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A Parable for Mother's Day

Now that I've become a mother, I appreciate my own mother even more. She was one of those June Cleaver's happily dedicated to motherhood and wife-dom. Some might think this type of person doesn't exist outside of fiction, but she does. And she came to all my choir concerts, boring plays, pasta nights, fun runs and talent shows.

So when my first grader came home inquiring about auditioning for an upcoming talent show, my gut knotted. The era of watching performances has come for me now. My kiddo wanted to sing a pop song that had some questionable lyrics.

And then I discovered that he'd already missed the deadline to try out. And I'm ashamed to admit I breathed a sigh of relief. But really my dander was up that he might be too much like me. When I see the engineer in him, like my husband, I'm thrilled. Discovering he might have a creative bent like me, plunged me into protective mom mode.

Pursuing a creative life can be a hard road filled with rejection and poverty and so I secretly hoped he wouldn't be like me. But he loved the first play he saw at school with his class. He volunteered to do an on-camera interview at his school. And I couldn't help thinking this is how my mom probably saw me. When I look back on what I enjoyed as a kid, not much has changed. And when I think of all the performances she had to sit through I feel guilty now. But she never seemed to mind.

Now my husband says not to worry, lots of people get practical jobs and pursue their creative stuff on the side. "I know, I was one of those," I said to myself. I guess the protective part of me wants to shield him from rejection and heartbreak. But I won't, I can't. He'll have to fail, make mistakes, get teased and get up, dust himself off and keep going.

And who knows, he could have some successes mixed in there too. I'm trying to teach him about the 10,000 hours rule that I learned after reading Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers. Gladwell believes that after amassing 10,000 hours practicing something, mastery can be achieved. True or not, I like the idea. So by that calculation, I've accumulated about 25,000 hours of mothering practice so far. I don't feel like I've mastered it, but it does get easier every year.

All this to say, Happy Mother's Day to all the smothers and other mothers out there. We're in this to (worry) together!

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Cake Mix Cobbler

When I need a break from writing, I bake! We have peaches on our tree and frozen berries. This is the perfect recipe for using both. Versions of this recipe are all over the internet. This is my version that is tweaked a little to use less cake mix to make it more of a crumble than a cake.

Here is the recipe:

Peach/Berry Cobbler

Grease 8X8 pan

3-4 cups of fresh or frozen peaches and berries
1 1/4 cups of yellow cake mix
1/4 cup of melted butter

Put the fruit in the pan and sprinkle the cake mix over the top.
Drizzle the butter over the top of the cake mix.

Bake for 45 minutes at 375.

If you have super tart fruit, like blackberries, feel free to toss them with sugar before adding the topping. I find peaches are sweet enough and don't need the added sugar. We like to serve it with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.

Bon Apetit!


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Greyson
My size thirteen wingtips kicked a couple of oval pebbles until they were sucked into a crack in the sidewalk. Other indentations in the walkway were overgrown with green things. The near constant rain made living in Siletz Bay like taking up residence on the surface of a Chia Pet. I’d been advised to wear more comfortable footwear by the prosthetic experts. But I had an image to maintain, leg or no leg.
The Canon camera I’d inherited from my mom after her passing hung around my neck most days. Clicking pics of married men sharing their beds with their assistants had become my bread and butter.