Some Blog Bling

I'd like to thank my friend Yette , for this award. Her blog is always interesting and enjoyable, with accounts of her travels, recipes, and stories about her sweet family and life in their "Cozy Nook" in the Philippines. I count it an honor to be considered her friend.

In turn, I'd like to give this award to my friend Shauna, who though she lives far away from me (in Canada), and we've not yet met in real life, it feels like she lives just down the street (which kind of freaks my brains out...*winks*). Connecting with her through blogging and the Christian Author's chat room where we first met has been a blessing in so many ways. It's nice to have friends that you know will pray along with you and offer encouragement and a dose of humor when things are rough. Her blog portrays her mad love for her family, her great sense of humor, and I always chuckle reading about the antics and comments of her three little rascals. Especially the recent posting where her son Benen imitates his grandpa, lol.

I'd also like to pass this one along to my friend Gretchen at Good Enough For Now, who probably doesn't realize how much encouragement she's always spreading around, it flows so naturally from her. Truly, she's got the gift! Thank you, friend...your comments are always so uplifting, and often just what I need to hear. Hurry over to see her amazing talent in quilting! Fabulous, dahlink!

Hope you're feelin' the love, gals...now go spread it around. ;o)

Heart Beet Pizzas - A Frumpy Valentine Tradition

I don't care much for beets.

The smell, the taste...even the name of the vegetable is unappetizing to me.

But beets are very good for you, and so I've tried several times over the years to incorporate them into our family diet.

The problem I've run up against is finding a way to sneak a bright, violet-red vegetable into foods without the kids finding them.

The first time I attempted this, was after reading in one of my health food juicing books that a beet/cucumber concoction was good for something or other, probably some symptom of an illness my (then) toddler son Jericho was dealing with at the time.

So I bought some beets and cucumbers, sent them through the juicer as directed, and poured some of the purplish juice into his sippy cup, then plugged my own nose and guzzled mine down, trying in vain not to gag at the horrendous flavor.

Jericho, who thankfully hadn't seen me drinking mine (and gagging), took a big long chug-a-lug of his before the taste fully registered, and then sprayed it all over the counter as if to say, "Disgusting!"

For months afterward, every time I gave him a drink of anything, even milk, he would sniff it and tentatively taste it, always suspicious about what I was trying to foist off on him in his sippy cup.

:: :: :: ::

So about five years later, I was reading a cookbook about early American cookery, and in it there was a recipe that sounded very interesting. Something called Red Flannel Hash, which was made of ground beef, potatoes, onions, garlic...and, yes, beets.

I must have been delirious, or suffering mom-guilt about not enough good veggies in their diets, because it sounded really good to me.

At the time, I was regularly babysitting two nephews and a niece, and always looking for exciting new meals in which to sneak in good-for-you veggies, and I was sure this one would work, as the kids had enjoyed corned beef hash the time I'd made it. Surely I could manage to hide a couple of beets.

As I recall, the recipe said to cook the beets separately from the potatoes, ground beef and onions, which were to cook in the skillet, and then you were to add chopped beets to the mixture, and heat it all up together, mingling the flavors.

Except that in my limited experience cooking beets, I was unprepared for all the violet-red dye that would splatter all over my white tile kitchen as I tried to chop the cooked beets in my food processor, which shot up through the chute, spattering all over my kitchen, making it look like a crime scene straight out of CSI.

Nor was I prepared for the way the finished product would look. Those chopped beets bled their violet-red dye all over the potatoes and onions in the skillet.

There was a reason they called this 'red flannel' hash. It was named for the color of early American red-flannel long underwear, which was worn in cold weather beneath their other clothing. A brighter, more violet-red food you've never seen, with the possible exception of red jello.

And while it tasted good (and I'm not a fan of beets), the kids all stared at their plates in horror, then up at me, asking, "We have to eat this?"

Cruel woman that I am, I made them all take at least one bite. After all, there was no back-up plan for dinner, and I had just spent an hour of my time making this meal.

They were repulsed, unable to get past the unappetizing color and appearance.

I heard gagging and wretching sounds around the table.

And ended up giving all the kids cereal instead.

My husband ate the red flannel hash, and actually enjoyed it, but drew the line at my sending leftovers in his lunch the next day.

No doubt his coworkers would have recoiled in horror, fleeing the room upon seeing the contents of his clear glass, microwavable lunch dish.

Admittedly, it did look kind of grisly.

:: :: :: ::

So anyway, it had been a few years, and for some odd reason, last year about this time I again felt compelled to revisit introducing beets into the family diet.

My aunt, who is an excellent cook and caters on the side, e-mailed this recipe to our family, saying that if we loved garlic, this would be a great snack:

Easy Garlic-Beet-Mozzarella Melts (can be made as an appetizer)

Mix plenty of fresh minced garlic (3 Tbs.) into

about a 1/2 cup of mayo (the more garlic, the better)

Spread on slices of Russian Rye Bread

Sprinkle with drained, shoestring beets

Top with mozzarella cheese, and bake until bubbly as for pizza.

My aunt got this recipe from a guy she works with who is from Russia, and according to him, this recipe is best enjoyed on slices of Dark Russian Rye bread, prepared like an open-faced sandwich, and melted in the oven like pizza. And the more garlic, the better.

It sounded yummy to me, and it had beets in it.

I decided after reading this recipe that I would go the whole nine yards, and even make a batch of Dark Russian Rye bread from scratch. I kid you not, I even ground the rye myself.

And after making the dough, I thought to myself, "Why not just make a big pizza out of it?"

So I greased the pizza pan, and spread the dough out as for pizza. And prebaked it for about 20 minutes.

The dough was dark brown, and dense and heavy, and smelled wonderful baking.

I removed the dark brown pizza crust from the oven.

And in a flash of culinary genius, I decide to save time by combining all the topping items in the food processor. In went the mayo, the garlic, the beets and mozzarella cheese.

And I barely chopped it all together.

And I spread it on the pizza crust, and slid it into the oven.

And I baked it. And the cheese melted.

And when I removed it from the oven...it was HOT PINK. On dark brown crust.

Our son Jericho thought it was some sort of dessert at first, but curled up his nose in disgust when I told him it was pizza.

"Pink Pizza?" he asked incredulously, a grossed out expression on his face.

But as generations of mothers in my family have done before me, I made him take a bite before deciding he didn't like it.

And lo and behold, it passed even his very discriminating taste test. He actually liked it.

The only drawback was the garlic. And the breath associated with garlic. And the fact that the bread dough made a tough, too-thick crust.

SOooooo, this year, I was trying to think of something pink to make for dinner on Valentine's Day. Not wanting to make an entire meal of beets and garlic, however, I opted to do a Valentine's appetizer to go with our dinner.

I bought a loaf of Marble Rye Bread, and used a cookie cutter to make heart shapes in the bread, which I topped it with the mayo mixture.

I put the beets and mozzarella cheese in the food processor and pulsed it a few times.

Then I spread that mixture on the heart shaped bread with a spoon, piling it on thick.

I then popped it in the oven at 350 for about 20 minutes, until the cheese was bubbly and hot.

Jericho remembered it.

And once again, I made him try a bite.

He ate a whole mini heart beet pizza, and went back for seconds.

Judah loved it.

And for those of you who are still with me, that is the story behind the Frump Family's unsual new Valentine's Day tradition.

Wordless Wednesday: Joshua Trees in California

100th Post, How To Have A Not-So-Very Good Day

Wow! Here I am...100 posts from the start of my blog! That snuck up on me rather unexpectedly.

I feel like I should blow on one of those party favors that curl up, or maybe dance a little jig or something.

Because aside from my story writing and my chronic scrapbooking addiction hobby of scrapbooking, I think this is the longest I've ever stayed committed to one project in my life!

I've got a few tubs in my garage that testify to my propensity for not finishing every project I've ever begun. Quilt blocks of various types and sizes. Crocheted afghan blocks in colors I'd never use for anything now. Embroidery projects from back in the days when the crafts of Jane Austen's time seemed so dainty and feminine, but instead turned out to be horribly, wretchedly frustrating with knots all over the back, and dare I mention the 'homemade' Cabbage Patch Doll-from-a-pattern sewing project I begged my grandma for as a 7th grader, which has sat in storage so long that the pins holding the cut out pieces together are rusty.

But this...this I've managed to stick with. It's something I can be proud of, because for the most part, I've been pretty regular about it.

Why? Because it's a fun, creative outlet, and I've met a lot of fantastic new bloggy friends. Friends that, while I don't see them in my day-to-day life, are still very real people who have been a very real blessing in my life by way of laughter, encouragement, and just plain being real with each other. Thanks to each and every one of you for making this last 100 posts so memorable.

But, because blogging has taken over far too much time in my life, and because all good things must come to an end, I'm going to be closing up shop. Calling it quits.

JUST KIDDING!

Just thought I'd throw that one in to see if you were all paying attention. ;o)

I'm not quitting blogging, people...seriously. I just wasn't sure what else to do to mark the big "100th Posting" in a memorable way.

Seems like everyone else does these great, creative lists of 100 things...but I'm afraid that this crept up on me at such a time as to render that possibility not an option.

Well, that and the fact that it's 2 am.

And I'm still up. Even though I was up all night Friday and well into Saturday morning with the Lock-In with our youth group at our church.

I might add that taking two naps in one day wasn't a very good idea, because even though I only slept a total of 5 hours in those two naps, it feels like twice that right now, but about halfway through church in a few hours, it's going to all catch up to me.

Which leads me to the second portion of my posting.

NOTE TO SELF:

Never, ever even think about attending a baby shower after having had only three hours of sleep in a 24 hour period.

Especially after an all night lock-in with 17 teenagers in a fellowship hall that though it is a long, large room, felt like it was about 10x14 once all the rocking chairs and tables with game systems and such were set up in there.

Especially with the noise of said game systems.

All. Night. Long.

While PMSing.

Because even though the baby shower was for the not-yet-born child of one of the nephews you babysat for four years, and that in addition to the regular gift, you had managed to hang onto a hand-me-down coat that he'd worn as a tot, which had passed through the ranks to your older son in good condition, and you planned to pass that along to Nephew's son as a fun, sentimental sort of gift you would have enjoyed both giving or receiving...

And even though you woke, showered, and managed to pull yourself together after only 3 hours of sleep (from the first nap) after the all-nighter...

...you would drop all the carefully wrapped presents on the beauty bark beside the car while fishing for your keys because you were in a mad rush to get to said shower, and the tape connecting the smaller items to the large one would come off of some of them, marring your wrapping job.

Then, once you managed to get them into the car in the only available space not occupied by stuff yet-to-be-unloaded after the all-nighter...

And though you had directions in hand, and plenty of time to get there when you left home...

...you would get a mile down the road, and the car would begin having issues.

As in cutting out and coasting out into an intersection at an odd angle due to lack of power steering when the motor was off, having rolled to a stop utterly and completely dead in the turn lane.

And several attempts at trying to restart the car would prove fruitless, as said car would turn over but not fire up.

Then you would fear you'd flooded the whatever-it-is that gets flooded when you push on the gas pedal in your frustration.

And so your husband would have to be woken from his much needed nap (after a hectic morning of his own in which the parents that should have been there to pick up their kids by 8 am did not arrive until 10, and then one of the rocking chairs that was to be delivered to the person who lent it fell out of our truck onto the road and broke) to come and rescue you, leaving the kids at home alone, because the one carseat we have is in the car I'm stranded in. Anc clearly, to have them involved in a traffic rescue operation was more dangerous than staying asleep in their beds, since your toddler has already learned to open car doors opposite where you're standing and take off running into parking lots before you can get around the vehicle because he's like Dash from The Incredibles.

And your husband would get in the car and start it up no problem on the first try, even though you did all the same things he did and nothing happened, and you'd feel horrible for getting him out of bed for nothing, and worried about the kids.

And you would begin to feel greatly stressed, because by now, you're already going to be late for the shower which is 15 minutes away in good traffic.

And naturally traffic would be horrible because it's Saturday.

And you would inadvertenly run a red light on the way there, and would cry for not having seen it, leaving streaks in your makeup.

Which would necessitate a side of the road stop to touch things up.

And I would finally arrive in the general vicinity of the home of the baby shower, only to learn it's in a gated community, which you weren't apprised of in the directions.

And then you'd learn you were at the wrong gate.

Which would mean putting in a frustrated, frantic call to my SIL (already at the shower) that it was the wrong gate, and how do I find the right one?

And then I'd drive all the way around the expansive housing development to finally find the right gate.

And then I'd have to give the secret password to the security officer, "I'm going to a baby shower".

Except that he asks for which street the baby shower is on, and I have no earthly idea. I look over my directions and in frustration finally spot the street name.

He lets me in, but doesn't tell me which direction to go because there is a line behind me waiting to get in. And so with tears of frustration threatening, I drive blindly through this ridiculously laid out gated community trying to find the home.

Except that all my directions were apparently from the other gate, and my brain just doesn't have the mental capacity to figure this out from the opposite direction on 3 measely hours of sleep.

So I'm winging it through the housing development where security Golf Carts were abundant, and I'm feeling like an intruder...

...and end up at a dead-end road with a locked gate...

...where there was a curbed, landscaped median in the center of the road all the way to the gate, and therefore no way to turn around my car which is continuing to have the same strange phantom problems as earlier.

So I am forced to back up for an entire block, and through frustrated tears nearly back over the median, and I'm wishing I never even bothered to set out for the shower.

And then I turn down the first street I find, and Lo, the home I was to look for was right there.

And then after finding a place to park a block away, I gather up my gifts, and head inside. And I wait on the porch for another SIL and neice who arrived after me, because I hate not having someone to attend such events with.

And I go inside the garage where everyone is already assembled, and am directed by the host to the gift table across the crowded room, and after handing off the gifts to my nephew, the father-to-be, learn that nobody has saved a seat for me, but the SIL and her daughter that came in after me managed to find a spot beside the rest of the family.

And so I'm across the room feeling like an outcast, or at the very least, the new kid in school, and hopelessly PMS-y, with tears close to the surface after the whole ordeal of getting there.

And my feelings are hurt because the two people in the family I'd asked about carpooling over there with were already there, calm as you please, having both avoided my inquiries about carpooling, which I guessed was because they'd already had a car-load to take over.

Which at the moment felt like a slight against me because it seems that as the one SIL in the area, I'm always the afterthought, with all the rest of the ladies in the family always pairing or grouping up for such events, but never seeming to have room left in cars because it's a big family.

And it all feels huge to me (though a tad blown out of proportion)...because, well, all of the above.

And then I glance at my cell phone to learn I'm 39 minutes late. And it appears that they may have held things off waiting on stragglers like me, which is infuriating, because I set out with plenty of time to get there, and am rarely late anywhere.

Right then my husband calls to make sure I got there in one piece.

And I fall apart.

And can't pull myself back together because I'm so incredibly sleep-deprived.

And I make a complete and utter spectacle of myself while trying to make a quiet, gracious exit, knowing I won't make good company in my condition.

Except that I'm stopped twice on the way out, forced to explain myself in my teary, frustrated, hurt-feeling condition, when all I want to do is get back in my bed and pull the covers over my head for the next 10 hours and forget I ever bothered to leave my house to begin with.

And so I go home, bawling my eyes out the entire way.

And when I arrive, I try to formulate my feelings, but am a blubbery mess.

And I try to sleep, but only manage an intermittent couple of hours, because I keep rehashing the entire thing and kicking myself repeatedly for it all.

And now, here I sit, completely wired. Unable to sleep, but needing it desperately, and thinking that maybe I shouldn't even be blogging in this sleep deprived condition...

...okay, I'm going to bed now. I just need to tuck myself back in until I'm feeling a little more human again.

Good night.

It's Going To Be A Loooooong Night...

My husband and I are going to be up all night long.

Our Youth Group at church is having our annual Rock-A-Thon fundraiser/lock-in thing from 8 pm this evening until 8 am tomorrow morning.

We will be locked in our church fellowship hall with a bunch of teenagers and our own two boys, playing games, watching movies, having game system tournaments and eating junk food...all while keeping rocking chairs and porch swings rocking the entire 12 hours.

To raise money for an Orphanage in the Ukraine.

Lots of rowdy teens.

All. night. long.

Pray for us.

In Case You've Ever Wondered...

**Uncouthness Disclaimer** While I normally refrain from posting certain uncouth topics in my blog, this little gem my son mentioned offhandedly while buttering some toast this evening was just too good not to share. He reported it as though he'd heard it as a fact from his science teacher.

This just in.

Word on the street (and on good authority of the fifth grade students at my son's lunch table) is that they have now discovered the cause of Pinkeye, that bane to elementary schools the world over.

Apparently, if somebody, um, passes gas (insert more popular term here) into a pillow, and someone else lays down face first in that same pillow immediately afterwards, that person will contract pinkeye.

So now you know.

Why I'm Afraid To Fly And Other Nonsense

First, the nonsense:

I was inordinately pleased when our older son pointed out to me a while ago that little brother's most obnoxious toy ever, the Dancing Ford Monster Truck from Hades (thanks a LOT uncle Butch!) has a mute button!

Doh! (And to think that all that needless pain and suffering could have been avoided!)

The good thing is that we no longer have to listen to that hideous song about "Cotton-eyed Joe" echoing off of the walls of our home and giving me a headache, with it's accompanying lights flashing and the horn honking and the truck doing it's ridiculous two-step dance moves!

Although Jericho was amused to find that even in silence mode, the Ford truck still does the moves, but which without the tunes has more or less rendered the monster truck impotent.

For me, it reminded me a little too much of our own Ford truck back before we got it fixed this last time, and how it would start and stall and cough and start and stall again. *shudders*

But how, I ask, did such a ridiculous toy as this manage to pass all the rigorous test marketing toy companies are supposed to shell out mega bucks for at...let me see here, okay... at Toy State Industrial, Ltd.?

I can just picture some redneck flown in from the backwoods of Ohio (and I can say this, because we have relatives kin from there fitting this exact profile), sitting across the drawing room table from the executives of this down-on-it's-luck toy company with his fancy prototype in front of him (which I might add looks good, because if he knows anything at all, it's trucks), and saying, "Not only does it play music and flash it's lights and all, but it two-steps in sync with the music! It's every boy's dream!" Then he proceeds to flash his crooked, billy-bob smile at the gentleman seated around the gleaming table, his enthusiasm contagious.

At that moment, the Chinese man running the company turns to the man next to him and asks, "What did he say?". Those hillbilly drawls can be tricky.

In hushed tones, the man replies, "Well, sir, I believe it was something about a toy truck with flashing lights, which plays music and dances to In Sync."

And the president's eyes light up and he says, "Ahhh, yes. I have heard of them. Very popular. They make us lots of money." Then he comments, "Dancing Monster truck? I have seen these, too. Fordzilla!" he says, laughing and slapping the table, recalling the monster truck rally they'd attended while in the States on business once before.

And so the stupidest toy of the Christmas season is mass-produced, twist-tied semi-permanently inside fancy cardboard boxes, and trotted out at some toy buyer's trade show in China over Thanksgiving weekend.

Which is where some poor soul working for ToysRUs is lonely and thinking of home and Turkey dinners, and wishing he could be there instead of this stupid trade show.

Then, from the booth where Toy State Industrial, Ltd. is peddling their wares, the buyer hears a song he heard played recently by the cheerleaders at his son's football game to bring them in once again for their big pyramid toss-n-turn routine. Cotton Eyed Joe suddenly becomes a little taste of home.

He looks closer, and sees that it's a beautiful gleaming Ford pickup toy, and after pushing a couple of buttons, learns that it makes wonderful sounds and plays that song over and over.

As he longingly strokes the toy, thinking of home, the man at the booth asks, "You interested in buying truck?"

The weary buyer nods, because he's in a mid-life crisis and has been thinking of doing that very thing.

And so the weary buyer, just wanting to get home before all the turkey leftovers are gone, ends up purchasing 3000 units of the Dancing Fords, and has them shipped immediately to the U.S. for the Christmas season...not having a clue how obnoxious they would become to mom's across his country.

At least I'm pretty sure that's how it all happenned.

:: :: :: ::

Today was a great day.

My hubby spent the morning running around town getting a muffler put on our truck, and replacing the headlights in my car.

Woo Hoo! This means the neighbors will no longer look out their doors when he rumbles into the driveway in the evening, thinking that by some strange twist of fate a helicopter is landing in their cul de sac.

You think I jest, but I do not.

In recent weeks, our truck actually woke our toddler up in the mornings when Jeff left for work! I finally figured this one out when Judah pried my eye open a couple of Mondays ago and said, "Daddy go to work, twuck?" No wonder I'm feeling so sleep deprived, considering my hubby leaves a full hour before we need to be up and at 'em.

Anyway, he took Judah with him today, so I bloghopped while waiting for Jericho to wake up.

When he got home, we took a trip to IKEA because I just had to buy this hanger thingie I saw in a magazine (though the idea of Swedish meatballs for lunch was quickly growing on us all) to organize my husband's ties, and an extra one for another project I've dreamed up. Of course, I came home with a few other goodies for the house, too, because it's payday~YAY! Plus we got to go out for dinner. Woot, woot for not having to cook today!

Then, as if the trip to IKEA weren't bliss enough for one day, Jericho and Jeff decided to go to a movie, and at my request chose to go to the theater in our most fab mall, which meant that I got to take a mostly cooperative Judah around in the stroller while he dozed and I window shopped. And after hoofing it around the entirety of the mall, I stopped off in my favorite clothing store, and found myself a couple new pairs of pants, along with a couple of tops for church.

I was ever-so-proud of myself for stepping out of my creature-of-habit comfort zone, and getting a bold, colorful print blouse that would add a little interest to my rather blahse'(sp.?) Sunday wardrobe.

I also got myself some new jewelry on a whim, because I'm a sucker for interesting necklaces, there were many colors available, and they were all on sale.

Plus, they all matched things I already had at home.

Might I interject that this never happens for me?

I almost never go clothes shopping, mostly because I'm a frumpmama who could care less about Jimmy Choos and Vera Wang, and partially because I still have my baby weight (nevermind that Judah is past 2 years old now), and stuff just doesn't fit on me like it does on the mannequins.

But lo and behold, I hit the jackpot! Everything I tried on I actually liked!

I was all excited about my new clothes, and when we got home, and I went in and tried everything on, complete with matching jewelry.

I felt like million bucks, and came out for the big reveal of outfit number one...

...and my older son laughed.

Laughed at my choice of clothing!

He has some nerve, that boy.

I am the one who has on numerous occasions has prevented him from committing grave fashion faux pas, and have quite often picked out great clothes that kept him from looking like a total doofus...and he dares laughs at my choice?

Needless to say, I'm not feeling too excited about the one choice of blouse right now. Or the other one in a different, equally loud fabric in the exact same style.

*sigh*

:: :: :: ::

So my blog-buddy SUE over at Navel Gazing At It's Finest wrote a great post today that had me cracking up.

Mostly because I can so identify with her in some of the fears she wrote about, as well as some of the, um, dramatics associated with fears (so I'm shamelessly leap-blogging off of her idea to add a little interest to an otherwise dry posting of my own).

You see, I, too am afraid of flying. For mostly the same reasons as Sue.

Except that my fear of flying stems from the Alaska Airlines incident of '99.

Not the incident where the plane actually crashed (because for obvious reasons, I wouldn't be here to blog about that), but am, in fact, referring to another flight.

The one that has caused me to swear off flying for life. (Well, unless my hubby plans some exotic vacation for our 15th anniversary, that is.)

Anyway, this one was a trip that I didn't really want to take to begin with, only because I'm not wild about flying and mostly because I would be traveling solo with my then 3 year old toddler son Jericho, as my hubby had just begun a new job, and couldn't get away.

You mom's all know how difficult it is to go on a trip with a toddler in your own car, hauling all the junk that you need along with you, but this is doubly, yea, even triply hard, taking all that same baby paraphanalia on an airplane.

Plus there is the little thing about the "weight limit".

This is compounded for me by the fact that I notoriously overpack for trips am one of those ultra-prepared types.

I had packed all our gear into my hubby's college football duffel bag because it's purple and gold and therefore easy to spot on the luggage carousel, but also because it's big enough to bring everything I could possibly need for one week's time all in one bag. Which meant that all I needed to take into the cabin with Jericho and I was his car seat and my backpack diaper bag (with my purse buried deep inside where nobody could get to it without my notice).

My husband had already complained as he carried said duffel to the check-in at the airport earlier, saying, "What in the world do you have in this thing?", then kissed and hugged us goodbye and left as it was early in the morning, and he needed to leave to get to work on time.

And there I was, flyin' solo with our toddler.

And shaking in my boots.

Because I'd worked myself into a fine frenzy, just sure that something was wrong with this plane, in spite of the numerous prayers for traveling mercies and peace and protection, Alaska Airline's impressive safety record (relatively speaking), and the fact that the food trays always have little brochures with comforting scriptures on them.

So we get into the airplane, and because there was an empty seat beside me (no doubt because the gentleman sitting there had asked to move as soon as he spotted my cranky son), they allowed me to put Jericho's car-seat in there rather than send it below, which was my hope. So Jericho was strapped safely inside, and after the intial excitement of the takeoff, and after some general fussiness due to the pressure in his ears, he nodded off to finish his usual morning sleep.

My backpack stowed securely beneath my feet, I felt almost confident enough to let down a bit and rest, though I would never do so, because someone might kidnap him and hide him in their luggage while I was sleeping he might need me.

So I'm peacefully reading my Prevention magazine as we are flying across country, when we run into a storm system.

What made this particularly ominous was that the pilot came over the loudspeaker and told us to "remain in our seats and fasten our safety belts if we hadn't already done so", as we were "experiencing some turbulence from a violent storm system" and "that we should be through it in a half hour or so."

Let me get this straight, I'm going to have to deal with this anxiety inducing storm for a full half hour?! Yikes!

Anxiety prickled at the back of my neck, and I checked my son to be sure he was securely fastened in his seat. He still was.

I prayed for a moment to calm my fears, and finally went back to reading my magazine while bumpity-bumping along.

Suddenly, we plummeted downward.

I glanced immediately at my toddler, and his head was hanging forward from the angle we were pointing downward, seemingly falling, and at a frighteningly dizzying speed.

I'm not big on roller coasters, but I'm quite sure that even even the most die-hard adrenaline junkie would have been a little frightened by this particular flight.

From the back of the plane, I hear an adult screaming in terror, and a couple of childish voices rising in panic, "Are we gonna DIIIIIIIE?"

The plane continued to plummet, and I was pretty sure that we were rapidly approaching earth and would soon hit with tremendous force, and be identified only by my dental records, if at all.

I began to tear up, thinking that poor little Jericho hadn't even lost a tooth yet, and that now he would never grow to play little league, and to graduate Kindergarten and high school and college. And that my husband would be left a young, childless widower that would go on to marry and have a family with some other woman.

Though only about 15 seconds had elapsed, thousands of thoughts had jumped my synapses gaps, my life flashing before my eyes.

Of all the absurd thoughts, I remember thinking that I'd not cleaned my bathroom, and how when people came traipsing through the house to comfort Jeff, my fastidious sister-in-law would see the dust bunnies in the corners of my bathroom, and think I was a total slob, and that would be how I was remembered for the rest of my days, and that Jeff's new wife would think I'd been a horrendous homemaker, and strive to be better than me in every way, and Jeff would eventually forget ever having known me.

The hurtling-through-the-atmosphere-at-a-million-miles-per-hour feeling continued, the causing gravity to do strange things to my body, stomach lodging permanently in my throat, my jaw clenching tightly, and my fingers enmeshed in the vinyl armrest.

Then someone from up ahead of me screamed, apparently unable to take the mounting tension.

The hair on my neck stood up.

So this is what it felt like to know you were going to die in mere moments.

I looked at my oblivious, sleeping toddler, tears streaming down my face, because I was glad he couldn't see us falling to our deaths, but at the same time sad that I wouldn't be able to hug him one last time and tell him I loved him. *sniff, sniff* I was making whimpering noises. "Jesus, Dear Jesus..." I repeated over and over in panicked, urgent whispers between my clenched teeth.

The plane nosedived then, falling at an even more disturbingly frightening angle, this time causing my sons head to wobble like a bobble head, as we were tossed about as though by waves on the sea.

This, I was sure, was due to the fuselage that was at that moment being torn from the underbelly of the plane. I glanced out the window to my right, sure I'd see it curling up like a sardine can, but instead seeing the gray light of dawn blurring past the window.

The businessman across the aisle glanced up and said, "Ma'am...MA'AM...It's gonna be okay. Don't worry! Trust me, I've seen far worse!"

As if yelling to be heard above the screaming in the cabin and the static noises coming over the loudspeaker weren't bad enough, what he had to say wasn't exactly comforting.

Far worse?!

So we were going to be the first plane in history to crash as a result of mild turbulence? There was a first for everything, after all.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus" I prayed desperately, and looked helplessly towards my son, tears streaming down my face as I was sobbing again because he would never know how much I truly loved him.

And thinking of how my husband would grieve our loss.

And that he'd be a young, childless widower.

And how some lithe young bimbo would offer him a listening ear, and how she would comfort him in his grief.

And then, he would heartlessly remarry (her of all people!) only weeks later, and she would go through the house and get rid of all my stuff, including the scrapbooks I had poured my heart and soul into, and nobody would ever know how much I loved my husband and son, and how all those things that I could have willed to my family if I'd thought to make a will would be sitting useless at the bottom of a landfill...

And then suddenly, the plane righted, and we were flying along normally, as though nothing had ever happened.

Relieved gasps were heard from all over the cabin.

The cowboy businessman leaned towards me and patted my forearm and said, "See, what'd I tell ya?" as though he'd just stepped off an exciting ride at an amusement park.

The pilot came on and said, "We apologize for any inconvenience the turbulence may have caused you. " He paused momentarily, and then added in a leisurely tone, "The drop in altitude you may have noticed was necessary to avoid potentially damaging turbulence, but you'll be happy to know that we are once again gaining altitude, and should arrive in Sea-Tac at the scheduled time."

He then went on to discuss some inane facts about the mountain we were traveling over, as though we were all first time fliers, enamored of our terrain. The terrain we had moments before been about to crash into!

He told us to remain in our seatbelts for another fifteen minutes, at which time our flight attendants would begin serving breakfast.

I pried my fingers out of the armrest and breathed in deeply, said a prayer of thanks, and then checked Jericho's sleeping form. He was still okay and blissfully unaware of his surroundings and the tragedy that had been narrowly averted, but I felt nauseous.

My magazine had slid down the aisle somewhere, so I went ahead and pulled out the ones they provide in the seatback pockets for something to do.

The clincher about this flight was that during breakfast the pilot came over the crackly loudspeaker and said, "Alaska Airlines is pleased to announce that we have a pilot-in-training with us this morning" and gave his name, adding that he "did a fabulous job of getting us all safely through the storm system earlier in the flight."

I had my druthers about that!

Already the letter to Airline headquarters was forming in my head. "You let a pilot-in-training practice with a plane full of people in a dangerous storm system?!!"

Later, when our plane landed, and the pilots were all there to greet us at the cockpit door as though nothing had ever happened.

And the Pilot-in-training was some kid who didn't even look old enough to be driving yet, much less flying a plane!

And this, my friends, is why I am afraid to fly!