The Part We Choose to Act On

    Several years ago, I decided a blog was in order to leave a written legacy of the Brannon family type of crazy and I wittily named it Brannon Pandemonium, thinking this aptly described our young family and was a great homage to Bing Crosby. Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative. Don't mess with Mister In-Between. This blog has fulfilled a number of those kinds of moments and my need to put things in print. We have certainly experienced a good bit of crazy. And then six months ago, pandemonium levels shot through the roof (notice I don't mention a break in the crazy, just an acceleration). The acceptance of a new job, Christmas, planning the move, Chaucer (our dog) passing (and subject of my last post, Capturing Life)........ and then the house hunting trip to Arkansas in February and the return to Pennsylvania to find the temperature outside at 9 degrees and the temperature inside registering at 25 degrees, the home insurance calls that were less than friendly (because, yes, Mrs. Brannon, just because your house is cold does not mean you can't live there and if you just removed the blown up radiators in your house, your house will warm up), a ten day move to a hotel until the house could be thawed out and heated with space heaters, the assessment of damage to include flooring, plaster work and new radiators; then snipping away the ties of life that keep you to a place: dance, church, friends and family; the "move" to Arkansas without our household goods, Keith starting his job in one town, the kids two hours away in another town with their grandparents because no furniture because it was all still in PA; the return to PA four weeks later to finally meet the movers, the chaos of the move (which could hold its own space in a blog); the unloading of boxes on the other end in AR a week later..... And we have a new home! And we still have the other home!
    Three years. Three realtors. Interest ebbs and flows, people show up to see the house but mostly they don't. People serious about it but falling just short of making an offer before walking away. The last listing of the PA house ended last week. We began the re-listing process on Friday with another real estate company. On Saturday, as I finished the last touches on my six year old's birthday cake, I received a call from our neighbor in PA. The key in the realtor lock box was missing and the front door to our house was open. She stepped in and went no further. A white substance covered the hundred year old wood floors and red spray paint graffiti littered the walls and columns on the banister in our living room and dining room (the two rooms visible from the front door). One hundred years ago, a prominent Jewish family built our lovely PA home. The house was blessed regularly by the local rabbi and bits of scripture from the Torah were placed on the door frames in the house; they are called mezuzah. Based on the passage in Deuteronomy 11;13-21 "....You shall therefore impress these words of mine on your heart and on your soul... You shall teach your sons, talking of them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the road and when you lie down and when you rise up. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates, so that your days and the days of your sons may be multiplied...", the mezuzah was the daily reminder of His commands and his faithfulness. The graffiti, in stark contrast to the present mezuzah and in some places mere inches away from the mezuzah, was Satanic in nature; upside down crosses, 666 and other variations. I'm struck by this juxtaposition, inherent good and evil.
    The police were called. The graffiti damage is extensive and in most of the rooms in the house. The white substance covering the living room is fire extinguisher residue expended from the extinguisher we kept in the kitchen. The police left, our neighbors went to get new locks to replace the ones on the outside doors, and, I believe, the hoodlums returned while they were gone and locked the house. The spare key was with the company still making the radiator repairs (because, yes, even those repairs aren't completed after four months of delays) and couldn't be retrieved until Monday morning. So what can you do? Life doesn't stop for vandalism. We went to the pool for our girl's party and she had the best day.  As the pool party broke up, our neighbor called. She could see people in our house from her kitchen window. The police had been called yet again. A local friend called also and said he was parked across the street to watch. The police caught two of the guys, teens from what we know. We don't know of any additional damage. The windows seem intact and hardware is still good; it seems they stuck to graffiti and the fire extinguisher.
    There are many phone calls to be made today; police, insurance, realtor, radiator repair company. I  don't sleep well when things of this nature happen (and the last six months have seen plenty of sleeplessness) because I always have to work things out in my mind. We have had the lion's share of stresses (I always thought it was a level of crazy dealt to our military family lifestyle but the last six months weren't all about that, you know... just the new job and the move), but ALL this is just a thing, just stuff. And really, it's just one big inconvenience after another, and yeah, it's really added up. I've stopped looking for the straw that breaks the camel's back. One thing I keep hearing somewhere in the depths of my thoughts is a conversation in which Frodo tells Gandalf "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened." Gandalf replied "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil." I'm certainly not carrying a ring to Mordor to save Middle Earth and as an historian, I would be foolish to assume that these things, however immediately abhorrent, are a permanent affliction. For by comparison to millions of others, these things are merely aggravations, and my response should be fitting to the circumstance, not by what is perceived. Some things have proved to be the proverbial thorn in the flesh, but once the shock of the radiators blowing up, or the move, or this vandalism and all the little inconveniences wears off, what do I have left? I have people. Many tears have been cried from stress and frustration, but so many more tears have streamed from my eyes over kindness, encouragement, and support, a constant reminder that we are His and everything will be fine in the long-run. We have been lifted up, held close and carried so many times in the last few months, that I can say these things are simply inconveniences, however far reaching. We have been blessed.

"But you, O Lord, are a God 

merciful and gracious,

Slow to anger and abundant in

kindness and truth."

Psalms 86:15

Capturing Life

    There are moments in life we seek to capture, hold them close in memory. The life events and milestones, the relationships, conversations, laughter, smiles, an aroma, a touch, a look. We file them away, listing them under what is most precious to us and we go to them frequently to replay the warmth in our hearts.Then there are other moments in life we try to avoid, but they capture us and drag us to a place where time slows and memory files these events with precision and detail we hate, listing them under our nightmares. We rarely visit this shriveled file, shoving it as far from our precious memories as we can. It's full of hurt, anguish and tears.
    One of the greatest tragedies of my adult life took place on Wednesday. I have my own grief, but the event took hold and dragged my family along with it in ways I would have never wanted. It's one thing to grieve, it's another to see your children and your spouse grieve. It's poignant devastation. We started out our week with its usual business, with the exception of my SUV needing work done and Chaucer, our dog, getting sick. Wednesday started with a trip to the dealership to figure out what was wrong with my vehicle (alternator; you know, the one we just replaced in June in Houston). So that happened and the dealership kindly shuttled me back home to find Chaucer had vomited on literally every rug and carpet in the house. He hadn't eaten in two days.
    The vet was able to fit us in at 2:15. I didn't have a car, but we made the snowy walk up two blocks from our house. He perked up a little as we walked. He always loved the snow. We walked in and he was weighed just inside the door. Our always skinny dog had somehow lost ten pounds. It was about this time memory captured me; odd things stood out and were quickly filed in that sorting place of unsureness, either way to be remembered. I found myself in a small room with my two older girls (ages seven and eight) and Chaucer. On the surface things checked out all right. Then the request for blood work. Then the long wait for results. The girls oblivious to what this visit could mean, coloring princesses in their books. The vet returned, glanced at the girls and took me a few steps away to the examining table where she deftly handed me a box of tissues and laid the results on the table. The flash mob chorus of "I can't do this. My girls are here." was loud in my mind as I quickly dumped my unsorted memories into the nightmare file.
    Kidney failure, he's exhausted, he's using less than 25% of his kidneys, we can prolong him maybe maybe a few weeks but then... it's been going on for months he just made up for it in other ways, he can't do it any more... tissue after tissue, silent sobs, the girls still coloring in their books behind me, the vet getting me a new box of tissues... stop... what do I want to do? Call Keith. I left the room to make the call "Come home. To the vet. Now." The ugly choke of sobs, tears and breath vying for their turn. Return to the room, face the girls, the hour long wait for Keith. The tears from the girls, quickly replaced by smiles as they innocently think he will get better. He has to get better. Dad will get here and we will all go home with Chaucer. Wait a bit longer. Chaucer hears Keith's car pull up outside, he slowly gets up, walks the few feet to the door, lays down next to the door in anticipation of seeing his man. He doesn't walk again. The pain, the hurt, the dawning realization for the girls that he won't be coming home. The final decision. The goodbyes. Caelan and Keith choose to stay with Chaucer. Evelynn and I walk out into the office. The song on their radio plays:

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree,

Wear a necklace of hope

Side by side with me.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met at midnight

In the hanging tree.

Must leave. Outside. In the cold and the falling snow which has a strange affect on burning, swollen eyes. It refreshes. Return to the room. It is done. He's gone. More tears, a last look... Caelan walking away but turning back to throw herself on Chaucer and sob. We are led to a back door to leave. Keith gets in his car. The girls ask to walk home. The snow has covered our tracks from the walk to the vet.

    I don't want these memories. I wasn't given the choice. They are filed away, black and stark, devoid of warmth. Return to the warm memories. I was five months pregnant with Evelynn when we got Chaucer in November of 2005. He was Keith's dog from the start. He picked him out and he rode home in Keith's lap. The were training/hunting buddies from the start. I took him to Shippensburg University and bundled him into a warm bed in my Beetle while I was in class. I couldn't leave that sweet puppy at hope to cry the moment I left. I graduated in December and we spent the next four months curled up in a recliner watching Celebrity Poker and Project Runway (pre-Netflix days were tough). We lost him in Arkansas that first Christmas, we found him, then went to Texas where he got into some rat poisoning. A rough start really. Then along came children. Evelynn and Caelan's first words were Chaucer. We sat McKenna's carseat in the floor when we brought her home from the hospital (we did that with all of them). He paced around her, glancing at her and then looking at us as if saying "Another one?" Then we brought Paxton home. Chaucer walked up, looked once and then walked back the way he came, seemingly shaking his head at having to deal with another Brannon kid. He was the perfect family dog. The many warm snuggles, the playfulness, the way he calmly took to being terrorized by all four of my kids. He would be covered in stickers or run around the house wearing a tutu. Bows added to his collar or covered in toys. He was well loved and loved well in return. We stored our warm memories of Chaucer's life for the day we were captured by his loss and they have spilled over to sooth the broken hearts.

And Snap! The Job's a Game!

    The majority of last year was spent as a single parent of four while Keith was here and yon on TDYs and deployments. I realized early on that it would be a year of creativity, persuading the kids to take on more responsibilities at home and doing so with a joyful heart. Gone are the days of children too young to understand that Mom needs help. It was time to buckle down and make survival a group effort in hopes that survival mode would be enjoyable and life lessons would abound.
    Chores stink. Responsibility wreaks. It's not fun. And the girls, naturally, felt this the first time I asked them to haul their own laundry from their rooms to the washer and then make the return trip to their dresser drawers. Mary Poppins really needed to pop in and give us all a spoon full of sugar and teach us the joy of snapping.
    "In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. You find the fun and snap! The job's a game. And every task you undertake, becomes a piece of cake, a lark, a spree, it's very clear to see." Clearly, some magic rests with Disney and reality bites. Evelynn tried the snapping, being particularly gifted in the ability to snap her fingers with both hands. The laundry did not take care of itself. So what is a Mom to do? Make it a game, make it game... drink coffee... make it a game... more coffee......
    Introducing M, head of MI6... aka Mom, aka Miranda, Mom Inspector of 6 and her agents: Evelynn (Agent 4-14), Caelan (Agent 12-11) and McKenna (Agent 6-11). Those are their birthdates, in case you were wondering.
Objectives:
1. Get laundry down the stairs and in front of the washing machine.
2. Take clean laundry to living room for M to fold.
3. Put away the stacks of folded laundry without being seen.
    A highly dangerous mission, the job requires the agents to complete the tasks without M seeing it happen, so quietly and quickly (I know, perfection). This seemed to work fairly well, laundry was completed in record time. The only complaint was that M kept forgetting to use their aliases, which I did give them their proper names first, agent names second. There was one reported incident of two agents surfing down the stairs in an empty laundry basket, but even they conceded they were no super spies or a Legolas at best.
    This new way of completing chores grew to cover any missions M deemed necessary for the household: toy pick up, dusting, vacuuming, etc. As the missions grew, the back story was necessary. Back story? Oh, yes. Any decent spy/agent mission includes a back story. The goal is to use large words and sound quite official. Then the day came when I asked them to help get the living room clean so that I could vacuum. The story was elaborate, driving home the point that my floors were filthy. Mutant dust particles had been gathered together and were being cloned like the Droid Army in Star Wars: The Clone Wars (points for appealing to their inner nerd and referencing Star Wars). The sheer number of particles were threatening our existence in our home. Preparations were to be made so that M could bring in the weapon... and then my story stopped... what to call a vacuum when telling an agent that the clone wars were imminent? The Great Suckness. Um, well... that's not what I intended to slip out in my attempt at conveying this great weapon of mass destruction. But that's how it goes. The Great Suckness: saving lives, one dirt clone war a day and with the help of Agents 4-14, 12-11 an 6-11. They love it and the house is clean. M's stories are becoming the difficult part. Obviously... The Great Suckness. Whaaa?
    
   

Who Dunit: The Case of the Murdered Nutella

One hot, muggy afternoon at the end of summer, four children accompanied their mother to the store for groceries. The cupboards and the refrigerator were bare as the family had just returned from vast travels, that took them thousands of miles away from home. These four children were at the apex of excitement over the thought of accessible food in their home and their mother decided after so long away to offer some leniency in what foods the cupboards would hold. As they perused the aisles of the store, the children took every opportunity to add to the pile of groceries in the cart... tomato soup, mushroom soup, strawberries and whipped cream, etc. Then the children heard the voice of angels and saw the unmistaken light of glory that fell upon the scrumptious chocolate hazelnut spread of goodness: Nutella. They were desperate for the largest container, but the mother declined in favor of a much smaller size, which she would be quite thankful for later.

The Nutella was brought home with the immediate request to enjoy the rich delicacy. The mother obliged, generously slathering it on bread with strawberry jelly. Instanty pleased, the children then begged for another round; to which the mother refused as it was unnecessary to eat the Nutella in its entirety on the first opening. This concept was apparently lost on the children and the mother could tell this was only the beginning of conflict over when and how much of the Nutella would be eaten. The mother, realizing the dangers of gluttony, and that three salivating girls would eventually find a way to inhale the Nutella, was wise and quickly turned the lid of the Nutella as tight as she could. Confident that no child could get into the coveted container of delectableness, the mother left the Nutella on the table in the kitchen, for she knew the next day would begin with the children wanting it for breakfast.

The next morning, after a fulfilling night of slumber (which until recently had been a rarity), the mother headed to the kitchen for coffee and to prepare breakfast for her still sleeping babes. Upon entering the kitchen, the mother was stopped at the sight of a heinous crime that had most certainly happened during the night while she slept. The Nutella had been murdered, in the most tortuous fashion. Being the kind of mother that laughs first, takes photographs second, questions third and then blogs fourth, she was fascinated by the sight and did all four --in that order. Putting on her best imaginary deerslayer hat, these are the deductions she made.

Specimen 1: Butterknife with faint streaks of Nutella; unsure if weapon or accessory to murder

 

 

Specimen 2: Bread knife, well over ten inches long, two sharp points, serated, a good deal more Nutella spread on end and along blade; prime suspect as weapon of destruction

 

 

 

Specimen 3: Small spoon, globs of Nutella present, teeth marks in globs, small fingerprints on handle, found inside the victim (container of Nutella); accessory to murder, utterly vile

 

 

Specimen 4: The victim of the crime, container of Nutella, lid still tightly screwed onto container, obvious signs of struggle and gruesome traces of spread around lid and container.

 

Specimen 5: The lid, upon close examination suffered from multiple puncture wounds to top, resulting in gashed edges and more globs of Nutella and the presence of the small spoon before extraction; the spoon was used to remove the contents of Nutella from the inside of the container.

 

 

Same lid, punctures from the underside

 



 

 

 

Autopsy Results: 11 of the 13 ounces originally in container are decimated.

 

 

 

The mother, after taking the evidence and weighing the abilities of her children, decided that it could either be her first child or the second. She woke her eldest child and in film noir mode asked her what she knew about the Nutella downstairs in the kitchen. The child blinked, rubbed her eyes and said "You woke me up to talk about Nutella? I want to go back to sleep." The child rolled back over and pulled the blanket over her head. The mother left the room contemplating the innocence or guilt of her oldest child. Entering the next room, she pulled the blanket down off the face of her peacefully sleeping second child, so sweet and the picture of innocence. The mother, of course, took into account the presence of Nutella at the corner of her child's small lips. Aha. The mother flipped on the light to better see the offender. The child squirmed under its radiance and begged for it to be turned off. The mother refused and questioned the child. "What do you know about the Nutella downstairs?" asked the mother. The child looked at the wall behind the mother's head "What Nutella? I've been asleep aaaallll night long." The mother skewered the child with her eyes. "The Nutella that was savagely cut into and eaten last night while the house was sleeping." "Oh, that Nutella..."

 

 

The mother was quite glad the child did not suffer injury in her murderous act against the Nutella (check out the second specimen if you need reminding), and the mother is still a bit flabbergasted that her tiny child managed the crime and ate that much Nutella.






 

Motivational Speaker

I'm trying a new thing for this blog. A vlog by Evelynn. She is our motivational speaker (not in a Chris Farley kind of way... at least I don't think so). She has such a positive outlook on life and she's constantly telling me about her latest things learned. Here is the first video to start it off. It's short (which will change, I assure you) but here is Evelynn explaining what she learned today. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBPsuqAe3AA

Sneaky Shoes

The bedroom lights are low and two little girls are in there beds. McKenna has been snoozing for a while and from my vantage point, Caelan is in sleepy stillness. I marvel at how sweet they look, bundled up in their blankets, surrounded by all their favorite toys. This is my favorite time of night. Another day has charged by and there is peace in the house. These two girls share a room, but very little else. They are polar opposites: Caelan, desparate to make the most of every minute of the day and to grow up far too soon and McKenna, my blonde hippie, flower child. They hug each other and are the best of friends. Then they tustle and can't stand each other. In their beds at night, they are at their calmest and sweetest.

I turn to walk away from the door, but a quick movement from Caelan's bed catches my eye. Her hands dart along the blanket and swiftly reach over the side of the bed and seize something from McKenna's bed nearby. I see a flash of pink and the item is crammed under her pillow where she curls back up into her sleeping position. I wait until her chest rises slowly with deep breaths and her eyelids crack open. That really weirds me out, seeing her sleep with eyes that are half open. I reach under her pillow and pull out a tattered pair of pink patent leather shoes. Sigh.

Every day guarantees at least one altercation over these shoes. They are Easter shoes from last year, well worn and too small for either of my twin-sized girls. They obsess over them. When one is wearing them, the other is dying to put them on. As soon as they come off one, they are put on by the other. They tried sleeping in them until I put the kibosh on that idea. So under the pillow they went. The first one to put them on before the other woke was the rightful wearer for the day- or until they are removed by the wearer. This scenario is a direct result of making the "if you fight over it, it's mine so work out your own problems" directive.

This morning, very early, Caelan came to my room and snuggled next to me in bed, the blankets tangled around her feet and ankles. She was in my bed with those shoes on. Sigh. A little while later, I started my day as she dozed. McKenna woke, too, and dissolved into messy tears, "Caelan took my shoeeeeessss. I had them on....." I sent her back to bed, not interested in starting the day off like that. Caelan was the wearer for the day until a little while ago when McKenna declared her ownership of the discarded shoes. Now to address her clothing choices, the droning monotony 'tights are not pants, tights are not pants, tights are not pants, tightsarenotpants..........."

The Little Man

Exceptionally tall and just as slim, our little man is ditching his chubbiness, more little boy than baby. His sisters are aflutter over this and enjoy him more each day. I'm afraid they are eager to teach him things I'm not ready for. Thankfully, I have an Evelynn that is a great Little Mama and does her best to keep him safe. He is thwarted in many of his endeavors, unlike... Caelan. He would love to go up the stairs but has yet to make it past four steps as Evelynn swoops in to set him back to the floor.

Paxton spends a good portion of his day looking out the living room window, taking in the cars, trucks and every other automobile that stops at our busy intersection. He watches them, talks to them in his baby babble and sometimes yells at them loudly. Motorized vehicles are enchanting. His Batmobile and Lego Tractor assuage his longing for wheels at the moment. And being ALL boy, he loves to bat rubbery balls around the house. He is a low-key little guy. His main concerns being vehicles, play time and food. The girls feed him all the time because of his reaction to the handouts, a huge smile and the occasional chuckle.

And as I move the mouse, keyboard and my phone out of reach, I'm reminded of how much he loves technology. Our mouse has a bright red light on its underside and if not kept out of reach, he will grab it and make off with it. He is iPhone savvy and has his own app that he maneuvers through. He FaceTimed with Keith a few days ago, but that didn't go so well. When he realized that Daddy really wasn't there and no matter how many times he flipped the phone around he couldn't produce the real Daddy, he was agitated and batted the phone away.

At fourteen months, I would love to say that he is walking or running around the house. However, being a Brannon, he has to do things his own way, in his own time. He started his mobility efforts with a body crawl, arms dragging his body behind and has gradually worked up to being the speediest baby I have ever seen on all fours. There is no surface that stops his progress: wood, carpet, bricks, cement, grass; he is undeterred. He can stand up and walk around furniture and walls, and from one piece of furniture to the next as long as that requires one step and the gratification of two seconds of reaching for the next object to keep him steady. He can stand unassisted in the middle of a room for a good bit of time, but when he realizes this, he sits down. He spends a good deal of time standing and in an attempt to get him to walk, Evelynn hunched down to his level and backed away from him. He sat back and then went onto his knees. In an upright position, he followed her taking steps on his knees. So now he "walks" around on his knees. Really? Just walk already! And then I laugh and shake my head. He's so close to walking.

Other than food, he's eager for nap time and bedtime. Sometimes I know it's because he's ready for peace. His sisters can be a bit too much. He is content to play in his crib for long periods of time. He loves music and has two music producing things that stay in his bed. You can hear the music playing just when you think he was dropped off to sleep. McKenna is a frequent interrupter of his sleep and they antagonize one another often. Those two will be something else as they grow.

Caelan is his enabler. The dog food and water bowls are where he gets into the most trouble. The repetitive "no" make no difference to him at this point. He will just try again tomorrow. It's a daily infraction. As soon as I say no and remove him from the spot, Caelan takes up his case "Mom, he's just a baby he doesn't know. Oh, Paxton, she didn't mean it. I'll hug you and love you." Pretty sure I did mean it, but thanks.

He is a smiling, hugging, crawling, babbling, curious little boy and our family can't get enough of him.