The STUFF Sisters

Eight Year Olds Love to Party

She stood there holding the plastic-encased sheet cake in tiny hands. Her eyes were huge as I opened the door, and she looked up at me with bright blue eyes and said, “Lala, this is a bar!”

She stood there holding the plastic-encased sheet cake in tiny hands. Her eyes were huge as I opened the door, and she looked up at me with bright blue eyes and said, “Lala, this is a bar!” as she confidently crossed the threshold into what she had been told would be a restaurant. “I’ve never been to a bar,” were her next words – spoken quietly and more to herself than to me.

She continued her comments as we walked toward the room dedicated to our party and got settled. She had been with me since I picked her up from school 90 minutes earlier, and she was already running the show. I was delighted to have been delivered of a leader – at a grade school! – so late in the day. I needed the help, and her excitement was contagious.

“Is this our place?”

“Is it a bar or a restaurant?”

“This is really nice. Look at the pillows.”

“Should we put the cake and cards here?”

“Will they light the candles on all the tables?”

“This whole room is for Uncle Harl?”

“Can I help hand out the favors?”

Last week was a week like no other in recent history. My work life was overfull, my time with my son was at an all-time low due to his schedule and mine, every evening had harbored an event, and the whole week was to culminate in a celebration of my husband’s fifty years on Earth.

I clearly needed the help of someone younger and full of energy. I found her waiting for me in the carpool line already in her party dress and shiny sandals. We whisked off to the grocery store for the cake I had never thought to order, having prayed since noon that extra cakes could be found at my grocer. Plates and forks would be needed as well, and who better than an enthusiastic niece to make these decisions? She got a little tripped up on the math of how many sets of plates we would need to reach 50 if they came in sets of eight. “It would be easier with paper and a pencil. Just give me a minute.” As she thought the multiplication and division through, she found sets of 10 plates, and that made the decision so swift.

Special “number” candles were chosen, chocolate or white cake was debated, icing patterns were deliberated, and we were in the car headed to the restaurant within 20 minutes.

However, it was her decision on how to get her uncle’s name on the cake that makes me smile even now. It was found in the cracker aisle: Scrabble Cheez-its.

Always perfect with chocolate cake.

p.s. Bistro 303 is a restaurant and a bar. It is one of my favorite places in town, even after Derrick gave my niece a butcher knife when she went in search of something to cut the cake with. Well, a butcher knife and a Bic lighter for the big 5 and 0. She truly is a Girl Scout – no cuts and no burns!

The Storm Passed

In recent months, I have been drowning in the flood of my own life. A “perfect storm” of work, parenting and volunteering put me on my knees. I had a plan. I really did.

In recent months, I have been drowning in the flood of my own life. A “perfect storm” of work, parenting and volunteering put me on my knees. I had a plan. I really did. But then those unexpected and unlikely events started to hit.

Every time I turned around, another (medical, staff, tenant, dental, roof, appliance, plumbing…) issue hit. Again, again and again. I thought this time I was going to break, thankfully I had help with the materials and equipment from http://profoam.com.

Then last week my daughter climbed into my bed after a bad dream. I was still awake, lying in the dark holding back tears of fatigue and fear. She crawled onto my stomach, her limbs falling past my knees and over my sides as she drifted back to sleep.

I looked down at her in the dark, and just like that the storm passed. Only one thing actually changed…me. My heart could finally be heard above the screaming in my mind.

I let go.

Last Thursday, when an actual storm ripped my roof open, tore siding from my house, and knocked the power out, I lit candles, put buckets out to catch the water, locked the windows, and cuddled up on the couch with my child and fell asleep in the warm glow of my home.

A home isn’t a house. My house may very well fall down around me one day, but my home will always be warm, well lit, and open to the people I love and who love me in return.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

I was frustrated last night. Angry frustrated. I wanted to walk in a charity walk with my Dad, and everything in my life conspired against me all afternoon and into the evening. I didn’t have a pity party, but I did throw a private hissy fit.

I was frustrated last night. Angry frustrated. I wanted to walk in a charity walk with my Dad, and everything in my life conspired against me all afternoon and into the evening. When I called him to finally tell him I just wasn’t going to make it, I got my stepmom on the phone. My voice broke when admitting I wasn’t going to make it. I didn’t have a pity party, but I did throw a private hissy fit. It went something like this:

Why is this city getting so big and busy that I can’t get to Corporate Woods in 20 minutes at the end of rush hour?

Why would a charity hold an event on a Friday night and have it begin at 6:30? Don’t they know people own businesses that don’t close at 5pm?

Why did I have a child? Didn’t I know he would grow up and have a busy life and need rides?

Why did I marry a man who is always busy with his own small business?

Why can’t I just do what I want to do and not have so many people demanding so much of me? Don’t they know I just want to walk in the dark with my Dad and remember his incredible journey through cancer? Don’t they know I want to hold a delicately glowing balloon in the quiet of a wooded suburban setting?

Then the moon came out. The biggest, most beautiful moon of the year so far. By that time of my night, I was back at my business sneaking in a few important tasks between car rides for my young man. I stepped out into our back alley to get something out of the car and was blown away by the brightness of the night sky. Then I saw the monster moon. I turned, locked the door to the store, and walked around the block.

Quietly. Slowly. In the glowing night. By myself. And, in every way, my Dad was there with me while I quickly put the hissy fit to bed.

p.s. At the end of the evening, I realized I was where I was supposed to be last night. When my final pick-up of the golden child occurred, the first thing he said to me was, “Mom, did you see that moon?” I told him that indeed I had and that I had bathed in her amazing powers. That’s when I got the look that only a sixteen year old can grant.

p.p.s. I know you’ve been humming The Stones while you read this. That makes me smile!

The Mother Lode

Our son returns Monday from a three week trip to China. Since he was small, I have jumped upon his times away from home as perfect chances for me to tidy up his things. A few days ago, I hit the motherlode.

Our son returns today from a three week trip to China. He loves to travel, and this trip, with his aunts, cousins and uncles, has been no different. We have Skyped with him three times, but only two really count due to a rural location for him and a bad Internet during one session. (It was like talking to Neil Armstrong on the moon!) He has sent a few emails from his aunt’s computer, but mostly it has been radio silence from him.

His smiles on the phone screen have been radiant as he shares stories and jokes. Pixelated conversations are hard, and when he tried to show us photographs on his camera through the computer call, it was all blurry.

Time is flying by for this kid, our only child. His last two years of high school start in a month, he got his first “real” job this summer, he now plans his own volunteering, he is learning to drive, and three weeks of travel away from us had him smiling on Skype two days ago.

Since he was small, I have jumped upon his times away from home as perfect chances for me to tidy up his things. He does a pretty good job of keeping his things in order, but the crevices, containers and dump bins need the occasional scrubbing.

A few days ago, I hit the mother lode. In the “Potential To Make The Mom Cry” category, this find was in the Top Five. Squirreled way in the bottom of a drawer were his business cards. The business cards he made for himself when he must have been five years old.

I remember the day he came home from visiting my mother and had the paint samples in his tiny hands. They had been to Home Depot, and he had scored a few freebies in the paint department. I remember remarking about them and asking what he was going to do with them – and why there were so many. I probably sprinkled in a little bit of “waste” and “these things cost money,” and then we moved on. I never saw them again after that discussion.

In my mind’s eye, I can see him in his little denim overalls and bright T-shirt reaching for the ones he liked best. Taking a moment to choose correctly. Possibly being limited by what he could reach. Maybe asking for help. He is still a child that loves all colors, and I can imagine this whole process was magical.

I took pictures of each of the cards today, and, when I loaded them onto the computer, I stopped to look at them all. To mourn the passing of his little script forced from pudgy hands. To grieve the little bit of tongue he stuck out past his lips while accomplishing difficult tasks. What struck me deeply was how, on each card, he played with the graphic design. I noticed how each card is different while the copy is almost the same. Initials vs. full name? Three initials or four? The battle was most likely epic with his tongue taking most of the punishment.

To this mom, the discovery in my own home was perfect. Just what I needed to remind me that, since he was born, he has been moving away from us. He has been moving towards new adventures. New places. New people.

And on this day, with this collection of evidence, I realized he was moving toward a career even at five years old. He even took the time to make business cards.

p.s. A few years ago I cleaned a closet in his room while he was away. Click here to see what happened.

Healthy Summer Cold Treats

I don’t know about you, but getting enough liquid in my child during the hot, hot, hot summer days can be a challenge. I have tried many tricks, but

I don’t know about you, but getting enough liquid in my child during the hot, hot, hot summer days can be a challenge. I have tried many tricks, but this one works the best. I make homemade jumbo popsicles with a variety of juices and other drinks.

At home we have a nifty popsicle maker thingy, but we are on vacation this week and I had to improvise.

What I discovered, is she likes the jumbo ones more than the little ones I make at home. I like it because she gets more hydration each time and my favorite part is that I used handy kitchen items everyone has on hand (no fancy gizzmos or special clean-up and storage).

Pursue good stuff this summer…

These photos were taken by me – Casey Simmons – “on location” on Anna Maria Island, Florida.

Seeing The Past

This past weekend, I traveled with my niece and her friend (and other members of my family) to an art festival in Salina, Kansas. These two young women were a laugh a minute.

This past weekend, I traveled with my niece and her friend (and other members of my family) to an art festival in Salina, Kansas. These two young women were a laugh a minute. Morning and night. Both super sharp and funny. How they can be witty at eight years old is a mystery, but they are. And they were holding their own with four adult women.

When I took this picture, I knew before I clicked the button that I was seeing the past in these two. My past. My past with my best friend. My wish for them was that, even if they weren’t to be each others best friend, they found one who loved them as much as they were loved. A friend that can keep secrets. One that knows when to laugh, when to cry, and when to sit quietly and listen.

I have mine. I met her when we were in 5th grade. We may have met in 4th, but the real fun began in 5th, and hasn’t stopped. There are secrets we will never tell, and there are stories that we do tell. We’ve spent time apart during college years, and we have lived in the same urban neighborhood for the past 20 years.

Fifth grade is more than a few years ago. Heck, it’s more like 38 years ago. Time does fly, but it has real wings when you have a best friend at your side.

Notes: I was at the Smoky Hill River Festival with the girls. Definitely worth the trip. Photo #2 was taken earlier this year at the opening of the Mosaic Project for AIDS Walk Kansas City.

I am a fat girl

Will I always be a fat girl? It will never matter what size I am on the outside, I fear will forever be a fat girl inside.

Will I always be a fat girl?

It will never matter what size I am on the outside, I fear I will forever be a fat girl inside. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. I love myself. I am confident. I see my beauty. I didn’t state that I believe I am ugly. I just see myself as fat.

Does this have anything to do with reality? Since beauty is relative to culture and geography. I guess it depends on where I am standing.

In my late teens and early twenties, I became very obese. I can go into a long story about genetics, depression and identity. But take it from me: I gained an outrageous amount of weight.

Then, I met an amazingly kind and level-headed doctor, who showed me the way to a healthier and much thinner me. I lost over 120 pounds during my first lifestyle evolution.

I went on to lose more, but after that 120 mark I learned to watch the numbers you get from blood tests – not a scale.

I look nothing like the Casey from those years. The photos I have stashed away deep in a closet look like a stranger to me.

After my weight loss, I suffered through two surgeries to correct some of the damage my body had suffered. And I still hope to complete that surgical journey one day. It has been scary, painful and exhilarating.

One day, many years after my weight loss and surgeries, I made myself a promise to never again judge myself by my size and to let go of the “fat girl” forever.

So why is she still here?

Because this week the Disney empire carved the soul out of little girl named Merida to fit her into a smaller dress.

Everywhere I look, the message is skinny is beautiful, skinny is healthy, skinny means you have self control, skinny is sexy, skinny is better than fat.

My pain is real. I have been unable to write this blog without taking breaks to cry heavily into my hands. I deeply hope this open letter to the world will help me take another painful and cathartic step in the right direction.

There are days I feel strong and up to the fight – days where I am grounded, I feel empowered and beautiful.

And, there are days when I want to scream.

Here is the article where I found this image.

My Walk with AIDS

On a Friday night over a week ago, I stood under a tent in a large urban park at a memorial service for no one in particular and for every one on this planet. I held the microphone in my hand and began. Began again. To tell my story of AIDS.

Friday night was a small candlelight ceremony for those who have been lost to HIV/AIDS in our community, and they were celebrated that evening by those under the tent. But I have lost no one. No one I can hold up a photo for. No one I can memorialize on a T-shirt, flag or banner.

I held that microphone as tightly as I hold my son. That was who I was fighting for, I said. Sixteen years ago, I held a newborn boy in my arms as I volunteered for the first time along the route of the AIDS Walk. Months before he was born, a friend had asked me to help. Standing in the grass on a spring morning sounded magical to me in my eighth month of pregnancy. When the day arrived, it was dreamlike. Me, my husband, my new son – all sporting little red ribbons and helping a band entertain walkers and enthusiastic runners in the sun.

Every year since, I have worked on the Walk and moved up through the volunteer ranks. Route helper, volunteer coordinator, project coordinator, special event committee person, steering committee member, Walk co-chair. Every year since that first one, I’ve had a little hand in mine or a little head in my eyesight on Walk day. My son has never missed a Walk and now joins me as a full-fledged committee member on one event. Walk day is a family reunion for all of us.

My story is short and simple. I desire deeply a world without AIDS for my son. For all sons and daughters and mothers and fathers. Sisters. Brothers. A world free of stigma and hate. Pointed fingers and whispered admonishments will be behind us. Every year I renew my commitment to making that world come to be.

This year I stood in the light rain as my son walked by me carrying a dated memorial flag representing the 25 years of the AIDS Walk. Three long blocks later, I looked up, and there was my niece sporting a flag of her own. This one held the name of someone who no longer walks. She carried it to its final place with the others in a circle of flags that every one of the 2,000+ walkers walked by. My tears were easily covered by Mother Nature’s water show.

They are my future and my chance to live in an AIDS free world. They’ve never known one.

I believe that they will.

Embracing Simplicity

Parades are funny things. Not just because of clowns and puppets and dogs. Not because of men in tutus and babies in top hats. Parades are funny because they bring out the best in America.

Parades are funny things. Not just because of clowns and puppets and dogs. Not because of men in tutus and babies in top hats.

Parades are funny because they bring out the best in America. The slowing down of time, the sitting still and watching the world go by, the embracing of simplicity.

Last month’s Brookside St. Pat’s parade was the 11th time we have marched as a unit for STUFF. Every year we start thinking about it the minute the calendar clicks over to the new year. And every year we don’t start working on it until March starts. Lots of time in there between the thinking and the working, which is not like us.

We’ve learned to slow down and not rush into decisions. We’ve learned to let the magic of an idea sink in and then rise to the surface. This year we simplified and let the people who walk with us – the customers, the dogs, the children – tell our story.

We are about people, not product. We are about hand-crafting, not production. For one short parade route a year, we are about the color green and candy and laughter and shouting and smiling.

It’s that simple.

Family Business

Co-owning a family business is a remarkable adventure. My life intertwined with my family on a daily basis. It works for me. It is one of most enjoyable aspects of my career.

This week my daughter is out of school two days for parent/teacher conferences. We talked about her options for these two days, because Mom taking off two days was not an option. She picked work one day and Nana’s house for the second day.

I loved having her with me. She begged to do “real work” with our team. And, our team was very kind to include her in their tasks.

It is difficult to describe how I feel when I watch her working at the store. The word pride seems limited. Joy, love, happiness, lucky, blessed…and so very much more.