I've Been Framed!

Remember this cute girl?

My BFF.

My JK.

Well, seems this girl has a birthday coming up.

Which made this the perfect time to try out a brilliant little company that combines a couple of my favorite things, photography and giving presents.

Danielson Designs contacted me a few weeks ago about checking out their custom made frames and invited me to design one for myself. I found the website and the ability to customize a frame (along with a host of other products) an easy-to-use endeavor. I finished up the wording for my frame, got my shipping order in and submitted the kit and caboodle.

And my custom order was on my doorstep in less than 48 hours.

Hello, online shopping.

As you can see, the frame turned out beautifully. I'm packaging it up and sending in on to JK, complete with a picture from when she visited me back in the summer.

Since she is entering her mid-forties this week. Which I have defined as anything past the age of 40.

Which I have already entered.

I'm hoping this is my way of celebrating this decade of our forties. We're just going to own it.

Maybe.

So, JK, be checking your mailbox this week for a great little item, compliments of Danielson Designs. And Octamom Readers, how's this for a good thing? Danielson Designs has offered a $10 off deal for any of you who might be looking for a great customized holiday gift. Simply go to Danielson Designs and use the coupon code OCTAMOM10 to receive $10 off your order.

Happy shopping!

And Happy Birthday, my dear JK.

Sunday Selah

I plan on posting something fresh and new next week about the real story of Saint Nicholas.
Fresh, shiny and new.

But this Selah from Christmas last year has been on my heart again this season as I've been rushing to get the shopping and the cards and the packing and the decorating and the shipping and the baking done.

And I've been reading the brilliant, odd, tangent-filled book The Black Swan by Nassim Nicholas Taleb. And his thoughts on how we perceive history and the mechanisms of hindsight and rewrite and perception have had me thinking again on the contrast of the announcement of the birth of the Christ child against the backdrop of our modern cinema and graphics.

And expectations.

So consider again with me, if you will, the celebration of the arrival of a Savior...and how our world today might react to that news...

(originally posted December 19. 2008)

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ[a] the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger." Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,
"Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests."
Luke 2:8-14




No electric lights. No fog machines. No computer-generated battle scenes. No theater, no special effects, no spot lights, no photographs, film or orchestras.


How overwhelming for a simple group of shepherds to suddenly be audience to a night sky filled with angelic voices and beings, with that most intense and pure of energy emanating from the message, the very glory of the Lord.



In our modern culture, we are constantly inundated with imagery that is fantastical in nature. We are accustomed to and almost blase about the astonishing phantasms that pour from the imaginations and technologies of Hollywood. Entertainment films create completely new vistas and creatures, planets and galaxies.



And we expect it.



We are hard to dazzle.



And so in that regard, it seems to make more sense that the entrance of a baby Savior would come at the time in history it did. A simpler time with complex politics. An era of facile technology mixed with difficult challenges. A people who were jaded by oppression and open to miracles.



And so a host of angels was sent to announce a birth.



I wonder what it would take in today's world to get folks to pay attention to such news. Would we take it seriously if we heard it from Cirque du Soleil? Would we pay more attention if it were off Broadway or on? What kind of pyrotechnics, CG vistas, indie music scores would be enough to capture our contemplation?


And if we saw some amazing vision, would we believe it?



Maybe that's why God's messages seem a bit quieter now, a little more difficult to discern. We tend to explain away His miracles and plagiarize His artistry. I doubt we would respond in holy terror to the vision of glorious light. We would be looking for the tech crew.



But regardless of the method of the delivery, it's the message that's the thing. It's what the shepherds are told that holds the most miraculous piece. A baby born to be a Savior for the glory of God, and the peace of God resting on those He favors.



And in the end, that is what the shepherds grabbed hold of, not the experience of seeing an angel, not a discourse on the phenomenal harmonies of the host, not the glowing light of glory. After going to see this infant Jesus, they spread the word about what they had been told. They told the news that this child, this Jesus, this Christ had arrived to bring peace to man.



And when we hear this news, may we be compelled to do the same. May we lay down our casual comprehension of fantastical sights and be dazzled anew that we are loved enough in the eyes of God to warrant the arrival of His sacrificial Son.



Selah.

JPEG of the Week

~Da Boy and 5 of 8~

~pumping the muscles~

~impressing the girls~

~They are The Dudes~

Posts of Christmas Past...

I was wrapping and taping and hiding and price-sticker-removing until the wee hours last night...if 10:30 pm can be legitimately called the wee hours.
But it felt like the wee hours.

Where did we get the phrase 'wee hours'?

Tangent.

I'm back.

So I thought I would head into the archive today and pull out one of my favorite posts from this time last year.

And then get back to some more wrapping.

So I won't be up until the wee hours tonight.

Whatever the wee hours are.....

(Originally posted December 8th, 2008)

I'm not entirely sure where he come from, really. Or when. I just know that when he was brought out of the rickety confines of the same cardboard box each year, it seemed that Christmas had truly arrived.

He was made of a cheap flocked red velvet, gawky in his design, resplendent in his crimson faux hide. His eyes were large plastic stickers with exaggerated catch-lights, fringed with lases at the corners. He sported a large rack of white antlers and a lightly furred white locket.

He was a mass-produced, cheaply rendered, shabbily stitched red reindeer.

And I loved him.

He smelled slightly musty from his sawdust innards; it seemed the very perfume of Noel. One of his antlers pulled loose and each year when we removed him from the dark Christmas carton, he had inevitably leaked a few more wisps of his organic stuffing. We would shove the antler back into place, secure it with a band aid, and place him once again in what we perceived to be a prestigious decor spot.

He often enjoyed the company of a stuffed elf. They shared similar genetic makeup in terms of cheap red velvet and sawdust stuffing. They seemed an appropriate pair, and I felt I had theological backup on this as they were reminiscent of Rudolph and Hermie the elf-wanna-be-a-dentist duo from my favorite Christmas movie.

But, as childhood marched on into teenage-hood, some of our traditions changed. The annual search for a live tree was replaced with a hypoallergenic fake one. The large colored lights were exchanged for white, sparkling ones. The faded and chipped glass ball ornaments experienced such a drop in their population that new decor was procured.

And then it was our turn to set tradition for us as my husband and I began our family and started to create a platform of memories for our children.

But memory is a funny thing. Certain things can sleep, remain quiet. The waves of the now, the current of the future, make the murky depths difficult to see. But every now and then, a little something will bob to the surface. And it can open up a flood waters from the deep.

My in-laws were going through many decorations one year, weeding out things they no longer used or had never used or no longer needed in their Christmas accessorizing. As retired school principals, they had received over the years a bounty of all things yuletide decoration from their many students. As we sifted through box after box, a bit of fabric caught my eye.

It was cherry red, a glimpse of fabric amongst a mosaic of shiny plastic candy canes and glitter-encrusted snowmen. I pushed back the tide of tinseled trivia and caught my breath: there he was. The cheap red velvet reindeer.

Well, okay. It wasn't the cheap red velvet reindeer of my childhood. But it was his mass-produced cousin, made at the same time in the same factory with the same sticker eyes and white antlers. He even had a saw-dust bleeding split in his hide, just a bit to the left of his cheap white velvet tail.

My in-laws graciously allowed me to claim my treasure.

I patched his wound with Disney Pocahontas band aids.

I rubbed his cheap red velvet on my cheek. I breathed in the musty aroma of his sawdust stuffing. And I was rewarded with a little memory bobbing to the top of my conscience.

And then another.

And then another.

Childhood Christmases. Laying under the tree. Looking at the spectacularly garish and gorgeous primary color lights. The scent of the pine needles, the scratchy reach of the branches. The hiss of the LPs of our small collection of Christmas records playing holiday music. The pure sugar hard crunch of the candy my mother bought every year and kept in the amber glass bowl. The length of the shag carpet fibers. The white bricks that made up the fireplace in the living room. The gold fringe on the curtains. The tinge taste of iron on my tongue when the tinsel I ran over my lips gave me slight paper cuts at the corners of my mouth. My own reflection in the mirror tiles on the wall adjacent to the fireplace, my visage lighted by the sparking tree behind me.

Childhood.

Packaged in a cheap red velvet reindeer.

A treasure of memories, cushioned in the sawdust stuffing.

He adorns the top of my tree now, a beloved archival piece, a dilapidated friend from other places and other times. To the uninformed, he looks like a kitschy piece of Christmas tackiness. But in the eyes of this child, the one that still keeps a room in my heart, he looks like home.

Handy Man

Of course, there are many positive attributes about my youngest brother.

Not the least of which is his ability to make barbecued ribs that are so tender and delicious, they make you want to cry.

Happy tears.

But there is another thing about my youngest brother, the one I call Other Brother (as opposed to our shared sibling, Middle Brother) that was a cherished feature of his in the years that he lived just a couple clicks from my house in Oklahoma.

And that is his height.

And his willingness to help on virtually any project.

Because at six foot six inches, Other Brother just comes in pretty darn handy.



I miss living close to him for a number of reasons, not just that he comes in handy.


But still.


And it was great to have he and his family in for Thanksgiving.


And not just because he's handy.


But still.


Particularly because I have a Christmas tree that is rather, ah, ambitious.

So when I got a bee in my bonnet the day after Thanksgiving and decided my twelve foot tree needed to be put up immediately, it was Other Brother who wrestled the thing out of the depths of the attic and got it all put together.

Including the star.

Sure was nice of him to drive 500 miles to do that for me....

The Christmas Card

It's a point of honor with me, one standard that I hold only myself to.
I don't expect it of you.

Really.

But I do try to get my Christmas card out each year before Thanksgiving. Because if it doesn't happen by then, it's probably not going to.

But if you would like to interpret my OCD Christmas card delivery as a sign of high organization and remarkable discipline, you're welcome to.

You'd be wrong.

But I would come off looking pretty good.

Anyway.

So here's the family photo that graces this year's card:

And here's the one that Mike really wanted to send out:

Not much difference, you say? Well, let me help you out:

That would be 3 of 8--and, believe me, this photo will be used for blackmail purposes...

Da Boy...and Da Girl...

Being a photographer and all, you would think that I would have gotten some cute shots of Da Boy and Da Girl (better known as 1 of 8) when Da Boy was here for his visit last week.
Well, you would be wrong.

I thought photo shoots with colicky newborns were tough. I thought that portrait sessions with hyperactive toddlers were the height of challenge.

I was wrong.

Because, apparently, trying to get Da Boy and 1 of 8 to take a photo shoot seriously was nigh impossible.

Hence, this photo set.

Be gentle with me, Dear Readers. A mom just does what she can with the material she's allowed to shoot.

They're really cute kids, I can tell you.

It's just a little hard to tell from the photographs....

Reflecting on Our Words--The November Edition

The monthly word challenge just keeps getting more unique! My 2009 Word blog buddies and I are continuing our monthly tradition of exploring the word we selected at the beginning of the year that would provide a beacon for our 2009 goals. This month, we are each selecting an animal which embodies an element of our chosen word.

My word for '09 has been excellence and after a bit of zoological searching, I finally settled on the swan as the emblem for my word. Swans typically mate for life and have strong family bonds. The male and female swans nurture and raise their cygnets together, developing their own 'tribe', if you will. The image of a swan has graced many a coat of arms, conjuring connotations of nobility and are seen as symbols of love and fidelity because of their tendency to form life-long bonds. Many fairy tales and myths surround the species, the moral of the tales often being the adherence to beauty and grace, even in the midst of difficulty and ridicule.

Plus, swans are just pretty to look at. They just are.

Which is perhaps not the most excellent reason to choose a swan as my symbol of excellence. But I also got to take a great picture of one down of the lake during the summer.

And that sealed the deal for me...

MirusPeg writes:

One day a long time ago, I was watching a documentary about dolphins and something inside me clicked. I was well into my late 20’s and was watching the television as if I was glued to it. It felt as if I was in a mind-meld with the dolphins and it was too a point that I started to cry because on some spiritual level, I understood what these dolphins were saying. I just knew that the dolphin was my Spiritual Animal Totem, I just knew it!

The beautiful, graceful, sleek dolphin carries many messages for the two legged! A key to understanding because the dolphin meaning is connected with themes of duality. It has to do with the dolphin being both fish and mammal. It is both of the water, and an air breather. Ergo, dolphin symbolism talks to us about "being in two worlds at once." Indeed, the dolphin is a great conveyor of the concept of yin and yang.

It is playful, and is a reminder that time to play is a crucial element in walking in BALANCE. It moves through the water quickly and with great grace, ever moving with the flow. Dolphins tell us to move with the ebb and flow of life, and not to search for brick walls to smash into. To spend our energy fighting the current gets us nowhere. Being constantly at war with others, with our surroundings and with circumstances we cannot change, destroys the spirit, eats away at hope, and consumes the joy of life.

The power of the Dolphin is community in BALANCE.

AVT Coach has this to share:

I have chosen the ELEPHANT as an animal depicting ABUNDANCE. Of course, it does have abundant size but it also lives abundantly. Here is what I found out:

Elephants cry. They express grief at the loss of another elephant. They exhibit behaviors that depict sadness, bowing their heads, lowering their ears, and pausing at the place where another elephant has died.

Elephants play. They express joy at seeing other elephants. They dance around, spin and twirl, and trumpet joyful sounds.

Elephants are helpful. They take care of each other and especially the babies in the group.

Elephants give back. Without intention of doing so, their feet make large depressions in the ground where water can collect and be a provision for other animals.

Elephants are social. They live in large family groups and communicate over long distances with each other.

In my quest for an Abundant life, I think these characteristics are certainly a start. Have empathy for others, find joy in play, care for others, give back to the greater community, and create a positive family environment.

FlyGirl adds this animal to her collection of thoughts:

I'm sure my choice of dogs to express the meaning of joy doesn't surprise those who know me. Both Scout and Maggie have a way of warming my soul, making me laugh, and filling me with heartfelt joy.

They are ALWAYS happy to see me. They do the silliest things that make me laugh out loud, yet they are attuned to the personalities and emotions that flavor our home....

Studies have shown that owning a pet can add years to your life. In fact, just petting a dog has been shown to lower blood pressure. And residents of nursing homes have shown a boost in mood and social interaction when a dog has been brought in for a visit.

My two dogs definitely bring joy to my home, to my life, to my family.

And MommyVictory finds the ant an inspiration for discipline:

The ant has received a bad rap throughout history as a pest, a nuisance, an annoyance. While in Puerto Rico, I would often be surprised to find ants in my sugar, but no one else would be surprised. In Texas we are known for a more ferocious type, the fire ant - certainly not a little creature to be reckoned with.

While thinking about this critter, I began to realize the one thing no one has ever called an ant is lazy. When you see ants, what are they doing? Moving, carrying, building, preparing for whatever may come. If you destroy their home, the very next day they have set up shop just on the other side of the sidewalk. Which brings me to my story...

In a field one summer's day, Grasshopper was hopping about, chirping and singing gleefully. Ant passed by, bearing along with great toil an ear of corn he was taking to the nest.

Grasshopper tried to dissuade Ant from his work by inviting him along in his day of reverie, but Ant could not be swayed. He was preparing for the long winter. Ant tried to convince Grasshopper of the foolishness of his ways telling him he too should lay up stores.

Grasshopper was not worried about winter as he had plenty of food for now and continued to while  away the hours and days leading up to the first snow at which time he found himself dying of hunger. Meanwhile, Ant and his family could be seen surviving from what was stored away during the good weather.

At that point Grasshopper knew IT IS BEST TO PREPARE FOR THE DAYS OF NECESSITY.

There are times when I would rather play than have the DISCIPLINE to stay at home and clean house or go to the grocery store and shop for the family. Sometimes I give in and later have to pay the consequences. Other times I pull myself together to get done what needs to be.

Over the course of this year, my focus on DISCIPLINE  has led me to see the error of many of my ways - most of which I have tried hard to change.  Of course being human and having a the luxury of being able to go out if need be, I have not perfected this way of life. It is still something I strive to improve.

So what about it, Octamom Readers?  Is there a word that has inspired you this year?  And is there an animal that exemplifies your word?  Share, share!  And don't forget, 2010 is just around the corner.  What will be your guiding word for the new year?

Sunday Selah

Jesus replied, "It is not right to take the children's bread and toss it to their dogs."

"Yes, Lord," she said, "but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table."

Then Jesus answered, "Woman, you have great faith! Your request is granted."

Matthew 15:26-28

Thanksgiving leftovers.
There are quite a bit of them around here.

Because somewhere in my caffeine-addled mind, I developed an equation that stated the sixteen individuals I was hosting for Thanksgiving dinner would require two pounds of turkey a piece.

Which turned out to be a bit of an over-multiplication.

To say the least.

Turkey burgers. Turkey chili. Turkey nuggets. Turkey loaf. That's the week's upcoming menu.

It may all lead to the Great Turkey Rebellion of '09 deep into next week.

Leftovers.

There are leftovers in God's economy. When Jesus feeds the 5000 and the 4000 with a few fish and loaves, there are twelve baskets and seven baskets of leftovers, respectively. When the Canaanite woman comes to Jesus in Matthew 15 for healing for her daughter, she tells Him that even the dogs eat the crumbs, the leftovers from the master's table. She understands that, even though Jesus has come as the consolation of Israel, even the crumbs of His ministry yield great power. She receives healing for her daughter and encouragement from Jesus as He commends her for the great faith she has shown.

And what of manna, the bread of angels that God fed to the Israelites as they made their way to the Promise Land? They were only to gather enough for the day each morning, except for the day before the Sabbath. On that day, they were to gather enough leftovers to eat on the Sabbath. Any other day, those leftovers would have spoiled by the morning. But for the Sabbath, those leftovers fed them, twice the miracle.

There were leftovers from that original Thanksgiving in autumn of 1621. The Mayflower, that small cargo ship that carried Separatists and Strangers to a new world, made its way back to England and most likely was dismantled for its lumber around 1624, its timbers supposedly used as the crossbeams in a barn. The leftovers of the original Plymouth Colony site, with its small thatched cottages and the Common House that served as shelter during that first desperate winter, lie buried beneath the village which was built over the site in the 17th and 18th centuries.

John Howland was a leftover of his society. At the age of twenty-seven he was nothing more than an indentured servant, brought aboard the Mayflower in the summer of 1620 by his master, John Carver. He made the voyage not as a Separatist seeking freedom of worship and not as a Stranger intent on new opportunities, but simply as a man with leftover dreams and debt. Howland was thrown overboard during a violent storm in the crossing, miraculously grasping a rope trailing from the ship's stern, being hauled back aboard by means of a large fish hook. He served the struggling band of colonists through the devastating winter of 1620-1621, helping build shelters and burying the dead. When John Carver and his wife passed away within the first couple of years of the landing, they left no children. Howland was left their inheritance and he began buying up land. In 1626, he was appointed by Governor William Bradford to search for new sites on the Kennebec River and was named assistant governor in 1628. But he was not recognized as a freedman and admitted to the Plymouth Colony as such until 1633, thirteen years after the original landing.

John Howland and his wife Elizabeth had ten children, all of whom survived to adulthood. They built a farm a few miles from the original Plymouth site. When John passed away in 1673 at the age of eighty, he was the oldest surviving male member of the original Mayflower manifest.

From this man who had been a leftover in his original homeland come the miracles of God's economy. Direct descendants from the Howland family line include actor Humphrey Bogart and composer Phillips Brooks, who wrote the beloved O Little Town of Bethlehem. Poets Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow hail from Howland's heritage. The acting family of the Baldwin brothers Alec, Daniel, Stephen and Billie, Dr. Benjamin Spock and vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin count Howland as pater familias. Barbara Pierce, who would become First Lady Barbara Bush comes from one of the Howland children's family lines and her husband George Bush comes from another, meaning that their son, George W. Bush is also a direct descendant, along with Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

John Howland's final resting place boasts this stone bearing this inscription: "a godly man and an ardent professor in the ways of Christ."

Thanksgiving leftovers.

As you eat your turkey sandwiches and your turkey nuggets and your turkey omelets this week, think on John Howland. Consider the leftover pieces of your life, your leftover time, your leftover dreams.

And know that in the economy of God, leftovers can yield double the miracle.

Selah.

JPEG of the Week

~Baby Bro and the Fam~

~my house guests~

~who call me Aunt Sissy~

~which makes my heart smile~

Pounds and Pounds

I made two of these...

...because I apparently forgot I was feeding 16 people and not 30.

So we've got leftovers for an army after feeding an army...

...and a precious army it is...

Almost There....

The dressing is mixed.

The stuffed eggs are in process.

The sweet potato souffle creation is about to begin.

The turkeys are brined, roasted and awaiting a short stint in the smoker.

The people are gathered.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

May you be blessed.

Prepping....

You should see my kitchen this morning.
It's not pretty.

I'm throwing a Thanksgiving for sixteen tomorrow.

And my kitchen looks like I've already thrown it and also had a bunch of barbarians come in for dessert.

So I'd try to post something witty and pithy today.

But there's flour all over the floor.

And there are two turkeys brining.

Is brining a verb?

Well, it is now. You read it here first.

There are the remnants of the three dozen eggs I boiled and peeled last night.

So it's time for me to get a-crackin'. Because I'm told that kitchen floors shouldn't be crunchy.

But let's indulge in a little verse, shall we?

On the day before Thanksgiving, 1 of 8 said to me,
"Why are there two turkeys?"
On the day before Thanksgiving, 2 of 8 said to me,

"Can you make stuffing that's gluten-free?"

On the day before Thanksgiving, 3 of 8 said to me,

"Why does the whole house have to be cleaned?"

On the day before Thanksgiving, 4 of 8 said to me,

"Why do they call these things table 'leaves'?"

On the day before Thanksgiving, 5 of 8 said to me,

"How does all that turn into gravy?"

On the day before Thanksgiving, 6 of 8 said to me,

"Can I only eat the green beans?"

On the day before Thanksgiving, 7 of 8 said to me,

"Pinch...Bubby....me...."

On the day before Thanksgiving, 8 of 8 said to me,

"Me....Sissy pinch....sorry...."

On the day before Thanksgiving, The Boy said to me,

"Are we going to have that canned jelly cranberry thing?"

On the day before Thanksgiving, Michael said to me,

"Who cares if the kitchen floor is crunchy?"

On the day before Thanksgiving, I whispered to Thee,

"Lord, You are so good, so full of blessing."

Happy Prepping, y'all!

Another Boy...

Yes, I have been mothering a long, long time.
Yes, I am the mother not only to this two-year-old boy, but also to two other boys.

And I am the sister to two brothers.

So the boy thing is not some kind of colossal surprise to me.

But this boy, this boy, with his need to hear things crash and shatter and break and splinter and fracture and rupture, yes, this boy is a revelation to me.

We found him throwing eggs in the kitchen.

We were alerted by the giggles that were issuing from his delighted larynx...

...and from the fact that we slid on egg white when we rounded the corner in the kitchen to see what he was giggling about...

And this was after he broke one of my remaining few matched set of drinking glasses. And after he broke my pretty stone coasters. And after he pulled an entire casserole dish to the floor. And after he cleared an entire coffee table of such detritus as coffee cups and books and the like.

Which was after he got the milk out of the fridge...by himself.

He's quite the aerobics instructor, I must admit...

Da Boy...

The Boy is here.

He flew in from California at the end of last week.

Who is The Boy, you ask?

Well, here's a little bit about The Boy...

And then there was the trip 1 of 8 made to see The Boy last spring...

And I'll be bringing you some new pictures of 1 of 8 and The Boy...

But this is the one from when they were just kids, reveling in each other's geeky humor and unique fashion sense...

But they're not kids anymore.

Nope.

Sunday Selah

For today's Selah, just press the arrow and listen!

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Selah.

JPEG of the Week

~Spiral~

~Curve~

~Helicoid~

~Tendrillar~

~Tortile~

(I love thesaurus dot com...)

One Way You Can Tell....

This business of Big Family has some tell-tale signs.
There are just some things that indicate you're managing a larger-than-normal population of people in the house.

One of the primary sociology indicators of the large family experience is found with...food.

As in, there are some strong emotions of ownership when it comes to food.

Strong.

We do spend a good deal of the budget on groceries, as you can imagine. And we always try to make sure there's plenty to go around, healthy stuff to go around. Apples, bananas, yogurt. And there are certain categories of food that are a bit more, shall we say, rationed. Such as bacon. Because turkey bacon is yummy and all. But nobody gets to eat six slices in a sitting. Which means we sometimes experience a little bacon territoriality.

Like this:

Yep. 3 of 8 got down to the last 2 inches of his rationed bacon slice and got full. But that didn't mean he was going to walk away from the remainder of his slice. No, no.

Because in a big family, you sure don't want to be flip about your alloted bacon supply...

To Tell the Tooth...

After I posted that little photo montage of 6 of 8's first Tooth Fairy encounter, I had some questions from readers that I thought were thought-provoking...hence my thought.

I'm circular in my thinking like that.

Esoterica aside, the questions took the form of a central theme: what do you do with the teeth the 'Tooth Fairy' collects?

Posterity.

That's been my goal.

Periodontal posterity.

Back in the day when I shot chemical film, I stored the first two or three kids' dental detritus in empty film canisters, secreted far back in the confines of my favorite antique armoire.

Have I ever told you the story of my favorite antique armoire? You know, the year Mike and I were super, ah, frugal at Christmas and we gave my favorite brother-in-law and his wife placemats? And they gave us two gorgeous English antique armoires, one smaller and one larger?

I haven't told you that story yet?

I'll get to it, one of these days.

Anyhow, the removed teeth used to be stored in individual containers deep in the favorite armoire.

But I didn't label them.

And I kept them straight by keeping them in a certain sequence on the shelf in the armoire.

But then I forgot what the sequence was.

Which meant I forgot who's film canister was whose.

And I'm pretty sure I've tackled that whole who's/whose debacle correctly.

Maybe.

So now I simply have lots of teeth secreted lots of places.

One or two in the change compartment of my wallet.

The one I carried a couple of years ago.

And there are some collections in a variety of bowls and vases, ensconced on mantels and various shelves. And there are a couple in my makeup drawer, behind that collection of eye shadows that was bought on the spur of a moment, that moment when I forgot once again that my eyes are, in fact, green and not blue. That eye shadow collection.

So I suppose the answer I am giving is that, yes, I do collect my children's teeth and no, there is not a real system or organization to that collection.

And so now, I want to hear from you.

Do you keep the dental cast-offs of childhood? Do you have your own baby teeth? Do you have your children's baby teeth kept in silver boxes or is your system more, um, instinctive? Does the Tooth Fairy visit your house or have you given up an pretense of dental DNA digest?

Speak up, you conveyors of the tradition.

Brace Face No More!

The braces are off 3 of 8!

He turns 13 in a few days--so it seems appropriate he would have a new smile to go with his entree into teenagehood.

By my calculations, we have brought three kids through orthodontia and just have five more to go.

Just five more.

That doesn't sound too daunting.

Much.