity,
Ladies Chivalrous and Bountiful,
All who know the value of kindness,
and the validity of faith;

For the Church that has held me,
sustained me from birth,
saved me from my stumbling feet and blindness;
For the hope of heaven that has given me
a wellspring of joy, a lamp and unerring compass,
I am thankful.

I am thankful for this string of peaceful days and restful nights.
I am thankful for solitude unbroken
but by the contented companionate rumble of my kitty’s purr.
I am thankful for friends who, with patient hands and steady,
have held for me a mirror to my life,
shown me my heart as I couldn’t see it alone.
My friends who have tamed me, understood my thorns.

I am thankful for undying dreams
distant worlds and lifetimes,
intimately loved,
cherished and known, though yet unseen.
For the breath that fills my lungs
the melody that fills my ears,
I am grateful to God,
who has given me voice and a song to sing.

II.

For the honest work that fills my table,
for the hearty food that fills my hunger,
for the holy love that fills my heart,
and the kindred souls who fill my hearth
I am thankful every day.

But every day is filled of little things
that fill my life with wonder –
moments, fleeting, subtle,
that register in my soul with the reverence of glory
but often I neglect to register with conscious thanks.

Today, therefore, on this feast of Thanksgiving
with these greater gifts encompassing me,
enshrined in gratefulness, but set aside:
Today, in a pool of firelight,
A pool of warm remembrances:

For whispered whiskered caresses,
For watercolor vistas on an evening wall;
For swaths of melted gold that caulk the crevices of a maple trunk;
For the intoxicating antique tendrils
that waft up from between marbled bookcovers;

For the glistening dewdrop that rests
within the delicate funnel of a lily-leaf,
enshrouded by an emerald thicket,
sparkling through the darkness, though no wandering eyes may ever behold it
in the immortal flower’s lifetime;

For the delicate choreography of the butterfly,
for the touch of a ladybug on a fingertip,
for the patchwork in a glinting spiderweb;
For the modest stars that shine behind the constellations,
silver specks behind the brilliant lanterns;

For the gentle gilt that floats around the aeries
of cloverpatches,
catching the farewell light of summer dusk;
For the prismatic feathers that gleam against the silver sky–
rainbow pockets, brilliant, subtle, cool;

For the diamond shards that melt against my windowpane with every rainfall;
For the dappled screens that dance over my eyelids
when I rest beneath the sun;
For the whisper of the rosegold shadows
that welcome me to wakefulness at dawn;

For the sound of a hummingbird’s flight,
for the harmony it creates with the woodpecker,
for the cicadas’ August lullaby;
For the plumed plumpness of little sparrows,
who trust enough in their tiny hearts to take from me my crumbs;

For the salty air that tumbles over ocean waves,
which, entangled in my hair, follows me for hours;
For the sweetness that coats my tongue,
redolent, fragrant, fruitlike,
extracted by the sun over strawberry fields;

For snowflakes that hold their shape in a bank that overwhelms a city,
tinkling out their joy when recognized amongst the multitude;
For the beautiful tenacity of the withered leaf
which, exposed and thrashed about by the bold, ungoverned wind,
clings to its branch,

And for its graceful descent, after its graceful, trusting surrender
to the immutable currents of life;
For the little things that reveal to me how little I control,
and how much I have been given, in the depth of this richness;
For the moments that reveal the depth of your care,

I thank you.

No it’s not the new math. And it’s not a formula for a winning hand of poker.

Something better…our college girls will be home soon!

Four will be home for six weeks starting today!

Three will be home for four weeks starting in a couple weeks!

Five will be home for four weeks also starting in a couple of weeks.

That means we’ll have 11 people in the house for the best season of the year!

It also means a “deep bench” when it comes to occupying the three musketeers.

Hopefully we also see plenty of One and One A, along with Two and Two A, and Three A.

Now that moves my equation into algebra.

I bet if houses could show emotions ours would be grinning from downspout to downspout.

You will always have company wherever you go.

I have rarely gone anywhere alone for the last 26 years.

Usually that’s a good thing and these days I think it is a great thing!

Today I went on a mission to the best bakery in town to buy two chocolate chip coffeecakes for our Thanksgiving brunch tomorrow and I slipped away with just Number Nine!

With my wonderful traveling companions no errand is mundane! It is an adventure. An adventure because it is often a whole new experience for my companion. And I will do my best to make it an adventure to remember.

This bakery was so popular that we had to stand in line for 20 minutes.

The smells we tantalizing and we actually saw a real baker.

Not like the chain stores. No way!

Nine read every sign in the store. She is a magnificent reader.

When it was our tune I threw in a chocolate doughnut for Nine and a a iced turkey cookie for Three and Four.

I’ve been getting these cookies with seasonal decorations for Three and Four for sixteen years. Nine did the math perfectly.

We even rescued a worm in the gutter by our car. Everyday fare when you travel with the president of the worm club. Now he (or she) will spend the winter in our back yard six feet down making fertilizer all season!

Like music to my ears she said, “I’m glad I went with you today Daddy!”

I am too.

I first read Joan Wester Anderson’s work back in the early 1990’s when I found her first angel book, “Where Angels Walk”. Her writing is clear, engaging, and her stories are riveting.

Fourteen more angel books have followed through the years, and my family’s bookshelf holds them all. The books are beloved by all of us, and the stories have been the subject of late night conversations amongst the children for years.

She wrote about a miracle that happened to my family in her book,”Where Wonders Prevail”, which was just re-released as “Angels and Wonders”. Although my grandfather wrote a book about this miracle that happened in the Philippines during World War II, Anderson was the first person to tell our story to the world.

I knew that Anderson was the mother of a large family, a devoted Catholic, a seasoned writer, a sought after speaker- but I didn’t know that she was very funny. Humor in a religious context is always a happy surprise. I always expect religious people to be rather straightlaced, although every single faith-filled person I know has an active imagination and sense of humor.

What a delight then, to receive and read through Anderson’s latest book, “Moms Go Where Angels Fear to Tread”. As the mother of many children, I belong to a sisterhood of women whose anecdotes span every possible twist and turn of possible experience. We know how to make do with less, make something out of nothing, make many people feel special, listen to several people talk at once, and be delighted. Or crazed. Mostly delighted though. At least, that is how I feel.

When I became a mother in 1985, I had no support group. Most people I knew had one or two children. In the years to come, I became the mother of six children and became friends with other mothers of large families. The best times we had were sitting around  large tables  in our homes recounting our own adventures in motherhood.

Any seasoned mother would enjoy this book, because it is candid yet lighthearted. It is authentic, because Mrs. Anderson is one of us. She knows what it takes to raise a bunch of kids. She tells us about her whole glorious era as a mom, her times of looking out the window at the great world that marches while mothers tend their chicks. She tells us about the great family vacation, and gets us misty eyed as the once tiny children now venture forth on their own.

Motherhood is the hardest and most important job in the world. It is wonderful that this New York Times best selling author, has written this book, at once a guide and a souvenir of the time of our lives. The book is published by Guideposts, the great inspirational publishing house.

You can reach Anderson at her website http://joanwanderson.com or on her Facebook fan page. Look for: Joan Wester Anderson.

Life is a river of experiences. As we sail down the river, we encounter adventures. For me, so many things are adventures. Take cooking for instance. Far from a necessary task, cooking is alchemy, cooking is magic.

The kitchen is a place of enchantment. I don’t have a big or beautiful kitchen. But to me, it is perfect. I love it best in the cold weather when it is so cozy and filled with light.

A few days ago, dear blog readers, my college kids went to Garba night, an Indian festival, at their university, and brought home a plate of food. This is the second one they have attended. They’ve always come home with stories of the splendid saris and lively dances and the funny fact that very few American students attended. Oh, wouldn’t it be fun for everyone if they got out of their dorm rooms and went to this festival of dance and food?

I was standing in the front hallway when the big kids arrived from their adventures. JM handed me a paper plate full of treats. I suddenly wished that I had gone, but alas, we still had a sick child at the time. All week long the idea of Indian food was following me around. So today, I cooked up a feast.

When we were in New York several weeks ago, we had a lovely outing with Taz and her mom. We went to the Fairway market up in Harlem and then had a picnic lunch in the sun at a park overlooking the Hudson river.I asked her mom in detail how to make her best curry. I took notes. I followed the steps in my head. Oh the result was delicious today. Just delicious.

Then, a few weeks ago, we had an almost surprise visit from Bud’s college roommate Jim, and his wife Maggie. They brought us this wonderful chutney with the instructions to let it sit for a few weeks more. We opened it tonight. When Jim and Maggie were here, we had a meal and told stories of all the years that have filled our lives. I was so happy to spend time with these special people. Old friends are midlife’s gold.

The Google Pakora, is inspired by the pakora that was brought home by the kids. I googled several recipes to become familiar with the process. The problem was that our stores did not carry gram flour, ground garbanzo flour. I had the idea that grinding my own would work, since I only needed two cups. So I took two Goya cans of garbanzos, roasted everything on cookie sheets to dry it all out, and then put it all through the food processor to grind it into powder.

Jasmine rice is Rosie’s favorite, so we have it every single night of our life. One of our rice cookers is devoted to jasmine rice. The other is for brown rice.

The cucumber/yoghurt sauce is a tip from my kitchen advisor, Kiko. My mouth was burning last week because I put too much Tabasco in my soup. He quickly brought me a small glass of milk. It did the trick and cooled everything down.

The Lentil Dal was easy and delightful to make. I started the lentils in a separate pot, and fried the onions, garlic and spices in another. Then, I recombined them. It took on a beautiful color.

The last thing on the plate was mint relish, which came from the International Aisle at the supermarket. Just a tiny dab in the mix woke the whole plate up and took it to another place.

I heated the oil up in a wok, and used a thermometer to check the temperature. The Google Pakora batter was dropped in by spoonfuls and rewarded me with an excellent sizzle. They turned a beautiful shade of brown before my eyes and tasted just sumblime especially with a bit of chutney.

My friends who have sailed with me through parts of this river, will know that I just love new cuisines and am eager to try everything. Cooking is an act of love. As a child I stood wide eyed at the kitchen door and watched the ladies give orders to scampering maids.

When I was widowed in 1982 I was twenty-five. I was invited to live by my friends  in a student house in West Philadelphia humorously known as the Madhouse. We had a kitchen that was dominated by a table with two long benches. I cooked and cooked that year. We had dinner parties and we had a tape of “La Boheme” that played on a cassette player next to a little dim black and white television. We all took turns, but I helped all the time. It was something to do rather than talk. It was magical. The feeling of being together, the smells and the the tastes, the laughter and the stories all wove my heart back together and gave me a wonderful, unforgettable year. By the time a year had passed, I was ready to let go of these friends, and move forward with my own story.

Feeding people when your heart if broken is a palliative act. It takes you out of yourself, and you are doing an act of nurturing. Even if you don’t feel it, it makes you better.

After that year, I cooked my way through my fears of falling in love again, and right into Bud’s heart. I have a recipe for Chicken with Cashew Nuts that is from the Irene Kuo book, The Key to Chinese Cooking. That dish still makes him teary eyed when I cook it, and it was a birthday request from the children for years.

When my big girl moved to New York, I told her to feed people so she could feel at home at once, and grow her urban tribe. She did, is and she has a tribe.

In my own quirky kitchen, there is magic every day. And why not? We only have this day once. Children grow up too quickly, and before you know it, you are waving goodbye to them as they get on trains and airplanes with their hearts full of hope and their eyes full of dreams.

I always want to remember my life with my family. The smells, the cats underfoot, the hopeful dog, and Bud’s amazed face as he lifts the lids and looks inside the pots.

As you may know I’ve got a “Never Thought I’d Do That” list. You can see it on the home page of this blog.

My latest addition is walk around the zoo as a giant penguin.

And, march in an elementary school parade dressed as a giant penguin.

We have a good friend with one character flaw…he is passionate about winning the costume contest at Boo at the Zoo every Halloween. His family has done it twice. Last year and this year.

So when we were deciding what to be on Halloween this year (some of us put more thought int t than others of us) our friends loaned us their costumes that failed to take home the roses.

So picture this: Ten and Eleven as baby penguins (complete with Ten’s glasses). Seven and I dressed as mama and daddy penguins. Walking around the zoo with Princes Leia (Nine).

Go figure – anything goes on Halloween.

My dear wife refused to don the feathers and conned Seven into it.

We weren’t in the parade but as we walked by we virtually stopped the parade.

“LOOK AT THE PENGUIN FAMILY”

The day before Halloween the kids in our elementary school come to school dressed up and parade around the school.

My dear wife convinced me that many of the parents came dressed up too.

WRONG.

We were the only parents dressed up and, for sure, the only penguins.

Then Ten’s teacher conned me into marching with Eleven in the parade.

Where’s Mrs. Penguin?

On the sidelines saying, “look at the daddy penguin and his baby.”

Sunday.

Sunny day.

Lunch time.

Good food.

Better company.

Seven girls – most of my daughters.

Laughing.

Singing.

Enjoying each other,enjoying me, enjoying them.

Click!

Another beautiful memory preserved in the camera of my soul.

Thank you God.

There’s  a gathering tonight at a place we used to hang out.

Our ears should be burning for sure.

Small men casting long shadows…a sign the end is near.

They have no hold on us. They never did. The only hold anyone has is the one you allow.

We’re moving on. I’m glad.

This season has shown me what really matters.

Through these trials I’ve come to appreciate the good woman I married so much more.

Those who invest their hope in a spiritual world give evidence of that trust by their actions in this world.

She is the personification of that statement.

I’ve seen the evidence. She has been loved well by those whom she has touched.

She has always been in the game.

Pharisees will skulk away because their evil plans have failed.

Some twenty years ago I started taking kids to work on National Take Your Child To Work Day. I was one of the few. But I stuck it out.

I learned early on that you only take one child at a time unless the children were super well behaved.

It was usually a blow-off day. I remember some child asking me, “Is that all you do all day?”

I guess from a child’s perspective talking on the phone, talking to other people, opening mail and typing on a computer is pretty mundane. Come to think of it – it was!!!

Usually the highlight was to go to lunch. This was especially fun when I worked downtown Chicago.

I also learned that what was a fun lunch for adults wasn’t much fun for kids and usually a waste of money.

I remember taking Two and Three to the top of the John Hancock for lunch only to have them turn up their noses at pea soup (that Two later barfed in front of my office).

Anyway, flash forward, I spent the day with One and his three or five jobs. What fun. Fun to know what he does and fun to realize how much he has grown and in some ways, how much we are alike (aside from him being 8 inches taller and me having more hair).

It does a number on your mind because I’m constantly pressing FF and RW in my mind seeing him at two, then twelve, then today, then six.

I must do it again and regularly!

And to top off a great day we linked up with Three for a lunch at the Goose Island Pub to work on our MBA’s.

Life is good. Thanks for the memories.

Beautiful Fall day – was supposed to rain but it didn’t.

Did the Frank Lloyd 5K with Ten and Eleven in the jogger. Shaved a minute off our previous time!

Watched Three run the 10K

Dressed like penguins and went to the zoo.

Sat in the sun with a beer watching the bears play.

Our neighbors won the costume contest – first place – second year in a row!

Came home to celebrate Three’s 22nd birthday surrounded by almost all of our lovedones.

Watched the sun set from the front porch.

Making memories – feeling loved.

One of the last beautiful days in 2009.

Put this day in the record books.

They introduced me as their “sister’s father”.

Say what?

Five and Six are adopted. They have been our family virtually all their lives.

But they actually have a biological family. Three brothers and a mother.

At their grandfather’s funeral their brothers introduced me as their sister’s father.

Well, that’s true…and if people walk away scratching their heads – so what?

See family isn’t what it used to be…wait a minute…maybe we are what family is supposed to be and our culture got it mixed up along the way.

I mean some of us came into the family through the birth canal. Others came through the front door.A couple have been recruited (i.e. One A and Two A).

Bottom line, God made our family. He hand picked every one of us. And even if some of us don’t live in the same house anymore, or even the same planet, any more, we are family. And I am thankful for every one of them.

Ever since we lost Lucy I’ve been especially protective about the rest of the flock. Just realizing how fragile life is and how easy it can slip away. Of course we know “In God we trust” is the more than a fancy slogan on our money. It’s our only hope – He’s our only hope.

So Ten is just walking across the room. Not running. BAM she falls flat on her face – make that her front teeth.

When the tears and blood and crying subside it doesn’t look good.

Off to the dentist.

Come back in two days.

Two days later looks like one tooth made it the other is hanging by a thread.

Eating s now a challenge, frustrating and painful.

Come Saturday morning, Ten pulls her own tooth!

A big first. No blood, No crying. Now she can eat. Now she is not just super cute but world class cute.

I remember when One was a baby and we had to decide whether doing the Tooth Fairy gig would mess him up.

It’s fun to have a second and third shot at raising kids with new parent worries out-of-the-way.

Of course we’ll do the TF!

Advantages of a big family #12 – You’ll have lots of help planning weddings and funerals.

Now we’ve done them both and almost within a year apart. One took a year to plan the other took two days.

One costs more than the other.

Both have costs you can’t measure in dollars and cents.

Both are better when you have a lot of family to help.

Both ease the pain when you can surround yourself with your closest loved ones.

In our case – the community of our friends made each event perfect – and almost the same cast of characters.

I’ve had a thought bugging me for at least a week now and I haven’t posted it because it’s so very naiv. At least it feels like it is. We live in a world were the parents take their time to bring you up and protect you. Yet when it is their turn, when you actually have the possibilty to take care of them for a change; they’re apparantly in the way. Old and bothersome. This feels so wrong to me. I would love to have a big home, with a big family. Not in the sense that I want a lot of kids, but in the sense that the home is big enough for kids, parents and grandparents all helping out to take care of one another.

Of course, this would need a very big home because otherwise we’d all probably get on eachothers nerves but with the way my parents for example like to travel and go about their own lives they wouldn’t be in the way (not much anyway) and then I’d know they’d have a place when they get weary, without having to send them to retirement home. Parent-in-laws also welcome. Can you imagine any better baby-sitter? And the freedom that will give in some respects, to all parts, aswell as the comfort and the respect it will teach the kids.

It’s all just a naiv dream of course, but it’s a pleasant one. Mostly because the older I get, the more the idea of having my parents so far away, and having such a split family (like I’ve had) irks me. I want my kids to grow up with their grandparents, and I want a close-knit family.

Sweet kisses to all the big families out there (that function!)

We’re all on life support!

Sometimes life support comes in the form of a complicated and expensive machine.

Sometimes it looks a lot like a friend or loved one.

Equally complex and priceless.

I’ve used the term a lot lately and come to appreciate them both.

We all expected Lucy to crash when they took her off the ventilator but she was on a different type of life support – her mother’s arms.

Yes, Mom held her, wrapped tight in a yellow “ducky” blanket while they pulled the tubes out of her throat.

We expected her to expire (I’ve been in the hospital too long), I mean die right away, but she didn’t. She was on the kind of life support that drove itself to the hospital.

Now she’s has left the building…and the planet…and we’re all so in need of life support.

Thankfully, we have precious life support in abundance!

If you are reading this blog, thanks life support!

Lucy is gone! She breathed her last on October 1, 2009 at about 10 pm.

Know what’s ironic?

This blog was started in the midst of losing Lucy. And we’ve been losing Lucy for about three years.

But now that she is gone she isn’t really lost.

Say that again?

Lost goes with losing (English 101) except in the lexicon of the Christian believer.

See, she’s not really lost. We know where Lucy is right now. She is in the presence of God. The bible tells me so.

“We live by faith, not by sight. We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” 2 Corinthians 5:7-8

And we know she is with Him…

“Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14

So now that she is gone she isn’t really lost.

Huh?

So we were losing Lucy but she is not really lost to us today – except in our day-by-day existence.

What is lost forever, however, is her suffering, her pain, our worry, our feelings of uncertainty.

On Thursday morning the doctor came in with her game face on. “I don’t think she will make it this time.”

We spent the next three hours rounding up the family. Three, Four and five came home from their respective colleges.

Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten and Eleven were yanked from their respective schools.

One, One A, Two and Two A left work and bolted for the hospital.

Blessed friends came out of the woodwork everywhere.

A family meeting was called in the childrens’ playroom at the hospital. We had 100% attendance (not counting Lucy).

We unanimously decided to take her off life support.

We prayed.

We cried.

Then gave the doctors the signal to remove the ventilator and we held our breath….

She…she…stabelized!

We held her large child hands. We held her fat little feet. We kissed her. We laughed. We left.

A dress rehearsal, I guess.

All except Mom.

Mom slept with her, in her hospital bed that night.

At 9:30 the nurse woke her saying her stats we falling.

The fell…and fell…and fell.

The bottom fell out.

Like Jesus, she simply gave up her spirit.

It was her time.

Peace.

The dress rehearsal was the show.