Go, go girlie!

Lola has been practicing walking for weeks now, but today she has really started to get the hang of it. I captured this bit of video in which she shows off her skills.

She's no Little Miss Muffett

Amelia is thrilled that a new creature has taken up residence at her house. We're calling her Miss Spider.

Maybe some little girls would have run screaming away from this arachnid that's roughly the size of my palm, but not my kid. She came flying into the house so excited to show me our visitor and desperate to see her "shake her web," something which her daddy told her this variety of spider will do if it's threatened.

I felt it important to document Miss Spider's visit just in case we get up in the morning to find she's moved on to greener pastures. I hope she sticks around because she's a very good remedy for ridding us of the mosquitoes that like to live here regardless of season and because Amelia gets a chance to see nature up-close without having to drag it in the house as has been the case in the past with worms, caterpillars and snails, who've all met an early demise, I am sure, because of Amelia's attempts to domesticate them.

Just call me Suzy Homemaker

I spent the better part of the day today in the kitchen making food for my family from fruit sent home with me by Grandmaw and Pappaw.

I brought home two bags filled to brimming with pears and another two bags full of apples. The fruit was grown on trees at the home of Jeff's grandfather. Although Pawpaw Hunt has been gone from this earth for more than a year, his trees continue to bear fruit for all of us to enjoy.

Because I cannot stand to see good food go to waste, I agree to bring some fruit home with me. We do not eat large quantities of fresh fruit, so I knew I had to figure out a way to use this food before it went bad.

Because Lola drinks tons of Gerber pear juice, I decided to try my hand at making homemade pear juice. I printed a recipe from the Internet and then got to work.

This photo shows what the pears looked like after cooking for several hours. The recipe was very easy to follow. The hardest part was peeling all the fruit and straining it after it had boiled down. The recipe recommended freezing the juice, but I chose to store it in the refrigerator because I made a small batch that I know will be gone quickly.

I chose to make apple butter from one bag of apples. I got the super-easy slow-cooker recipe from blogger buddy Sunny. You can check it out by clicking HERE. I've got to make a Wal-Mart run to procure some jars for storing the apple butter, but that, along with peeling about 30 apples, will be the most strenuous part of making this recipe.

I used to when I was a little girl get to take part in my grandmother's annual canning day; but because my duties were limited to chopping cabbage to be made into kraut and dunking tomatoes into a ice-water bath in order to make their skins easier to remove, I didn't get a lot of exposure to the finer details of how to can fruits and vegetables. It didn't help that my grandmother was desperately afraid of a pressure cooker explosion so she tried to allow as few people as possible into the kitchen when it was on the stove.

Anyway, I read online that foods such as apples can be preserved using a water-bath method that doesn't require a pressure cooker. I figure I'll give it a try and if it doesn't work I'll only have lost my time since I didn't pay anything for the food.

Flashback Friday: It's all in the genes

1936. My grandmother, Lillian Louise Martin Bonds. She was 17 when this photo was taken and had been married just a few months.

I like this photo because it illustrates how strong genes can be. My mother, me, and Amelia all share the same smile as my grandmother. Although MaBonds, as all the grandkids called her, rarely showed her teeth when she smiled, it's so apparent we all have the same smile when placing photos of us smiling with our teeth showing side-by-side.

Textless Thursday: Photography by my 5-year-old daughter

Gotta love this girl's perspective. I am always so interested in the things she chooses to photograph when I turn her loose with the camera.

Please accept this token of my love, but be warned it's still got some kick in it.

Mojo, the mighty hunter

We were engrossed in an episode of "True Blood" when Jeff suddenly said, "Oh. My. God." Thinking I'd missed something important on the show, I immediately said, "What? What? What?" Jeff replied, "He's got a rat." I figured my precious husband had experienced some quick and debilitating malfunction in his brain because there were clearly no rats in Merlotte's Bar and Grille - a vampire and a telepath, but nary a rat.

However, it became immediately apparent he was talking about our cat, Mojo, and not the folks of Bon Temps, LA, because when he switched on the overhead light there stood Mojo with a rather large rat clamped in his jaw.

Jeff said, "Help me get it," which I interpreted to mean "Jump up on the couch and be of no help whatsoever." It was from my perch high above the action that I saw Mojo drop the rodent and heard Jeff announce, "Dammit, it's still alive."

The disgusting creature scampered away trying to find a spot to hide from not only Jeff, who by this time was brandishing both a broom and a mop, but also Mojo and our dog Daisy, who was just tickled to death to be in on the action. I'd determined my role in all the mayhem was to shout the critter's location to Jeff whilst jumping from various pieces of furniture in the living room.

After Jeff narrowly missed capturing the rat a few times and Daisy caught it but then released it, my vermin-killing hero was finally able to corner it under a cabinet where it met its demise at the end of a broom handle.

While Jeff took care of disposing of this nasty animal, I retreated from my post to capture Mojo and deposit him on the back porch. Because of this incident, he no longer gets to live the posh life of a house cat to which he's been accustomed for six years. Now he gets to spend the better part of his time outside.

We paid a lot of money to install a pet door in our bedroom so Mojo could come and go as he pleased, but now it's just a big hole in the wall because we've locked it so he can no longer use it as a route through which to bring in the rewards of his many hunting expeditions.

You see, the aforementioned story is not, by any means, the first time we've dealt with such a problem. In the past Mojo has brought us birds, rats, moles, rabbits, lizards, frogs, crayfish and once a dragonfly. Some of these were dead as doornails, in fact, truth be told, there were times only parts of these animals made it into the house. However, there have been more times than not when his bounty had quite a bit of life left in it.

My mother once told me that cats love to bring "gifts" to their humans as a show of how much they love them. Their thinking must be, "They will be so pleased with how hard I've worked to take down this critter and bring it to them that they will shower me with love and attention." You'd think after a few incidents of getting banished to the backyard that he would catch on to the fact we do not at all appreciate nor desire his "gifts."

While I love Mojo dearly I cannot abide him bringing animals or animal parts into the house. I especially cannot stand the thoughts of rats or mice in the house because these nasty rodents freak me out and make me feel as though the entire house is contaminated, a feeling which compels me to want to either scrub it from top to bottom or abandon it and move to a rat-free home.

Jeff says we can't move and there's only so much cleaning one person can accomplish so my remedy is to keep Mojo outside and just live with a big, unused hole in the wall. I've allowed him to come in periodically to eat since the continuous rain we've had lately turns his food to mush if we leave it outside. However, I am very close to making him live outside all the time because of the manner in which he's shown his disapproval of my living plan for him.

Mojo is a very loving cat, as evidenced by his propensity to want to bestow his "gifts" upon us; however, like most cats, he lets us know when he's unhappy with us. He doesn't display his unhappiness by scratching or swatting us because he reserves those actions for the girls when they've bugged him one too many times.

Instead, Mojo deposits nasty "surprises" in places we are guaranteed to find them. For example, I went into our bedroom last night to change clothes and discovered he'd upchucked on my bedspread.

Jeff knew I was pissed when he heard me growl, "Uggghhh" from the bedroom, stomp through the house, grab Mojo and then throw him out the door like Fred Flintstone during the cartoon's ending credits. This incident was made even worse by the fact our washing machine is currently on the fritz so I had to pile the sullied bedspread upon my ever-growing pile of dirty laundry and let Jeff dig out an old blanket to use until the washing machine is repaired.

I've always been a cat person, and I still love Mojo; but I gotta say that these recent incidents are making me like Janie Betta Fish more and more.

Textless Thursday: Cake is great!

Man, she really is every woman

Oprah is back, and I am thrilled. I love watching her and have been so excited for this new season.

Because her show airs at the same time my girls are usually glued to the television watching cartoons, I record it on the DVR so I can watch it without interruption and without having to sit through those pesky commercials.

I was so looking forward to watching Oprah interview Whitney Houston because I have always loved her as a musician and actress and have followed her from the days from when she sang about "The Greatest Love of All" to her downward spiral into addiction, depression and domestic violence.

I was happy to know she planned to open up about the last 20 tumultuous years of her life and hopeful she would explain some of her less-than-advisable decisions such as appearing in a 2001 Arista records tribute looking like a skeleton to agreeing to appear on "Being Bobby Brown."

I finishing watching Oprah's two-part interview with Whitney his morning and found myself weeping as Whitney talked about how she didn't know her own strength until she managed to escape the train wreck that had become her life. My reaction to her story was so primitive. I couldn't stop the tears from coming.

I so related to her when she talked about finding it easier to stay stuck than move forward because it was more comfortable to remain caught in the habit of the way she'd been living than take a chance and venture into the unknown of breaking free. I knew exactly what she meant when she talked about Bobby being her strongest weakness because I too once found it hard to break free from a man who was holding me down and holding me back.

I understand, because of spending many years in a dysfunctional home tainted by alcoholism, where she's coming from when she spoke about praying to be strong enough for just one day so she could leave the world in which she'd become so broken. Whereas Whitney prayed for the chance to pull herself up and climb on a plane that would take her to a new life, I prayed for the chance to move into my own apartment so I could focus on finishing college because I knew getting an education would be my ticket to a new life.

Many years ago I recognized that I could either be taken down both emotionally and physically by the environment in which I'd been raised or I could rise above that raising to be a better woman, a better wife and a better mother. I chose to rise above all to which I'd been exposed and recognize it all as an example of how not to live.

I am, sadly, one of the only ones who made it out. Many of my cousins remain caught running on a hamster wheel of dysfunction believing others are to blame for the way their lives have turned out. It's a shame that's made even more shameful by the fact their children are now running in circles and can see no way to change their stations in life. It will likely carry on like this for generations.

I, however, knew that I wanted to break the cycle that had become so common in my family. When Whitney talked about her love for her daughter and how she knew she couldn't allow her child to think the way they'd been living was okay, I truly connected with her because I knew even before I had kids that I would not make the same mistakes with my children that my parents made with me.

Whitney's daughter, Bobbi Kristina, who is 16, appeared on the show and briefly talked about how proud she is of her mother. She told Oprah that words alone cannot express the pride she feels. I could tell by the look on her mother's face how happy it made her feel to hear her daughter say that, and while I know Whitney is grateful to know how Bobbi Kristina feels, I could tell she's even happier to be able to say she's proud of herself.

Whitney talked to Oprah about being proud of what she's overcome. I think that pride, plus lots of support and love from her friends and family, is what will keep her on track and moving forward. I believe this because I know that pride in myself is sometimes the only thing that keeps me going ahead.

There are little victories that happen everyday of which I am proud as well as the big ones for which I will always be grateful, and all of these serve to remind me that I am strong, I will not crumble and I cannot go back but must always move forward.

While it would be nice to occasionally be recognized for my accomplishments and my strength, I can't hang my hopes on that happening because, frankly, there's no one dishing out pats on the back - my mother, who was always my biggest cheerleader, is gone; I, because it's healthier for me and girls, have almost zero contact with her side of the family and none with my dad's family; and my circle of friends is very small.

However, I am not about to throw some big pity party because it would serve no purpose other than to bring me down. I know if I stay on track, remember where I've come from and keep my focus on my husband and my girls that I will reap one giant pat on the back by being able to raise two stable, smart, generous, thoughtful and loving children.

It's the support and love I get from them and Jeff everyday that remind me just how strong I really am. Now, after having watched and related so much to Whitney on Oprah, I have a new found respect for her and a new touchstone for those times when I forget my own strength.

Thanks Whitney, I needed that little reminder, and I hope you get the pat on the back you deserve. You may be a star of epic proportions, but you, really, truly are a lot like most of us women out here doing our best to get through this thing called life. Kudos!

Birthday wishes for my man

The man to whom I am dedicated to spending the rest of my life is celebrating his birthday today.

Jeff is turning 38, though, truth be told, he takes such good care of himself that if Dr. Oz performed one of his fancy-schmancy aging tests on him it would likely show that Jeff has the body of someone 10 years younger.

His face has resisted the ravages of time as well because he has nary a wrinkle despite the fact he almost never puts on sunscreen, something I've I have warned him against; although from the looks of his skin I needn't have wasted all that hot air. In fact, if Jeff doesn't have facial hair, which isn't often because I won't let him shave because I like him all scruffy, he still gets carded when purchasing beer.

I have enough gray hair that I could qualify to portray someone's grandmaw in a theatrical production, but Jeff's hair is still brown and lustrous even though he has to put up with me and my ever-changing moods as well as my propensity to fly off the handle about things like being asked a question before I've had a full cup of coffee.

Jeff likes to joke and tell people he's an old man, but take it from someone who's known him more than 20 years - old is the last word I would ever use to describe him. Words I would use include, but are not limited to: loving, caring, smart, sexy, silly, courteous, easy-going, dedicated, accommodating, and family-oriented.

I have said it before, but it bears repeating, I am blessed and lucky to have this man. I cannot begin to imagine life without him. Happy birthday, honey. I hope we get to share many, many more together.

A lesson in unity

Eight years ago today I wasn't yet a mother. I was still working as a reporter at the local community newspaper and was on assignment to cover the early-morning activities that were a part of the United Way's annual Day of Caring.

I spent quite a while taking photos and gathering quotes from people involved in things such as creating crafts with children enrolled in the Head Start program and building a clean, safe break area for local mentally and physically-challenged adults working at an area industry. After completing my work, I headed over to one of the police departments on my beat to check in to see if anything newsworthy had occurred overnight.

While I was there talking with the records clerk, who also happens to be a good friend, one of the investigators came into the office and said he'd heard on the radio that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. Because this investigator was known as quite a prankster, my friend, the records clerk, chastised him saying, "You shouldn't joke about something like that. Good gracious!"

He said, "No, really, I'm serious. They said a plane had flown into one of the towers. Come on, I'll show you on TV."

We followed him into the part of the jail that was used to house inmates known as "trustees," who were incarcerated for minor offenses and had earned through good behavior the privilege of living outside the general population and the chance to work at various jobs throughout the city as part of completing their sentence.

The investigator turned on the television after which we, as well as a few trustees, a couple of patrolmen and another investigator, sat down on an old couch to watch the nightmare unfold.

We stared mouths agape completely dumbfounded as we watched the second plane fly into the Twin Towers. Then were were even more shocked as we listened to Jim Miklaszewski, NBC chief Pentagon correspondent, describe how he believed the Pentagon was under attack.

The silence among us was broken when I remarked, "I bet this has something to do with that Bin Laden guy." One of the investigators replied, "I bet you're right. That towel-head is crazy." One of the trustees spoke up and said, "I read about him in the newspaper. I think he's bad news."

We continued to watch as Miklaszewski confirmed a plane had indeed struck the Pentagon and other reporters announced a plane had gone down somewhere in Pennsylvania. The group of us were transfixed as the news reported that President George W. Bush had cut short his visit to a Sarasota Elementary school after his Chief of Staff Andrew Card informed him of the tragedy.

The images of smoke billowing from what later became known as Ground Zero and of people covered in gray ash running from the area are forever etched into my mind. I can still close my eyes and see the people jumping from the burning buildings and firefighters lugging body after body away from the sight.

After watching the news for quite a while with that diverse bunch, who, despite our different stations in life, came together as Americans to watch, and, in our simple way, take part in history, I realized I should get back to the newsroom.

When I got to the office, chaos was unfolding. Our editor, who hadn't been on the job for very long, had decided to print a special edition of the paper and needed every single reporter, graphic designer, salesman, printer and carrier to be on his or her game.

Before embarking on a workday that remains, for the most part, a blur to me, I called my husband and my mother. Jeff was well aware of what was going on, but momma had slept in that morning and hadn't yet heard. I remember she gasped as she turned on the television and saw the bedlam.

Our team at the paper pulled off a great special section that was so well-received locally that we had to go to press a second time to meet the demand for copies. Our editor captured a beautiful photo of the mayor of a local city who, while speaking at a hastily pulled-together memorial, turned away from the microphone for a second in an attempt to hold back the tears that came despite his efforts. It's a gorgeous shot that so eloquently reveals how overwhelmed so many were feeling at that moment.

I have my copy of our special edition tucked away along with a Sept. 12 edition of The New York Times both of which I will one day share with my girls to help them understand the gravity of this event.

The irony of the fact that my morning eight years ago started out covering events associated with the Day of Caring has never escaped me. It was supposed to be a day about helping your fellow man and making this place a better home for all. Instead it became a day that reminded us all that evil is among us and can sneak up on us at any time without any warning.

As I think back upon this day, I recall that the importance of what was going on took a while to sink in for me. I guess it's because I was so focused on my job of helping produce the special edition that it was while before I took the time to reflect on what had happened.

In fact, now that I am a mother, I think the events of Sept. 11, 2001 are even more significant to me now than they were then because they've forced me to live with the knowledge that the world is much bigger than our backyard, I can never take the safety of our country for granted and my children will never know the world without the threat of Islamic terrorists.

However, I am also emboldened by having seen in the aftermath of this horrible attack how men and women, young and old, rich and poor, black and white, gay and straight came together to help one another and stand strong against such massive adversity. That unity still makes me proud. Our differences didn't matter because someone had stolen something from all of us. We joined together to preserve the freedom and safety of everyone.

When I teach my girls about Sept. 11 and share with them my story, I will do my best to impress upon them that I learned so very clearly on that day what it means to live in the UNITED States of America.

The sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching monarchy.

Does this baby look sick to you?? She doesn't look sick to me either, but she is right now battling a nasty cold that has laid claim to all who reside at Poole Manor. I've dubbed this baby doll Princess Snotnose because her sinuses are draining faster than a hot water faucet.

Amelia, who I've taken to calling Lady Coughsalot, has also been trying to beat back this wicked virus. I've been keeping her pumped full of Sudafed, Zyrtec and Robitussin in the hopes of keeping her symptoms under control while at school so her cough doesn't freak someone out and they call me to come get her for fear she has swine flu.

My darling husband Jeff is also afflicted with the cold. He's spent the better part of the last couple of nights trying not to choke on the drainage that's been working its way down his throat. This battle has resulted in him not getting the eight hours of sleep to which he's accustomed and, therefore, receiving from me the moniker, King Needsmoresleep.

I've been managing to keep going thanks to lots and lots of coffee as well as a daily Zyrtec-D loaded with pseudoephedrine, which serves to not only open my sinuses but also give me a much-needed energy boost.

Any mother with snot-nosed kids should have no trouble figuring out what royal title I've bestowed upon myself. Figured it out? No?

I am Her Royal Highness Queen Boogershirt. You may bow now.

Look! Shoes!

I made Lola wear a pair of shoes today. She was not happy. She'd rather be free from the constraints of all footwear.

I decided to put a pair of shoes on her because it's getting cooler here, especially in the mornings when we leave to take Amelia to school. Plus, she needs to get used to wearing shoes because they will be necessary to help her get a proper footing when she starts walking.

Making the decision to put her in shoes took no time at all. Carrying out my decision took about 15 minutes and resulted in much screaming and twisting from Lola.

At one point she was putting up such a fuss that Amelia asked, "Momma, why are you putting those on her? She doesn't like that." Thanks for stating the obvious baby. Momma appreciates your input.

After our wrestling match was over, Lola set about working diligently to remove her new kicks. While I love the ease of Velcro on shoes, I cursed its existence today after the fifth time I rebuckled her shoes in the span of about seven minutes.

Lola spent the ride to and from school apparently studying her shoes so as to decipher the best and quickest way to remove them because she had them as well as her socks off within about 20 minutes after we returned home.

Ugh! I know this mess is all of my own making because I've let her go without shoes, with the exception of maybe five instances, since she was born. Now, having lived shoe-free for almost 15 months, she has no interest in living any other way.

I've got to get better about putting shoes on her or risk her growing up to be one of those ladies who wear bedroom slippers everywhere. You know the ones I am talking about. You see them all the time shuffling through the Piggly Wiggly or waiting impatiently in line at the post office.

Just thinking about Lola having such a future motivates me to gird myself for the battle of getting shoes on her. Now keeping them on her is a whole 'nother problem. I think I hear lots of Velcro ripping in my future.