Just bee me?

Every once in a great while, I get assignments (or create assignments) that I can't stop talking about. They are fun, interesting, interactive and great fun to write. Forget council meetings or new business stories, bring on the bees.

When I found out about this bee farm in Orange County, thanks to a post by another interesting blogger I follow, I had to write about it. Who starts a bee farm anyway? What's the sense, right? At our house, we tend to run from bees, not toward them.

Insert one giant pair of big girl panties and a lot of netting, and I was soon holding thousands of swarming (and very ticked off) bees. It was exciting, interesting and fun. Who has a job this cool anyway? Who gets to spend the morning, dressed in a crazy-looking contraption, watching a queen bee lay eggs? And who gets to taste fresh honey right off the hive?

That would be me, and I have to say there are times when I absolutely love my job.

So I survived, without a single sting, and a new appreciation for bees. Their social structure is amazing, and I will never taste another drop of honey without thinking of that morning at a farm near Paoli.

And just for giggles, I'll attach the picture ... Bring on the bees.

Blood comes in 3's

There's an obvious difference in my children, but it was the quick gush of bright blood that clearly brought it forth. And, for some odd reason only known to the mothers of sons, blood has been on our agenda as of late.

Oldest son, of course, had his tonsils out.

Insert blood (and lots of it).

Middle son jumped on trampoline with older cousin.

Insert blood (streaming from nose).

Baby boy jumped on trampoline with brothers and friend.

Insert blood (dripping from nose, again).

Difference?

Oldest son panicked. Ran screaming through the house to seek relief from his mother. Middle son ran to mother, yet again, and required a little attention, but couldn't wait to get back down the the business of playing. Baby boy non-chalantly strolled up to mother, but never arrived. He veered left, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and kept on playing.

Could it be how I raised them? Yes, indeed.

Protectiveness surrounds the first born. Nary a boo-boo is ignored. It gets better. As children fall in line, they get more independent. Of course, even the thirdsie needs his mommy (and mine really loves his mommy), but he's also much more braver, courageous, independent and loves the attention. He's watched the antics of his brothers, and he's tried to follow. It's made him different, but the succession never became more clear than it did with our blood montage.

Whatcha lookin' at?

My Lukie is the shy guy of the group. Always has been. He'll hide between my legs, avoiding your eyes until he gets really used to you ... then, watch out.

But he loves make believe. We have lots of costumes are our house -- two Spider-Man, one Batman and one Ironman. When he watches Spider-Man, on goes the costume. Same goes with the others. He loves to put on those costumes and jump around, pretending to be a super hero.

Wonder if he knows he's my super hero?

Another love of his is to get his face painted. If we see a face-painting booth at a fair, festival or anywhere else, then that's all he wants. Goes along with the costumes, I suppose.

We went to the state fair Saturday. He got his face painted like a lizard man. His entire face was green, with black around his eyes. It was hideous in a cute way.

But remember he's shy. Face paint tends to stir the attention of strangers, as do Batman costumes when you wear them to the grocery store. He doesn't want the attention of strangers.

So, we're walking around the fair Saturday, with Lizard Luke, as strangers pointed, laughed and told him how cute he looked. We were sitting on a bench when he looked at me and said, "Mom, why is evewybody wookin' at me?" I started laughing. My brother started laughing, and he goes, "Have you seen your face?" Lucas didn't think it was funny, but we couldn't help but giggle at the irony.

Poor Lukie just doesn't get it. He just loves the make believe, and thinks that should be it. No one else needs to be in his world. It was cute. He had fun, and we hated to wash the paint off before bedtime. Lizard Luke is gone, but not forgotten.

Marking my soul

Divorce is hard. Well, to be quite frank, it was downright awful. When it was over, I never wanted anything to do with marriage ever again. Most likely, I feared it would end in divorce -- just like the last did. Fear takes a toll on your heart and mind.

In walked Henry. His smile was contagious. His eyes were mesmerizing. His background was enchanting. I wanted to know more. I wanted to be his friend. Travel through a first date, tears, discussions and a lot of growing pains, but even more lovely minutes, and we'll be celebrating our first wedding anniversary on Nov. 8.

He's an amazing man. I am glad he took my fear, wadded it up in a ball and threw it away. He's genuine, honest, loving and dedicated. When he touches me, I want to curl up in his arms and hide there forever. When he flashes a smile my way, I want to get lost in that grin that can make anyone happy again.

I found my soulmate. Of that, there's no doubt. No one gets me like Henry. No one has ever loved me the way he does. No one makes me laugh like Henry. We can do anything together and have fun. We spend time together, and thoroughly enjoy that time with each other.

He's an amazing man, and I am a lucky gal because he walked into my life that chilly February evening. The fear is gone. He's my protector, supporter, rock and true love. He accepts me for who I am. No one has ever done that. To him, I am perfect. To me, he's better than perfect.

For the first time in my life, I am truly happy with my life because of the special people, like Henry, who have marked my soul.

Little blockhead?

For a birthday, Nana Deb brought over a very cool set of blocks. All shapes and sizes, they were perfect for building. A mother herself, she put those blocks in a carrying container to keep them neat and put away.

It was a nice thought.

Baby boy has found those blocks, and loves them to pieces. We build very tall towers. We build small towers that Baby Jaguar, with Baby Boy's help, kindly kicks over. They are always scattered all over the house. Baby Boy loves the blocks. Such a simple toy, yet they bring so much joy.

Takes me back 25 or more years ago. The only toy in my grandmother's tiny bungalow in northern New York were a set of Sesame Street blocks in a cardboard cylinder that had seen its better days. We played with those blocks for hours on end; all of us grandchildren. Didn't have much choice.

Baby Boy has many more toys. He has a choice, but chooses the blocks. And, yes, we pick up those blocks a dozen times a day. We dig them out from beneath the couch, table and wherever else they fall when the tower is crumbled. We count the blocks, and we identify the colors.

Baby Boy always asks, "You play blocks with me, Mommy?"

And Mommy always takes the time to play. She remembers those Sesame Street blocks with pride, and wants to pass along the memories.

More than life changes

If you would've told me 14 years ago that the friends I had then would barely exist in my life in the future, I might've laughed you out of the park. Those were my best girls. How could we ever get separated?

It took exactly six months after we all headed off to college for that to change. I still talk to those girls on occasion. We keep up relatively well on Facebook, and when we see each other at the store or the park, we will definitely chat it up.

We were best friends then, and barely acquaintances now.

Friends change. Life changes.

When I divorced my ex-husband almost two years ago, my friendship base took a huge turn in another direction. When you're a couple, you're friends with other couples. When you're single, it's different. When you're facing tragedy and drama in your life, it changes even more. You find out who your real friends are, and you depend on them.

I have acquaintances, friends, good friends and best friends. I love them all, but there are just a couple who I count among the elite. They are there for me when I am goofy, sad and happy. They love me no matter what I do, or no matter what others say I do. They know the truth. They know me, and that's what's important.

And they go to Bloomington with you on a Friday night, laugh hysterically when you're getting your palm read, and cry with you when the things Sylvia said aren't exactly what you wanted to hear, truth or not. Forget the lavendar aura ... it was my friends you saw surrounding me, Sylvia.

Boys and Blood

The oldest son had his tonsils out just in time for the start of school. It has been a big relief, but one that hasn't come without its fair share of medicine, pain and worry.

Last night, I was sitting at the computer. Boys were supposed to be in bed, and I was hammering out a quick blog when I heard, "Mom! I'm bleeding!" Of course, for a mother of three sons, that in itself is not a cause of alarm. This time, however, it came from boy sans tonsils.

I walked into the kitchen, and turned on the lights. He spit up blood on a towel to prove to me that he was bleeding. I suppose I needed that kind of proof he surmised? He spit up again and again to keep proving his point. Enough with the blood-stained saliva already.

I quickly remembered that the doctor told me that if he bled, which is normal as a scab probably dislodged itself from his mouth, then I need to crush up ice and have him suck on it. Ten minutes later, the saliva was clear again. (He kept spitting to prove that point as well.)

What is it with boys and blood?

My baby boy ...

So, okay, he's hardly a baby anymore.

Matter of fact, he'll turn 10 years old at 10:22 p.m. Friday.

Can I seriously be the mother of a 10-year-old? It doesn't seem possible, not if you think that I was, in fact, 10-years-old when we moved to Indiana. Wasn't that yesterday? I remember how silly I was, and how I never quite fit into that body God gave me. I was goofy, with bucked teeth, wondering how in the world I would ever tame that frizzy curly hair.

Now, I will have a 10-year-old. It's been an entire decade since I laid in pain, wishing beyond words that the baby I harbored for nine months would soon make an appearance. I remember the pain, and then the heart ache when I almost lost him. I remember holding his tiny shaved head in the crook of my arms in the intensive care unit. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to pump, knowing that one day my son would need that nourishment.

Now, he's almost 10. He no longer requires breast milk. Sometimes, I still wake up in the middle of the night to check on him, but mostly, he snores away in the tiny twin bed I would've never thought he would fill up.

I like 10-year-olds. I am learning that. I like having conversations and quiet times. I like it when he gets frustrated at me because my mind wanders. I love it when he tells me I am the best mom in the world just because I bought his favorite flavor of Gatorade.

So maybe he's no longer 6 pounds, 11 ounces.

So maybe he pretty much eats me out of house and home.

So maybe he no longer requires me to survive.

But, then again, perhaps he does. Matter of fact, I know he does, even if he doesn't know it.

When I picked him up this summer after a week at church camp, he hugged me like never before. He told me over and over again just how much he loved me and missed me. Things have been different since. I feel more appreciated, more respected. But, then again, maybe that's all a part of that 10-year-old thing.

He's growing older, as am I. He's growing wiser, as am I. I no longer have to nurse him back to sleep in the middle of the night, but I sure don't mind holding him tight in my arms. I never thought he'd one day turn 10-years-old, but it hasn't been anything but wonderful.

Thank God I am the mother of a 10-year-old. Thank God for that 10-year-old.

After all, he's the one who made me a mother.