Uhhh…hold the phone there, kitten. That’s not exactly what happened.

It had really started days earlier when Isabelle’s upper tooth began to have the appearance of fine angora-type kitty fur on all four sides. The front fang was hanging on by nothing more than a spit-thread. I was convinced that the weight of the plaque alone would make her tooth fall out, so her her dad and I decided to let nature run its course. But after several days the only change in her smile was that the kitty fur had grown from a light summer jacket to a heavy winter coat. David and I desperately wanted to respect six year old’s fear of losing her tooth, but this was simply ridiculous. We’d watched as our beautiful daughter’s smile morph from pearly white to one with a pesky frozen corn kernel teetering in the front of her mouth.

“Unhealthy. ” we said. “Pull that tooth out!” “Not now” she would calmly reply. “I will later” “When?” we’d ask. “Later”

Having already lost her two bottom teeth, it was difficult for us to understand her reluctance. Yes, we knew she didn’t like to see her own blood—and yes, we knew she was afraid of it hurting, but she couldn’t even talk for goodness sake. “No touchin’ (suck the yellow bugger back into place) da toof” she’d say. She wouldn’t brush it for fear of it falling out—or even open her mouth for us to get a closer look. Under no condition were we allowed to touch the offending enamel. If we couldn’t get a closer look or touch it, how were we going to show her the little amount of effort it was going to need to pull it?

Then one evening I made spontaneous—yet fateful—decision.

We had been sitting around the table engaged in a lively pull-your-tooth-discussion. The conversation ended with me firmly saying, “You pull it, or I pull it, or Dad pulls it. The choice is yours. You’ve got 24 hours.” I stood up from the table and started clearing it. One plate carted off to the kitchen and back to the table I went. I found myself standing right behind her. I looked at her. I looked at her dad. I looked at her sister. I can’t explain why I did what I did next, but suddenly—on impulse—I grabbed her from behind. With a giggle and a wink to David I shouted, “Pull it! Pull it!”  

She FREAKED.

Before you could say Jack Russell terrier—she was bellowing, “Help me Sophia!” Simultaneously, while her lungs were fully engaged, her appendages began flying around at mach speed. Underneath the table were windmill-like legs being blown about by a hundred+ mile gust. Above the table, her hands and arms had turned into flipping, flopping, loose noodles dancing in the air—here, there and everywhere. Then there was blood. Oh no…what had I done? What had happened? I looked down and saw Mr. Corn Tooth laying sideways in her mouth. Not completely free, but there was no way he could stay in his cozy mouth-house either.

David looked at me horrified. He mouthed to me “Now what?” I hadn’t a clue. I hadn’t been really planning to pull her tooth. I had, in no way, anticipated this kind of an outcome. Our only choice: finish the job. After a quick rush to the kitchen and back, I handed David a wad of kleenex. He gently put it in her mouth “to stop the bleeding” and grabbed Mr. Corn and gave him a quick yank. Isabelle never felt a thing. She didn’t even realize her tooth was out.

A few minutes later, and calmed by a chocolate milkshake, she began to make frequent trips to the mirror to examine the gaping hole. She smiled—turned her head the other way—then smiled again. She liked the new look. She especially liked it after we told her she could put a straw through the empty space. Cool. Now she wanted to call everyone and tell them she’d lost her tooth.

She dialed the phone. First ring—Grandma. And that’s where our stories diverge.

When penning Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll could have been writing about me. I often feel like Alice searching through a strange world where adventure, knowledge and fulfillment of my curiosity are only a finger tip away. Navigating the online sphere often brings me to a place of: Do I choose to drink what’s in the bottle, or eat the cake? If I drink the contents of the bottle which doors will open and what will I see? Or, if I eat the cake what will be my vantage point from my enlarged state?

Many a day I run to the computer only “to check something” and find myself in a hallway filled with cakes and potions, and lined with tiny doors. This morning was no exception. It started as a simple email check and ended up an hour plus journey.

Today’s travels began with an email from Christian HomeKeeper Network . In the email Mrs. Sylvia Britton had a blurb from The Nourished Kitchen about a free giveaway. Well, of course, FREE always draws my eye so I began to read. In her post, Mrs. Britton announced that The Nourished kitchen has paired with Cultures for Health and are offering a free e-book titled Get Cultured: Fermented Foods from a Nourished Kitchen and an opportunity to win a half-gallon vegetable fermentation master.

Interested in both the e-book and the vegetable fermentation master, I wanted to see just who is The Nourished Kitchen and Cultures for Health . I’ve been wanting to learn how to make kimchi and sprouted grain bread so I began to peruse their sites for instruction. Lots of great information and knowledge to be gleaned. Cutures for Health also has a great blog jam-packed with terrific recipes and tips.

The final door opened on this morning’s trip was a link from Cultures for Health’s blog to Sustainable Living on a Budget . Sustainable Living on a Budget is based out of Portland, Oregon and offers workshops, consulting, link & reviews. Makes me want to take a workshop—or two.

Now my kids are shaking me awake and my husband wants the computer. Time to get back to the real world. I’ve bookmarked all the sites and will go back for further investigation when time allows. Who knows what what will happen then—it may just lead me to a different rabbit hole.

Number 18.

Cheers ring out and the crowd goes wild. Wait. Maybe that’s the phone ringing or is it the dogs barking? Quite possibly it’s just my head—as I listen to excited kids screaming while they pedal their bikes around the driveway.

Confessions of a Tired Supergirl free jewelry giveaway was a huge success. Twenty-three women threw their hat into the ring by commenting on Susanna’s post , but at the end of the week there could only be one winner. Number 18—a lovely young woman named Rebecca. She emailed Susanna that her favorite piece was The Rebecca “and not just because it’s her name”. So rather than making her pick from the Love, Peace or Joy necklaces I am sending her a mini Rebecca. She told of ample opportunity to wear her new winnings as she’s been recently engaged. I’m thrilled.

Plus she’s promised a picture of herself wearing it. Stay tuned.

SoBelle Design: Artisan Jewelry

I’ll be posting more to SoBelle soon—this is just the beginning

The quints arrived on a Friday night about dusk and were in an outright flutter. Maybe it was that cardboard box they rode home in or the excitement of a new roost. Maybe it was just too close to their bedtime. We’re not quite sure, but we unloaded the gals and showed them their new digs—the neighbors old dog run, an old dog crate and a couple of sticks to sit on. Not quite the Taj Mahal, but the girls seemed pleased.

We’re still not sure who’s the oldest or the smartest, but we do know Martha and Oprah are the sweetest. Esther and Goldilocks are just a wee bit shy, and that Buttercup…well…we can already tell she’s the most temperamental. Doesn’t really matter how moody the biddy is—as long as she produces, she’ll be safe.

Every day, so far, with the Buffs has been a barrel of hoots. We get up, put on on our “poop shoes” and go check hens. Seems like we’ve been Orpington farmers for…well…a couple of weeks.  Jonathan is usually hollering the whole way out to the pen, “Me hold, me hold”. The sisters should start laying in a few months and by then we should have their winter palace done and ready for cold weather living.

Right now we’re just gong to enjoy the summer and the girls with their feathers and fluff.

Leaping down the back steps we see Isabelle wailing and being led from the back forty by an entourage of frantic children. Sophia’s screaming, “Hurry, hurry! Come quick! She’s got a sliver!“

We pick up the pace. Sure enough, Soph’s right. Isabelle has a sliver. And an impressive one at that. Right in the palm of her hand. Ouch. 

My sharp-as-a-tack mind immediately goes into action. First—check the damage and turn off the 3 alarm fire bell. Second—remove the offending wood and wash her hands. Third—give her a great big hug, tell her how how much I love her and how brave she is. Fourth—send her back out to play.

She, in dire misery, was thinking other things. The wailing continued. 

Parting the sea of children and inspecting the sliver, we decided indoor removal was best. We managed to maneuver her to the couch. Soothing tones and soft words along with some hair petting got the three alarm bell was down a notch to a two alarm. “Fetch a kleenex.” I say to Soph. David returns from the kitchen with a drink of water. Now we’re down to a single alarm. More hair petting and gentle words. Alarm off. Step one complete

Step two. Remove the menace. Oh…I can’t wait. I’m trying to be optimistic, but I just have a gut feeling this is gonna be a doozie. Under severe duress she shuffles from the couch to the bed. As she sits down she begins to whimper. “Daddy will be careful,” I tell her. “It may not even hurt. Sit still and it will be out before you can say ‘Jack Russell’.” Wink, wink to Dad. More for moral support than anything else. She’s starting to get revved up again. This isn’t  going to be a simple sliver removal.

David produces the needle and tweezers from their hiding place. Her eyes grow large, but with the finesse of a brain surgeon, David manages to get the needle toward the black line. He positions it directly above the culprit. “WAAAA WAAAA. NO! NO! You’re hurting me.” Calmly in my best mother-it-is-going-to-be -alright-tone I say, “Isabelle, you need to calm down. Daddy hasn’t even touched you yet.” 

With nerves of steel and a steady hand David meets the skin this time. “WAAAAAAA WAAAAAA!” Surgery continues. He picks a little of the skin around the wood loose. Suddenly the hand is gone. Patiently David says, “Isabelle, give me your hand.” “NO! NO!” David: “Isabelle, GIVE me your hand.” Isabelle: “NO!NO!” David: “ISABELLE, GIVE ME YOUR HAND.”

Hand is back. The surgery proceeds.

Two picks later the hand is gone. Now she’s screaming. “Daddy…NOOOOOOOO…Daddy…”

My cheeks are flushed. Now in a not-so-nice-mother-tone through clenched teeth I say, “Isabelle, GIVE Daddy your hand NOW or else…” Or else what? I’m not sure, but it sounds good. Not to her. She doesn’t care about the “or else”. She continues shrieking. And, adds flopping to the mix. It’s getting ugly. “Stop it!” I yell. “Stop it right now. I’ll sit on you if I have to.” She boosts into orbit. 

Now we are wrestling. Me, David, and she who is hysterical. It’s a smackdown on Elkay. WWF right in our own house. Soph is cheering from the sidelines, “Go Mama. Go Dada. Go Isabelle.”

We pin her. Sliver, you’re going down. I sit on her and hold her hand out. With cat like reflexes, David does a swift, precise, surgical sliver removal. Whew! We’re done, I think. Wrong. What’s that she’s hollerin’ now? It takes a minute to register.

“PUT IT BACK!! PUT IT BACK!! PUT IT BAAAAACK!!”

Epilogue: I don’t remember if we washed her hands. Don’t remember saying ANYTHING to her at this point. I don’t remember if she went out to play. All I know is she recovered. And all we have to do is mention “The Sliver” and we all laugh. 

I guess all’s well that’s ends well.

And, so has the crib. But we are thankful. Thankful that our little Jonathan has a cozy bed.

A lovely bed actually. The mattress is one of those Tempur-Pedic memory foam kind. You know…where the ads say you can jump on the bed and the other person who happens to be in a deep slumber won’t even feel it. Or maybe it was that you could set your drinking glass on the bed then climb on the mattress and jump up and down all the while not spilling a drop of precious liquid. Nothing but the best for our John John. 

The sheets are a cream-colored, high thread-count variety. Soft and smooth. Smothering those luxury sheets is a fluffy down comforter, followed by a powder-boy-blue cover. Goose down pillows add an extra touch of plushness. Topping it all off  is the softie blanket that I love. Heaven. Everything a little boy could hope for in a bed.

Uh…and his parents too. We’re glad he lets us share it with him….

Good thing it’s king-size and he’s still small. How else would we fit a family of five in it? You know…those night migrators and all.

We always say that if ‘Lifestyles of the Poor & Optimistic’ builds a house we would build one with a sleeping porch. Then we could come and go at will. And all sleep in the same room when the mood struck. We would each have our own built-in alcove and could whisper stories back and forth. Snuggle up together if we wanted, or go to our own spots to spread out. Listen to each other snore or talk in our sleep. We’d even get some nice dog beds so the jackals could join. 

But, seeing how that day hasn’t yet come, we’re content for now to share the bed and room with our littlest bundle of joy…and on occasion his sisters. This time will pass quickly and we know we’ll look back on it fondly. And there really is very little that is sweeter than rolling over to see your itty bitty staring at you and then reaching out to give you a good morning hug and kiss.

Besides….it’s not like he’s going to be in high school sleeping with us.

CRIB—It Isn’t a Four Letter Word