The Day of Buffy

I've never been a big fan of Halloween. It just isn't my favorite holiday.

As a kid, I loved dressing up and I loved eating candy, but I didn't really like to Trick-or-Treat. I felt shy knocking on doors and my parents were uneasy about the whole idea. My father was a police officer and tended to go overboard when it came to safety. But he also knew that Halloween was his busiest night of the year.

I think my parents passed on their Halloween stress to me.

A military base is probably the safest place in the world to Trick-or-Treat, as evidenced by the hundreds of kids I get knocking on my door every Halloween. But, well, as I've said before, children scare me. And children in costume scare me even more.

So I was glad when our family was given an alternate holiday to celebrate on October 31st.

Today is the Day of Buffy! Buffy the Wonder Puppy turns three-years-old today.

Buffy knows that this day is all about her. She poos on your efforts to beg neighbors and strangers for candy. She looks cute and gets treats every day. She smirks at your pitiful attempts to dress in costumes. She knows that the proper attire for a fall evening is long, white fur accented with orange bows.

Her children sing Happy Birthday to her first thing in the morning on October 31st. They know what's important in life. They bring her extra treats and brand new toys. They even custom designed a new bowl to hold her fine cuisine and imported bottled water.

And when her mommy finds her "presents" on the playroom carpet on October 31st she spends an extra long time paying attention to her. Her words sound something like, "Just because it is your birthday doesn't mean you can poop wherever you like!" But Buffy doesn't care.

She knows that today is all about her.

Just in Time for Halloween

I'm not the kind of person who believes in the supernatural, superstitions or astrology. Except that I kind of do.

I've lived in two houses that were supposedly haunted. The people who lived in one house before us actually moved out just because of the ghosts they spotted. But I never saw a thing.

A couple of summers ago in our family house on Cape Cod, I kept seeing weird shadows out of the corner of my eye around the foot of the stairs. I never mentioned a thing but since then at least four different people have mentioned seeing weird shadows and human forms in the exact same place. It's creepy, but I'm insistent that if I don't believe in ghosts, I'll never see a ghost.

That's the way it works. Right?

And as for superstitions, well, I know that the Red Sox won the World Series for the first time in 86 years because my son wore his little Red Sox shirt on every game day. He broke Babe Ruth's curse single-handedly. Or so I like to think.

This time around I'm wearing my Red Sox hat every game day. Except I forgot it today. If my Red Sox lose tonight it will be proof positive that what my family wears affects baseball games played a thousand miles away. Right?

And yes, I read my horoscope every day. The logical part of my brain can't imagine how the alignment of the stars when you were born can affect your personality and course of your life. But I can't help but notice that I fit every description of a Taurus I have ever read. And my daughter is a classic Cancer. And my son a perfect Sagittarius. (My husband is an enigma.)

Just today I was reminded of how eerily true horoscopes can be.

Last week I was reaching in my purse when my hand seemed to cease up. Both hands have felt sort of numb and painful for a while, but I figured if I ignored it, it would go away. That's how it works. Right?

The pain has gotten worse and worse and I know I need to see a doctor, but I've been avoiding and postponing it.

Today my horoscope said, "Your latest health concern should be addressed, either with a change in your routine or visit to a professional. Take care of yourself!"

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Since when did the writers at Astrology.com start sounding like my mother?

But a couple of days ago my horoscope said, "You have a great deal of sex appeal." As far as I'm concerned, that is undeniable proof right there that it is all bunk.

So I'll keep ignoring that ghost by the stairs and I'll keep postponing that trip to the doctor. But I will go find my Red Sox hat.

Some things are too important to be left to chance.

Can you afford to spare a square?

Yesterday I spent $70 on a pack of toilet paper.

How is that possible? "Was this magic toilet paper?" you might ask. "Capable of cleaning the toilet on its way down? Capable of sanitizing with barley a swipe? Capable of multiplying on its own so I never have to buy toilet paper again?"

Well, no. No. No. And, no but I wish! Because I seem to have this mental block when it comes to buying toilet paper. No matter how often I am in Target (everyday, sometimes twice!) I can never seem to remember to pick up toilet paper.

So yesterday morning our need for toilet paper became dire. I dropped the kids off at school and ran into Target.

But just as I walked through the door into shopping paradise my cell phone rang. It was my best friend, whom I haven't been able to talk with much lately, so I pushed my red cart around the store and chatted.

Yes, I am one of those people.

As I walked and talked I realized, "Oh, the kids could use some new jeans." And then I realized, "Oh, the boy could use some writing paper." And then I realized, "Oh, the girl lost her scissors."

By the time I was done realizing things, I had seventy bucks worth of stuff in my red cart.

I said goodbye to my friend and went through the checkout. Dang, but I couldn't believe how quickly seventy dollars went through my fingers. I was still shaking my head and resolving to be more frugal as I loaded my purchases into the van and drove home.

When I was unloading the van at home it hit me. I had forgotten the toilet paper!

I ran to the BX to pick some up.

All told, adding in the cost of gas and the cost to my sanity that had to be the most expensive 4 pack of Quilted Northern ever bought!

Next time I might as well put a stack of dollar bills by the toilet.

The Day Mommy Cried

I'm eagerly awaiting the delivery of my kids' school pictures this year. The proofs actually looked pretty good. Maybe this year's pictures can go on the mantel.

Last year's pictures were a total bust.

My daughter was to have her second grade pictures taken early on a September, Monday morning. She had been bugging me for a couple of weeks to get her hair cut. But I hadn't had the time or extra cash to take her to our stylist.

So on that Sunday afternoon, she took matters into her own hands.

She didn't just snip a few stray locks here and there. She cut hair off to her hairline randomly all over her head.

Half of her bangs? Gone.

Half of the long hair in back that we'd been trying to grow since she was a straggly-haired toddler? Gone.

Mommy's sanity? Gone.

I was getting them ready to take them out for a treat that evening when I suddenly noticed that something looked a bit off. She must have realized while she was cutting that things hadn't gone well because she hid the cut hair and never said anything to me about it.

She had bad timing. My husband was away then and my daughter and I had been struggling to get along. She had been pulling stunts and driving me crazy for weeks This little episode sent me over the edge.

I cried that day.

I went into the bathroom, shut the door, and sobbed my heart out.

I cried for the loss of her hair. I remember feeling so bad for her when she was little because she never had enough hair for all the cute styles and bows that her friends had. We had really been working at growing her hair out. And then to have her butcher it? I was sad.

But I cried more for the fact that my daughter was acting out and being so secretive. I felt like our relationship was crumbling right before my eyes. Who was this child? And what did she do with my sweet, little girl?

My kids still refer to that day as the day that mommy cried. It may be the only time they've ever really seen me cry. I think it was shocking to them that they could effect my emotions that way. I felt horrible about the whole thing.

I couldn't get her an appointment with our stylist until the next Thursday. But I think having to go to school like that for a few days may have taught her a lesson. Our stylist was our savior. She turned my daughter's masterpiece into an adorable little bob.

For which my daughter still get compliments. She was a star at school that Friday. Teachers and students even came by her classroom just to see her new haircut. For months, everywhere we went, people would comment on it.

That sort of ruined the life lesson I had hoped she was learning. But she did look really cute.

Now she has decided that she wants to grow her hair out again. She wants to be able to wear ponytails and braids like her friends.

And I'm actually a little sad. That will teach me to cry in the bathroom.

I knew that someday I would look back and find the humor in the story of her cutting her own hair. But I never expected to look back and be grateful for her daring!

Maybe I'll be able to talk her back into the bob.

Rolling on the River Tee Tee

Let's face it. We all know that the life of a mom is very poop and pee centric. From the first day we change our newborn's diaper in the hospital, we are responsible for our family's poop and pee henceforth.

I've had times when I've felt like my life was awash in a river of pee. I'm still recovering from those days when my three-year-old was struggling through potty training and her infant brother was filling diapers. And then while my husband was deployed and my son was potty training, we got a puppy. That was just masochistic on my part.

But lately those poop and pee days have made a resurgence.

For one thing, my son is struggling to stay dry at night. I change his sheets at least twice most nights. The dog (AKA Buffy the Wonder Puppy) has also had a relapse and seems to think it is her duty to pee and poop on every rug we own. Multiple times.

And so what do I do while we're struggle through these poop and pee-soaked times?

I decide to take the ten day All Bran challenge. Speaking of masochistic...

I guess when it rains it pours. Or something like that.

Like Herding Cats

When I tell people that I'm not good with children, they always laugh at me. But I mean it.

Oh, sure, I can handle my own kids, but when it comes to other people's children, I am at a complete loss. Which is why when I told my friend that I would be helping out in my son's Kindergarten class today, he actually laughed at me.

He laughed at me!

The truth is that I am scared of children. I really am. You just never know what they are going to say or do. They're kind of like animals that way.

I'm always afraid that like dogs, children can sense my fear. I'm scared that some day they are going to realize that there are twenty of them and only one of me. I may have the superior intellect, but they have mob mentality. They could subdue me if they just realized that all of my power and authority is an illusion.

And if they don't try to overthrow me, they could do something worse. They could smother me in hugs and affection.

I actually Oprah hugged a child today!

You know what that is, don't you? It's when Oprah thwarts a would-be hugger by grabbing their outstretched hands and sort of shaking them.

I don't know why I did it. A four-foot-tall sweetie in a hair bow came at me for a hug and I panicked. This is what I get for being raised in New England. My people don't hug.

I was terrorized going into that classroom today, but I must admit that the time flew by and I actually had fun.

I was just as shocked as anyone.

Clearly my son's teacher and our school's staff have that program running like a well-oiled, exceptionally caring machine. Throwing a complete rookie like me into the gears barely created a hiccup.

I'll even go on record and state that I'd be happy to help out in the classroom again.

This time I'll practice my hugging technique before I go in. That Oprah hug exposes too much of my soft underbelly.

Of Boys and Men

I was complaining to my friend tonight that nothing ever seems to go my husband's way. He works so hard for every thing he has. Nothing has ever come easily to him. I feel like if he didn't have bad luck he'd have no luck at all.

And my friend answered, "He's had the best luck of all. He got to marry you."

I had to laugh at that. I don't think living with me is all that easy.

My friend continued, "Come on, it's true. He got to marry you and you gave him two great kids. One of which is a son."

"Do you really think that makes a difference?" I had to ask. In these modern times, do men really still crave sons to carry on their name?

I don't think any decent man would admit it if it were true. But I wonder.

When I was pregnant the first time we were desperate to find out if I was carrying a boy or a girl. My husband was convinced we were having a boy, but the baby never cooperated during ultrasounds.

We even paid cash to a clinic in town for an ultrasound just to find out the gender of our baby.

The technician was scanning and talking and just casually mentioned, "It's a girl." She kept right on talking like she hadn't said something completely momentous.

I glanced up at my husband and found his face frozen in complete and utter shock. He looked like he was going to be sick. I found it completely adorable. He was so scared about fathering a daughter.

Of course he's my daughter's favorite and she's a total daddy's girl.

When we were pregnant with my second, the ultrasound technician discovered the sex of the baby before she called my husband into the room.

I knew what she was going to say. I had seen it clearly in the ultrasound. So I was watching my husband when she made the announcement. "It's a boy."

And my husband's smile lit up like I had never seen before or since.

He had sworn that he didn't care what we had. He thought two daughters might be the death of him, but we were stopping at two kids no matter what we got.

I wonder if his joy was mostly because we were going to have one of each (the stereotypical perfect family) or because he was going to have a son. Maybe both?

For my part, I really wanted one of each. I honestly didn't care which came first, but once I had a daughter, I really wanted to have a son.

What do you think? Do women really want daughters? Do men really want sons?

I think that no matter what you have, you can't even imagine having anything else.

Flowers from the Desert

My husband got some unfortunate career-related news today.

It's always hard to get disappointing news. It must be even harder to get it when you are deployed far from home. It must be especially hard not to be selected for something that you wanted so bad.

I'm not really sure how he feels because I haven't talked to him at all since he forwarded me the e-mail.

But I did get his flowers.

Yes, he got bad news but he took the time to get online and send me flowers.

It's incredibly sweet. He's incredibly sweet. But I can never win an argument again.

Just picture it...

"For the tenth time, would you please take out the trash!"

"Hey, back off. I sent you flowers from Iraq!"

Yup, I'm doomed.

He'll bounce back from this news just like he bounces back from everything. We always just sort of figure that it must not have been meant to be. We're a team and our team can make it through anything.

I love my husband so much. I hate to see him disappointed. If only making him feel better were as easy as sending flowers.

Confessions of a Soccer Mom

I never, ever intended to be a soccer mom.

I swear.

I think my first mistake was buying the mini van. Oh sure, I had all kinds of rationalizations. But the truth is I was starting out on a long and slippery slope.

The next thing I knew, my daughter was four-years-old. She needed exercise. We needed something to do to get out of the house. Soccer was just sort of...there.

I think soccer is one of the few teams sports that very little kids can manage.

In that first season the very dear coaches had to hold her hand on the field. She spent more time crying because she was hot and watching the ball go by than anything else. But she loved it. She loved dressing up in her cute little uniform and being with the other kids.

The next year, Daddy decided to take a turn coaching. Oh, was that a mistake. We have learned now, when you coach a team, it is always your kid who is the hardest to coach. There were more tears. But she wouldn't hear of quitting.

But the next year, she was finally old enough to play on an all-girls team. Her coach was great and he really started to teach them about the game.

By second grade, she was on a team with all of her friends from school. And that's when I shed my sweet, little sideline mom veil and because the monster that I am today.

I guess it's because her friends' parents are my friends. Because they know me, I don't feel so shy. And so I end up standing on the sidelines screaming, "RUN!!!" like my child is about to be engulfed by flames or eaten by a monster.

I suppose I've gotten worse and worse because my daughter actually seems to respond to my hysterics. If Daddy cheers at all, it makes her weepy and upset. But when I yell my head off, she actually gets aggressive. She really does run.

That kid who held her coach's hand that whole first season has turned into a decent little soccer player. And I've turned into a nut.

Yet, my daughter begged me to coach a softball team next season. We'll see if we can get through a season without any tears. (Would you like to place bets? The odds are way stacked!)

Hopefully I won't have any nutso parent's in the bleachers yelling their heads off. Don't you just hate people like that?

The Magic Number 13

All day long I was thinking that there was something I was supposed to remember about this day. Doesn't October 13 mean something to me? For the life of me, I just couldn't remember what it was.

Then I realized that I missed a mess of birthdays. My brother, my mother, and my daughter's godmother all have birthdays in early October. At least my brother and his family took my mom with them to Disney so I kind of had an excuse for putting off those calls.

But that isn't it. There must be something else.

The number thirteen has always been good to us. My daughter was born on the thirteenth of July. My husband proposed on the thirteenth of November.

Ah! That's it. My husband and I had our very first date on Friday, October 13, 1989.

Eighteen years ago today.

Looking back I have to say that I was quite a catch. What? I was. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was a bit of a looker. Too bad I had to ruin the effect of good genes with plaid pants and gravity-defying hair.

Ah, those were the days.

But my husband is another story. Unlike me, he grew into his looks over time. He is more handsome now than he ever could have hoped to have been at seventeen.

He had a mullet for goodness sake.

You can read all about how my mom set us up by clicking HERE.

I can barely believe that it has been eighteen years since we ate Oreos and watched Rainman at his mom's house. If I stop and add up how many of those years were spent far apart it might make me sick.

But we are lucky to have had many more good years than bad. We can still have just as much fun as we did back when we were teenagers. And we can do it with better hair.

*Hang with me until November 13 and I'll tell you the story of how my husband proposed to me. It's best to tell that story when he's out of the country anyway.

Danger on the Web

eBay is a dangerous, dangerous place.

It is so easy to get caught up in the passion of the moment and bid way too high on something you don't really need. That's how my husband ended up getting an ice skate sharpener for Christmas last year. Some guy managed to outbid me by a penny and then there was no way I was going to let him win.

But eBay can be a great resource too. Which makes it hard to just quit cold turkey.

Online auctions are a great place for a mom who couldn't sew a seam to save her life to find perfect costumes for plays, programs and Halloween. Luckily there are these saintly folks out there sewing up a storm of angel costumes and pioneer costumes and they can be mine for the right price.

I just got the cutest pioneer dress in the mail for my daughter's field trip on Friday. Yay eBay.

But no matter how hard I tried to buy that one thing and then pull out, eBay just had to pull me back in. And now we are the proud owners of a pitching machine, a new camera, two broken cameras "for parts", and one used softball bat.

So my thirty dollar pioneer dress find ended up costing me about a grand in impulse buys.

This weekend I think I might go on a scavenger hunt. I'm going to call it the, "Find One Thousand Bucks Worth of Stuff I Can Sell On eBay So My Husband Doesn't Kick My Butt Hunt".

It has a certain ring, doesn't it?

Reality Check

Today I had just a little taste of what it must be like to really be a war wife.

Most mornings, I get up about five minutes before the kids to read my e-mail. My husband almost always sends me one during the night. This morning I had no e-mail, but that isn't so out of the ordinary.

Still, when I got home from dropping the kids off at school, I checked my e-mail again. There was still no news from my husband, but I couldn't help but notice a news headline on the sign in page.

"Two dead in attack on Baghdad base."

Normally, when my husband is deployed I avoid any media coverage of anything. Even the most realistic and stoic of us can let our imaginations run amok when our loved one is far away and in danger. But I couldn't help but click on that link today.

And yes, there was a mortar or rocket attack on my husband's base. Two people were killed and forty were injured.

While I know that there are thousands of people on that base and the chances of him being hurt or killed are next to nothing, I still couldn't help imagining...what if?

The thought of him not coming back to us is unimaginable. Strangely, the thought of him being wounded is even harder to imagine. I hate to admit it, but I spent the rest of my morning sitting in front of the computer refreshing my e-mail over and over again, waiting for word.

When he finally called me around noon, I didn't feel relief. I felt stupid. I felt silly. I felt embarrassed.

"We are at war, you know," he told me.

I know, but when you're a military wife you spend years telling yourself that your husband is safe because he flies a safe aircraft and he's good at his job. You tell yourself he's safe because he's not really near any action. You tell yourself he's safe because he has to be. No other option is acceptable.

And when you realize that he's not as safe as you like to imagine, it hits hard.

But I only overreacted for a few hours on a beautiful October morning. I know too many wives and mothers who have had to deal with their husband's being injured. I have a friend who has attended at least four funerals for her husband's fallen soldiers.

I have not yet met a wife or mother who had to receive the flag off of her husband's or son's casket. But I know that there are too many of them. And there are husbands and fathers and children and family and friends.

I can pretend all I want that my husband is just as safe over there as he would be here at home. But it's not really true.

I think it helps me to have that reality check.

Penance

I am one of those moms that you've hated. I am. I'll admit it.

I was one of those moms whose babies always slept through the night.

I tried not to brag back then. I swear. But when you're a brand new mom and all your kid does is eat, sleep, and poop anyway you tend to judge yourself on those criteria. Sleep was the only thing my kids had going for them. And they did it well.

But as they say, payback is a...well...it's not fun.

Recently, my son has been struggling with some sleep issues. My wonderful doctor helped me come up with a plan that may help ease him though these struggles. Except my wonderful doctor's plan isn't so wonderful for me.

I have to get up every two to three hours and check on him for the next three weeks.

It's like having a newborn again!

And my conviction not to have any more children has been reconfirmed.

I forgot how it feels to be so darned tired all the time. If I can still remember how to form words in three weeks time, I'll let you know how it goes.

World's Collide

I often feel like I'm living my life in three separate worlds.

First, I am a military wife. I live on base and have my military friends. I have all of the challenges and rewards of being a part of the United States military.

Then I an a mother. A large chunk of my life revolves around the kids' school. I have friends whose kids are in classes with my kids. I work on volunteer projects. I have a whole social life that is influenced by the events at school.

Then I am a women, a writer, and a friend. I have a whole group of friends who have never interacted in my other two worlds. They are fellow writers, old college friends, and friends I've made through mutual connections. And they all live far away.

I love the life I lead in all three of these worlds and I love to see them come together. I love having military wife friends who are also fellow school moms.

But sometimes when my world's collide, it can be a bit disconcerting.

My very best friend isn't a military wife or a mom. He's a single man living in New York City. Our lives are very different yet we have a great deal in common.

I know that people are always curious about my friend. I know that it isn't common for a happily married woman to have a best male friend. But I think my mom explains it best when she tells people, "Oh, they're like sisters really."

And my best friend and my husband have a good relationship. In fact, a few years ago when my friend was laid off from his job, it was my husband who suggested he live in our summer house for a few months until he could get back on his feet. This past spring when my friend landed back in the hospital after complications from major surgery, it was my husband who insisted I jump on a plane to sit by his bedside.

My friend became a part of our family without any of us even realizing it was happening. My kids now call him Uncle Patrick. In our darkest times and our lightest times, we're all there for each other.

This weekend, my best friend came to visit.

It was so great to see him. It has become tradition for him to visit us right in the middle of my husband's deployments. It gives me a break and some fun. My husband suggested that I invite Patrick for Revel weekend so he could help me volunteer at our school's booth and see the kids play with the Suzuki Strings.

I don't know why I was nervous about him meeting my school friends.

It's dumb really. Patrick is a great guy. I wouldn't be friends with him if he wasn't. And I know my friends from school are wonderful. Of course they would like him.

I guess maybe it is just weird to see two parts of your life come together. When your worlds collide, you wait for a crash. But there was nothing but smooth sailing. Of course.

Our visit was way too short. The kids cried when we dropped Patrick off at the airport, though they are glad to have their own bedrooms back. And the dog is quite put out that her one true love has left her yet again. But I had a blast.

It's funny, though, how having my friend here has made me miss my husband all the more. I wasn't expecting that.

Maybe it is because he is the only one who knows and loves me as I live in all three of my worlds.

Revel In It

For the last couple of years I was one of the people responsible for our school's food booths at the Red River Revel.

Being our school's Revel Chair is a pretty big responsibility. Not only to we operate two food booths for eight days, supervise and coordinate a couple hundred volunteers and manage thousands of dollars in supplies, but the booths are a major fund raiser for our school. Our school which we really love and has become our extended family. The last thing in the world I would ever want to do is fail as a Revel Chair.

So the stress level was pretty high.

But this year, I've passed it on! Woo hoo!

I feel a little bad that one of the people I've passed it on to is a dear friend, but still. Woo hoo!

Okay, yes, on many levels it was an extremely tiring job, but I'm still glad to have done it. The truth is that working on this project helped me to make a lot of friends. Oh sure, I still can't pass a billboard for the Revel without that old stressful feeling causing my shoulders to inch up to my ears, but a had fun volunteering at the booths this week.

Of course I never want to eat another corn dog as long as a live, but hey. Corn dogs aren't exactly good for me anyway.

Thinking over the last two years, I've realized just how many wonderful friendships I have made. There is a part of me that feels like putting myself out there and volunteering was the impetus for a lot of those friendships. For someone as shy as me, that is an important lesson to learn.

The Red River Revel is a wonderful local event. I'm grateful to have had a small part in it. And I'm thankful that our school ahas had another successful fund raiser under the direction of some truly fabulous people.

Reaching Out

I hardly ever watched Sex and the City in our pre-TiVo days, because my husband did not enjoy it. But with him far away and the syndicated versions of the show airing about twenty times a day, I've caught a few episodes here and there.

Now the words, "I couldn't help but ask..." and "I couldn't help but wonder..." are stuck on replay in my mind for the foreseeable future.

I was actually a little ashamed when a Sex and the City quote popped into my head today. Isn't quoting television shows a pre-teen pastime? But Mr. Big's voice projected into my brain today.

There was an episode where Big breaks up with his famous girlfriend and drives out to see Carrie at Aidan's country cabin. After getting in a muddy fistfight and being called "middle aged" by an incredulous Carrie, Big and Aidan bond just a little bit.

Big complains to Aidan about how hard it is to communicate with his celebrity girlfriend. He says something like, "You see, she can always get me, but I can't reach her." He says it over and over.

Boy, do I understand.

In the past few days I've missed my deployed husband's phone calls by mere moments multiple times.

I've come running out of the bathroom to grab up the phone and only hear a disheartening dial tone. So I started carrying my cell phone with me at all times. The next day I fumbled to pull my ringing phone out of my purse only to miss his call by the slightest of margins. So I started carrying my cell phone in my pocket at all times.

This morning while on a field trip with my son, I missed my husband's call yet again because my phone was on silent and it took me a moment to realize it was ringing.

He can always get me, but I can't reach him.

When I miss his call there is no calling him back. I never know if he'll call again in a week, a day, or a minute.

The few times that I have cried during this deployment have been when I miss his calls. I sit for a moment or two staring at the screen on my cell phone telling me I've missed hearing his voice and I feel hopeless.

Yesterday my daughter and I were in my bedroom when my cell phone rang. I ran to grab it off my desk but I had missed yet another call. But this one didn't display one of the strange numbers that appears when my husband calls. This call had come from "Home".

I only had to listen to the voice mail for a second to realize what had happened. I could hear my son's faint voice echoed in my phone, talking to himself.

While us girls were upstairs working on a project, my son had tried to use his new phone dialing skills to call his father.

He came up to my room and asked, 'Can we please call Daddy?" I tried to explain why we couldn't but he didn't really understand. "Please?" he begged.

I guess I'm not the only one dreadfully missing the sound of my husband's voice right now. And I'm not the only one who is frustrated.

He can always get me, but I can't reach him.

Life Among the Living

I watch a lot of Lifetime TV for Women.

Don't judge me.

I like to watch the syndicated sitcoms while I'm folding clothes, cleaning up, and eating bon bons.

Lately, Lifetime has been hyping their returning show Lisa Williams: Life Among the Dead. Lisa is a medium who talks to the dead. I've never seen the show and I really don't want to.

I don't believe much in the supernatural. But even if the ability to talk to the dead was a scientific fact, I'm still not sure I'd ever want to visit with a medium.

Here's the thing. Relationships are living, breathing, evolving things. In the course of life with someone you love you may say thousands, or even millions of things to them. Some of them you may want to take back. But because each person in the relationship, and the relationship itself is forever growing, words can come to mean different things between you.

Then that person you love is dead. Gone. I can understand the attraction of wanting to talk to them one more time. I really can. But to converse with your loved one through another would mean that those words, their meanings and emotions, would forever be fixed in time. I know that I would not want my last words with the person I love to be filtered through another.

Unless my loved one has hidden a fortune in the floorboards, I'd rather our relationship, our love, our connection and my memories stand on their own.

I guess we all need to remember to live in the moment, loving as hard and as well as we can so that when we've lost someone, we know we've already said everything we ever could.