Fall Edition 2023

Screamin Mamas Screamin Mamas

The Voice of Everyday Moms

COVER STORY

• Carole Christman Koch

DELIGHTFUL FEATURES

• Jennifer Bonn

• Diane de Anda

• Jodi Decker

• Desiree Simons

• Kelly Sullivan

FRIGHTFUL TALES

• Katie Bennett

• Alise Hassler

• Arielle Haughee

• Patricia Zollmann-Kissinger

• Jackie Clements-Marenda

• Darlene Pistocchi

• Deanna Wolverton

WHIMSY & CHARM

• Lucia Haase

• Marcella Kumer

• Ruth Lee

• Patricia Lynne

• Paula Mahon

• Paula Timpson

• Eva Tortora

Driftwood Driftwood

The driftwood drifts and moves along at Timber Lane, flowing to shore. My mother’s voice, she picks up more. It has become for me a song.

The waves roll calm beyond the throng. The lake stirs from its very core. The driftwood drifts and moves along at Timber Lane, flowing to shore.

Recurring breezes, right and wrong, my eyes of innocence before the world came knocking at my door, these winds of time remaining strong. The driftwood drifts and moves along.

Lucia Haase

Graphic created by D Pistocchi using “The Dinner Horn” by Winslow Homer, 1870. & Driftwood along the shore” by Steve Hillebrand, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Public domain, via Wikimedia

THE SCREAMINMAMAS TEAM

EDITORIAL

The Lifeblood of our Existence

DARLENE PISTOCCHI

Editor-In-Chief

DENISE WEATHERBY

The Listener

DEANNA WOLVERTON

Whipping Post

BLOGGERS/POETS/WRITERS

Our Social Media Mavens

JENNIFER BONN

Living Well/Mom Vlogs

RUTH LEE

Poetry/Whimsy

PATRICIA LYNNE

Poetry/Stories

DEBBIE MURPHY

English/Humor

PAULA TIMPSON

Poetic Thoughts

EVA TORTORA

Artist &Writer

PAST BLOGGERS/CONTRIBUTORS

To Whom We Are Grateful

Lisa Cummings ◆ Amy Neal

Anita Stafford

WRITERS/CONTRIBUTORS

Our Mojo & Staying Power

DIAN A DEANDA

Nostalgia/Short Stories

GLORIA J HANSEN

Humor/Nostaligia

CAROLE C. KOCH

Humor/Nostalgia

MARCELLA KUMER

Poetry/Stories

JANET SOBCYZK

Poetry/Short Stories

KELLY SULLIVAN

Network/Short Stories

JEN WALDRON

Humor/Network/Stories

COVER PHOTOsc

r

Mary Kohler Christman

FALL EDITION 2023

EMAIL: ScreaminMamas@gmail.com

WEBSITE: ScreaminMamas.com

CONTACT/CONNECT

We’re Here, There & Everywhere!

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Tumblr: ScreaminMama.Tumblr.com

FEATURED POETS/WRITERS

Patient FreeLancers & Inspiration

Katie Bennett

Jodi Decker

Lucia Haase

Alise Hassler

Arielle Haughee

Patricia Zollmann-Kissinger

Paula Mahon

jackie Clements-Marenda

Desiree Simons

Do you have something you would like to share with us? We love anything & everything Moms - memories, nostalgia, photos, revelations, rants, recipes, sons, daughters, grandmoms, family, pets, travel, humor, fun stuff to do. We accept submissions throughout the year. VisittScreaminMamas.com or

Disclaimer: As a grassroots group of Moms, our publication dates vary. We work around the kids, the chores, the dogs, the dishes, the laundry, the bills... but, through the grace of God, and everyone’s continued faithfulness and patience, it gets done. Very thankfully. We accept submissions throughout the year, please visit our website for what we look for: screaminmamas.com. You may submit on our website or email: screaminmamas@gmail.com. All work published remains that of the author/artist. Layout & Design remains that of ScreaminMamas. Photos & artwork courtesy contributor, clipart, Adobe Express or Public Domain.†Denotes a tag for author’s work after 100 years or fewer. All rights reserved 2013-2023.

“Landscape. Arcques-la-Bataille’ by Félix Vallotton, 1903 †

Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Page 6-7

Fall Is For Books

◆ Jennifer Bonn ◆

Page 8

Letter From The Editor

◆ Darlene Pistocchi ◆

Pages 9

Every Year’s Fall

◆ Patricia Lynne ◆

Page 10-11

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

◆ Kelly Sullivan ◆

Page 12-13

Who’s Afraid of Marie Kondo?

◆ Alise Hassler ◆

Page 14

In The Next Life

◆ Eva Tortora ◆

Page15-16

The First Word

◆ Jackie Clements-Marenda ◆

Page 17

Wooly Mammoth Butterfly

◆ Eva Tortora ◆

Page 18=19

Purple Car

◆ Arielle Haughee ◆

Page-20

Angel Whispers-

◆ Ruth Lee ◆

Page 21-22

K Is For Kindness

◆ Desiree Simons ◆

Page 23

Letting Go

◆ Eva Tortora - Poetry ◆

Page 24-25

Page 26

Success Burns Within

◆ Marcella Kumer ◆ Centerfold

Making Peace

◆ Eva Tortora ◆

Two Stars in the Window -

◆ Carole C. Koch ◆ Cover Story

The Shortest Longest Poem

◆ Ruth Lee ◆

Never Say Never

◆ Patricia Z. Kissinger ◆

Happy Birthday

◆ Paula Mahon ◆

Talking To Zombies

◆ Deanna Wolverton ◆

Materinity Leave A New Twist -

◆ Diane de Anda ◆

Change

◆ Eva Tortora ◆

Toddler Turmoil

◆ Deanna Wolverton ◆

Yes, I Can Fly That Broom

◆ Darlene Pistocchi ◆

Fly Me To The Moon-

◆ Katie Bennett◆

Terror In The Suburbs

◆ Darlene Pistocchi ◆

Pet Kids -

◆ Patricia Lynne ◆

I Talk To My Chickens

◆ Jodi Decker ◆

In The Light

◆ Paula Timpson ◆ Back Cover

That’s A Wrap!!

◆ ENJOY!!!!

is for books!

The gift of books should be celebrated throughout the year but the enchantment of fall just gives it all a little something extra. Please check out these three splendid books for children and adults by Jennifer Bonn.

Jennifer’s latest release

- What I Hope For You

Inspiration - “What I Hope for You, A Grandmother’s Wishes was written for my grandson Parker. My daughter said, “Mom, it’s time to write a children’s book.” I sat down and thought about what advice would I like to give Parker about life. The writing flowed out of me and took me ten minutes to write. I think God was sitting next to me to help. I would like the book to be something that Parker can always have to remind him how much I love him. I would love to see other parents and grandparents use it the same way.” You can find the book online at: Amazon, Walmart, Books A Million and more.

“What I Hope For You” is the story of a grandmother’s hopes for her grandchild in life. The wishes are a combination of hopes for happiness, strong character, and a life mixed with excitement, blessings, and a feeling of magic in everyday life.”

“What I hope For you” Synopsis

For Holidays, Birthdays, Anytime!

101 Tips to Lighten Your Burden

“I wrote my book 101 Tips to Lighten Your Burden because I was struck by how much need and hurt I see in people. I wanted a book that people could go to when they needed inspiration to lift them up. I wanted quick messages that addressed something they were going through and gave them strength to keep moving forward. Nothing makes me happier than when a reader sends me a note highlighting one of the tips, telling me how it helped them.” The book is available online at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Books-a-Million, Target, and Walmart. ◆ ◆ ◆

The Healing Power of Running

“The Healing Power of Running is very important to me because running has saved me many times both physically and mentally. My book details how it has helped others as well. I hope it inspires others with the stories from runners, and I want it to give people hope to know there are healthy escapes from the challenges we face.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR - Jennifer Bonn

Jennifer Bonn is recently retired from teaching after a 40-year career and now has more time to focus on her writing, running, and her family.

Jennifer has always been passionate about writing and when each of her three children were born she began journals for them in which she wrote about thier lives. When each turned 18 they were given the book. When her gandchild Parker was born, she wanted to write a book that would show him what she hoped his life would be like.

Jennifer lives in Georgia with her husband, her youngest daughter and their border collie, Bandit. Bandit was born a week after Parker, and they are best buddies. ◆

Letter from the Editor

Welcome to our Fall Edition. This is such a mystically enchanting and spooky time of the year - my favorite to be sure - and in all honesty, You Mamas always live up to the occasion. From Scary Fairies to big wooly butterflies, basement nightmares, and dreadful first words, we have here a delightfully frightful issue filled with whimsy, charm and lots of cool colors. We welcome all of our newcomers and are so grateful for all of our mainstayers. Eternal thanks to all the artists who have gifted the universe with their spectacular artwork through public domain. It pairs so well with our award-winning poets & writers - whose bios you’ll find below or with their work. They are all an amazing bunch of moms and women and I’m honored to publish them. It’s going to take awhile to get through this, so brew some tea or coffee and enjoy! You ROCK, everybody!!!

Lots of love, Darlene

Alise Hassler is a small business owner, mother, wife, very messy artist, and writer who is studying her craft at The Writer’s Studio and Berkeley’s Extension program. Her work has appeared in several editions of The Marin Poetry Center Anthology. She is inspired by sound and structure (and the lack thereof), and has a healthy addiction to South Korean Netflix dramas. You’ll find her story, “Who’s Afraid of Marie Kondo” on pages 8-9.

Paula Mahon is a practicing family physician at Health Care for Homeless in Manchester, NH. Her essays, poems & stories have been published in the Boston Globe, Light, The Lyric, The Road Not Taken, Pulse and the Potcake Chapbook ‘Strip Down–poems of modern life‘. She won The Lyric’s 2020 NE Prize for Two Points of View. She is married to Robert d’Entremont and mother to a son, Raymond, adopted from Kazakhstan. The inspiration for her poem, “Happy Birthday” is about her grandnephew’s christening, not a birthday per se. “It was just the thought that he was at the beginning of his life and there was so much to look forward to.” Since writing the poem, Paula has been blessed with 3 more grandnephews and a grandniece. Read her poem on page 33.

Desiree Simons has a BS in Education, MA in Communication and has been helping people achieve their communication goals since 1986, She has written numerous articles for magazines and newspapers, check out: desireesimons.wix.com/dscw. Simons has also written commercial copy, web content, marketing materials and reports for the non-profit sector; she has penned a humor column, “My View from the Porch” for her local paper; and she is currently teaching communications at a North Texas community college. When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys the company of her two adult children and her golden retriever, Dusty. She hopes to finish her novel one day but for today, you can enjoy her wonderful article, K is for Kindness on pages 14-16.

Every Year’s Fall Patricia Lynne

Fall can be nostalgic Memories of last spring and summer Floating on leaves of burnt orange Crimson red and lemon yellow color

Fall winds gust through branches

Clipping blades of changing greens

Piling up high in jumping mounds

Readying for child’s joyful scream

Fall skies roll into vision

Lower and heavier every day

Air streams head to collision

Anticipating winter’s grey

Trees laid bare of precious gems

Still stand tall and faithfully await Buds of next Spring blossoming Mother Nature knows the date

Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall . . .

Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall . . .

Mirror, On The Wall . . .

Kelly A. Sullivan

Everyyear at least one preliminary baby contest is held in nearly every major city, with winning babies and disappointed parents leaving unhappily because their child was not picked as the winner of the baby beauty contests.

The contests draw huge crowds, beautiful children, and anxious parents.

Most parents entering for the first time think that they enter the contest, the contest is held, the prizes given, and they go home.

Not exactly so.

In Cincinnati, the baby contest is held first. if you have a very young baby, they are the first up on stage. Mom or Dad carry the baby onto the stage, a small description is announced, the parent walks the baby up to the front of the stage, then exits. This goes on from birth until age three. A small variation as the older babies walk on stage with their parents, the audience goes wild and judges make final decisions as quickly as this paragraph is read.

Sascha Sullivan, age 4, (now Sascha Cardona, age 31).

Photo by Kelly A. Sullivan Photography

The competition takes about three hours until completion. The parents who carried small infants in the beginning of the pageant, are now after three hours, going to be told who has won in their division.

I entered both of my children in the contests. My son was entered in the baby division, once. My

inside and out? Beauty contests can be fun, and a prelude to children wanting to be a model. But, they also can be heartbreaking for the parents and child.

Mirror mirror on the wall, all children are beautiful but my children are gorgeous, according to all the mom judges in the world. ◆

◆

daughter (pictured left) entered the beauty contest at age four. My son won first runner up. He got a trophy and, well, the family knew he was a beautiful blond haired blue and brown eyed baby. My daughter was also beautiful with big brown eyes and curly brown hair. She looked like a princess in her pretty pink dress and socks. She won a trophy as well. Her beauty contest was a little bit different. She stood next to another little girl, blonde hair and blue eyed girl wearing makeup and wearing the exact same dress as my daughter.

The little girl next to my daughter, wearing the exact same stunning dress, won. My daughter who had her curled and nails painted looked so beautiful. I decided that the only judge of my children’s beauty from that day forward would be me, their mother. Who else could know their true beauty

About The Author

Kelly Sullivan has been supporting and contributing to ScreaminMamas for a decade. We are so grateful for her! The picture featured with this story is her beautiful daughter Sascha, who was four at the time of the photo. She is now 32! Talk about time flying! Wow! Kelly has been a life long writer & photographer and has had her work featured in numerous magazines & publications. She grew up in Ohio, has lived in three different states and one country as a military wife. Her dream is to see all fifty states. She is also the mother of a son, Cody, who she has also written about. Both children have been in front of her camera since they were little. Her website is kellyasullivanphotography.weebly.com Her motto is: Making people smile one photo at a time.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the cutest baby of all? Every parent in the world would answer “mine!”

Who’s Afraid of Marie Kondo? Who’s Afraid of Marie Kondo?

Alice Hassler

I am.

Marie Kondo, the presumably polite petite pixie, and glorified Goddess of Tidying has waved her mother-of pearl inlayed wand from somewhere in her pristine, white-walled fairy lair and maliciously enchanted my best friend. *Faith has been cultivated and is now a KonMari Certified “Conjurer of Joyful Cleaning” – I mean Consultant. (It’s a real thing.)

Faith seems forever lost in the barren, minimalist land of that which “sparks joy.” I’ve been com pelled to curtail visiting her (pre viously colorful) home, where we once washed our manic, messy, lunatic lady-selves in healthy amounts of chardonnay (with ice - menopause style), and shared hysterical, sarcastic stories about purpose-filling careers, parenting our gifted (aren’t they all?) bright boys, and the confounding chronicles of copulation within middle-aged marriages. Our laughter used to “spark joy”- now it’s her closet.

Sigh.

Faith is obligated, by KonMari contract I suspect, to reveal The Closet at every encounter. The ceremonial unveiling of the wardrobe ritual always begins with lighting a white candle (lilac) that has been precisely positioned on a wittle-bitty brass pedestal, placed a safe distance outside of the prodigious curtains leading to her storeroom of spells: her clothes are alive! (You know, because of The Wand. I imagine her clothes dance and sing à la Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” when no one is around. Mrs. Potts has nothing on Faith’s magenta floral cardigan. That cardigan is a trained opera singer - I just know.) Only then can the bland linen (neutrals abound) drapes divide. Abracadabra! Open Sesame! I cannot consume enough Menopause Wine to endure the performance.

I won’t subject you to the details of beholding her meticulously rolled tights and underwear, the

charmed boxes filled with the precise number of jewels to be adored. I respectfully decline.

As I linger in bed with my computer (and some books, a surplus of journals, and two cats), I realize that I’m currently overly caffeinated and shall seek food to soak up the bile that is bubbling up while I contemplate rolling my panties. Please enjoy the expedition to my kitchen:

Let’s exit the bedroom. Step over laundry piles separated into whites and colors. I sorted them three days ago? They are attempting reunification.

Enter my hallway. It is narrower now because I merrily purged my teenager’s room, therefore his

texts on the left, with a plethora of papers heaped in between. The revelatory mayhem welcomes me like a cloud-covered day, whispering to me it’s okay to stay inside and play.

We’re almost to the kitchen! Before we get there, please pause to admire the batik serape draped chair supporting my jewelry supplies piled in boxes overflowing with supple silk mala tassels, cooling stone beads, hypnotizing crystals, and silver guru talismans. Joy sparked!

Pass the organ that was bequeathed by Grandma (dead for ten years) that no one plays. I’ve covered it in a lovely hunter green tablecloth. It works well as a mail organizer. I should go through that stack.

bookshelves line one side of the corridor. My son doesn’t want the incommodious shelves returned to his room as then he wouldn’t have space to play virtual reality games with his pubescent barbaric “crew.” So, the shelves have been there for a month? (Okay, two.) Perhaps I’ll relocate them to my corner art studio, the one I set up in what had once been our sparse dining room but was transformed into storage – I mean an office, by my metal-hoarding husband. (Yes, also a thing and another story. I’ve accepted it because he’s accepted my book piling propensity – reluctantly, for us both. We’re good.)

Behold the living area. Notice said book piles blanketing the room. Library books on the right side of the sectional (they make for a nice side table), novels, poetry, and online writing group

Kitchen, finally. What to eat? Bananas!

Where was I? Ah yes, darling Marie. I’m probably envious. Perhaps I feel guilty, or less than … normal? I’ve always been this way: creative. I need my stuff. It needs to beckon me. I dream of a warehouse: a boundless space lined with the beguiling, reflective relics of my life. Maybe if I had that, then I could get organized – get my timeline right. For now, I’ll lay back and contemplate. My mirrored closet doors are open wide, permitting me to visually frolic in the festive colors and textures I’ve collected over a lifetime of life affirming discovery. (Hum…I think. Maybe we just need a bigger house?)

*Faith is not my friend’s real name. I suspect I should be protecting mine! ⇦ ⇦ ⇦

“I’ve always been this way: creative. I need my stuff. It needs to beckon me. I dream of a warehouse: a boundless space lined with the beguiling, reflective relics of my life. Maybe if I had that, then I could get organized – get my timeline right. “

In the Next Life

I’ll be a cat. With nine lives, pouring words instead of milk, dancing in the moonlight, sipping margaritas as people endlessly judge and narrate.

In my next life I will be a wolf, dreaming of cats and words and eating trees the size of oceans, playing with color in the moonlight. Or in the next I’ll just be a woman again, in a mask playing solitaire with your ghost, letting go of negativity like worlds, like tornadoes, like energy, like life, like loss.

I will sing operas and listen silently to oceans caving in, like leaves among the sand.

In the next I’ll plan a picnic, for me and wolves and cats sipping margaritas, celebrating life,and all the times people have said negative things, it only made me stronger, bathing in the moonlight.

Eva Tortora

“Moonlight and You, print from painting by Edward Mason Eggleston, 1928 .† Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

THE FIRST WORD

Jackie Clements-Marenda

“. . . my second grandson Patrick, despite our purchase of various ‘First Word’ books, decided at the age of ten months to pick his own first word. Not Da-Da, not Ma-Ma, not cat, not dog. No. It was the “f” word. Yes. The one that rhymes with duck and truck.”

I stood in front of a display of Children’s Books, my eyes searching for the newest addition to The Diary of a Wimpy Kid series for grandchild #1. Two women, one extremely pregnant accompanied by another woman who I assumed was her mother, were rifling through the books piled on the display table between us.

The mother-to-be held up two books, ‘My First 100 Words,’ and ‘First 101 Words: A Highlights Hide-And-Seek Book With Flaps.’ “I don’t know which one to choose,” she sighed as she patted her belly. “I really want her to say Ma-Ma first, but my friend Rosemary with the five kids, - you know who she is, Mom – all her kids said Da-Da first.”

It was not my business to burst her hopeful bubble, but my second grandson Patrick, despite our purchase of various ‘First Word’ books, decided at the age of ten months to pick his own first word. Not Da-Da, not Ma-Ma, not cat, not dog. No. It was the “f” word. Yes. the one that rhymes with duck and truck. This was not planned, not encouraged, but if you ride with Grandma in New York City, the let’s-forget-all-rules-of-traffic capital of the United States, you will sometimes hear me articulate my anger and frustrations in some unladylike, but very-appropriate-at-the-time, lan-

guage.

Children are great mimics; it’s one of the ways they learn. If they are given attention, a reaction, when they say or do something wrong it will encourage them to say, or do, it again. Patrick’s single mother who, along with Patrick, lives with us, knew that if we ignored it, in time the “f” word would be replaced with another word. She shrugged it off, but great-grandma Flo? At the age of 86 she developed a full-blown case of denial.

“He has a lisp,” she insisted. “He is trying to say truck and duck.” In an effort to enforce this fallacy, she purchased a selection of small trucks and ducks that she kept in her pocketbook, ready to whip out in case Patrick said the offensuve word in front of her friends. “Yes, that cloud is shaped like a duck. Do you want to play with the blue truck or the red truck?” She’d coo.

Patrick did not have a lisp. He just liked the way this particular word rolled off his tongue and he used the word as an answer to every question. “Do you want your bottle?”

“F... ..”

“I’m going to give you your bath now.”

“F... ..”

“It’s time for bed.”

“F.. k!”

Great-grandma Flo, who for years had been searching for an excuse for her age-related conditions of high-blood pressure, diabetes, and shrinking an inch-a-decade, blamed all her woes on her great-grandson’s foul word. Refusing to believe that, as Patrick’s vocabulary expanded, he would forget the word, she sprinkled Holy Water throughout the house; then left to spend the winter with friends in Florida, vowing to write me out of her will while she was there. Note: She did not have a will.

planned to grab the water-filled spray bottle I used to mist my house plants and squirt him. Both had been her weapons when the dog misbehaved. Instead, she dialed a number on her cell phone and asked, “Is this the rectory at St. John’s church? It is? Good. I’d like to order an Exorcism. How soon can a priest be here?”

I don’t know if she intended to have the Devil cast out of me and my husband, or Patrick. Probably never will. Fifteen years later we are still waiting for the priest to arrive.

When she returned several months later, Patrick had forgotten the word and was happily stringing other words together to make simple sentences. Uttering a sigh of relief at this news, great-grandma Flo sat Patrick on her lap and asked, “And how is my handsome boy?”

Patrick patted her cheek and clearly replied, “Son-of-a-b.. ....”

Yes, the “f” word had been replaced by the S-O-B word, thanks to my husband’s rantings the day he slipped on the ice, fell, and broke his shoulder. Of course, this explanation and the fact that her son-in-law required surgery meant nothing to her. No. It was all about the words.

Great-grandma Flo handed Patrick to me. She got to her feet. I didn’t know if she was going to roll up the newspaper lying on the table and whack my husband on the nose with it, or if she

About The Author

Jackie Clements

Marenda is a frequent contributor to numerous Magazines and Newspapers. Living at the Jersey shore, Jackie can often be founding walking alone the shoreline with her four grandchildren, gathering sea glass and watching the horizon for the sudden appearance of Mermaids. ◆ ◆ ◆

“Patrick did not have a lisp. He just liked the way this particular word rolled off his tongue and he used the word as an answer to every question.”

Wooly Mammoth Butterfly Wooly Mammoth Butterfly

Wooly mammoth butterfly

Fix my soul, fix my eyes

Open up a firefly

Friend and foe they are alike

But who is this that stands before me?

An unholy mirror

Rocks and deceives

Pulling together in one piece

A mess of stars and rosaries

Say goodnight quick and calm

In quotes of words and coats of arms

Sending down fire in warm holy psalms

Keeping me clear, free from harm

So what have we here, butterfly?

You kissed my wrist, my heart tonight

Together we stand. together we fly

When you can’t trust each other

You trust the sky.

Eva Tortora ~ artist and published writer in NYC

Purple Car

Arielle Haughee

Green car has a white stripe and blue car has a red stripe. I line them up on the table. Purple car goes next. Purple car is the best. I sing my song when I play with purple car. I dig through my bin of cars.

“Jimmy, I’m going to get a shower, ok?”

Mommy likes the shower. Mommy likes to be by herself in the shower. Mommy always tells me to go play when she’s in the shower.

I can’t find purple car. I dump the whole bin of cars on the floor. Purple car is not there. I need purple car. I get out of my chair and look for purple car. It is not on the couch. It is not on the rug. It is not on the couch. I need mommy.

like to sing. I like to sing the purple car song. “Purple car. Purple car. Driving down the road—”

“Jimmy! Do not sing that song. Go find something else to play with. Mommy’s busy.”

I am angry. “Purple car!”

“No. No more purple car. Now go play.”

“I see the front door. Purple car might be outside. I get my chair. I turn the lock. I am outside. Purple car is a car. It might be in the road.”

I am very, very angry. Very, very, very angry. I yell, “I’m gonna eat you up!” I don’t like the bathroom anymore. I leave.

The bathroom is hot. Mommy is singing. I

I see the front door. Purple car might be

outside. I get my chair. I turn the lock. I am outside. Purple car is a car. It might be in the road.

I walk to the street. There is a puddle. I put my feet in it. Up. Down. Up. Down. Splash! Splash! Splash! I like this.

A blue car is coming. It does not have a red stripe. I like the big wheels. They crunch when they roll by. Fire hydrant! I need to touch it. I need to touch it on the top and the side and the side and the top. I run across the street. This fire hydrant is gray. I touch it. Top, side, side, top.

“Jimmy!”

I hear mommy. She is in the house. Maybe she is looking for purple car. I will look for purple car, too. I will look outside more.

I walk in the grass. There are no ants today. I don’t like ants. I step on them when I see them. The grass is gone. Now it is dirt. I hear a beep beep beep. Excavator. Bulldozer. Crane. I know all their names. Road roller roll, roll, roll. Just like my book. I love trucks. I want to touch them. I walk.

I see tracks. I stomp on them. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. I make them flat with my feet. There are more tracks that way. I go that way. These are muddy tracks. They don’t like to go flat. My shoe comes off. I need to put it on. I sit down. My shoe won’t go on. My pants are dirty.

I need mommy. Mommy isn’t here.

I hear a beep beep beep. Bulldozer. Yellow bulldozer. It is coming closer. Beep, beep, beep. It drives backwards. No, bulldozer. I need to put my shoe on.

It won’t go on. I want mommy. I cry. “Mommy!” The bulldozer is loud. “No, bulldozer, no!” I cover my ears. “Mommy!” Big hairy arms grab me. They are not daddy’s arms.

“Shut it down, Carl!”

I am confused. I don’t know this man. I want mommy. I wiggle. Put me down.

“Jimmy!” I hear mommy. Mommy is running. Mommy is wearing a towel. I laugh. Silly mommy.

“Oh my God.” Mommy holds me tight. She gives me a kiss. I wipe it off. I don’t like kisses. “I didn’t know he could open the door.”

“My youngest used to do that to me, too.” The hairy man talks to mommy. I watch the cars go by on the road. I put my head down on mommy. She touches my hair.

Mommy carries me back home. I like when mommy carries me. “Jimmy, you can’t open the front door and go outside without mommy. You understand? No outside without mommy. Say ‘no outside without mommy.’”

“No outside without mommy.”

“Good boy.”

I see green car and blue car on the table. “I want purple car.”

Mommy reaches up high, high on the bookshelf. “Here, sweetheart.” Mommy’s face is wet. “Purple car!” I sing my song. I am happy. Mommy is happy, too. ◆ ◆ ◆

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arielle Haughee (Hoy) is a seven-time RPLA-winning author, editor, speaker, and publisher. She is the owner of the small press Orange Blossom Publishing and was previously the Executive Vice President and Marketing Chair for the Florida Writers Association. She was honored with the President’s Award from FWA in 2020, and in 2021 Pling’s Party was awarded Children’s Book of the Year.

WHISPERS

Knowing the job given, angels bend to whisper in mothers’ ears, “Mama, be not afraid.”

Ruth Lee

Is For Kindness

How to Raise Kids Who Care

By Desiree Simons

We give them piano lessons to nurture their creative side. We sign them up for soccer or basketball to help them develop physically and learn to be a “team player,’ and hire a tutor if they need a little extra help in math. We do all these things in hopes of raising a well-rounded child. But what about kindness and compassion? Thankfulness and generosity of spirit? Do these come naturally? Most experts say no.

However, if you start early and create teachable moments to share these values, your child will have what he needs to become a kind, compassionate adult.

Help Identify Feelings

Empathy is defined as,“the ability to imagine how someone else is feeling in a particular situation and respond with care,” according to the National Center for Infants, Toddlers, and Families. It is a complex skill that develops over time. However, a toddler as young as 18 -24 months begins to realize he has thoughts and feelings, and others have their thoughts and feelings, which might be different from his own. Experts call this, “theory of mind.”

Also, your child can understand words (receptive ability) long before she can speak the words (expressive ability). The first step to developing empathy is being able to recognize and give a name to

feelings. Help her identify her emotions and the emotions of those around her.

“You are happy when you eat ice cream.” “Jimmy is sad because his mommy had to go to work.” “Elmo is mad because the Cookie Monster ate his cookie.” When she’s a little older and can talk, take it further and say,“Daddy has a headache. What could we do to make him feel better?” When she brings daddy her favorite toy or blanket, she’s “responding with care.”

Katie Hurley, child and adolescent psychotherapist in Los Angelos calls this “playing social detective.” Don’t create lessons about feelings. There are tons of teachable moments every day to help your child develop empathy. Hurley says empathetic children are more likely to “grow into well adjusted adults who have adaptive coping skills.”

Show and Tell

It’s not enough to say, “you need to be kind to others, or you should be thankful for what you have.” The absolute best way for your child to learn about kindness, gratitude, empathy… is to see those in action at home. Don’t allow your children to call each other names. All siblings argue, but insist they do it respectfully. Words do matter. Of course; the same goes for you

and your spouse.

Praise your child when he deserves it. He will be more likely to give praise to others, which is a form of kindness. Descriptive praise is more meaningful than generic praise, says Dr. Susan Kuczmarski, author of Becoming a Happy Family: Pathways to the Family Soul (2015) “I really liked the way you passed the ball, and you made a difficult shot in the second quarter” versus “good job tonight.”

Kuczmarski also suggests looking for ways for you and your child to be kind together. She says, “acts of service and kindness free us and our children/preteens from self-imposed me-focused lives by widening our circles of compassion.” Perhaps a sick friend could use a home cooked meal, or an elderly neighbor needs a ride to the post office. Take your child with you as you provide assistance.

shapes. Each member of the family writes what he or she is thankful for. Toddlers can draw or have someone write for them. New leaves can be added weekly or monthly.

Lederer also suggests talking to children (toddlers and up) about ways to help people who don’t have as much as they do. The National Center for Infants, Toddlers and Families website suggests helping at a local animal shelter, food pantry or program that collects warm clothing during the winter. Be sure to make the connection for your child between what you are doing and how it is helping the recipients. “The coats we collect will help kids just like you, stay warm this winter.” Explain the importance of being grateful for what we have.

Children are bombarded with “must have” messages about the newest toy or the latest gad-

Talkabout why it’s good to help people. Ask school age children about classmates. Is there anyone who needs a kind act? How about the new kid or the one who’s “different?” Explain that being kind doesn’t have to be a “big deal.” Saying “hi” or asking someone to play can help someone feel better.

An Attitude of Gratitude

Like other values, children can start to understand the concept of appreciation before they display it outwardly. At about 18 months begin prompting your child to say “please” and “thank you.” Read books about what it means to be thankful. Show appreciation to your child. This one is easy to forget, but it has a big impact on him when you say, “Thank you for putting your toys away without arguing,” or thank you for that big hug!”

A gratitude tree is a great visual reminder, says Dr. Francine Lederer, a clinical psychologist in Los Angeles. Make a tree out of cardboard or construction paper. Tape it to the wall. Cut out leaf

get. It’s tempting to get these for your child, but it is hard for her to be grateful if she gets everything she wants all the time. Consider regularly rotating toys. Put some away for awhile and retrieve them later. Start a traditon where your child donates one of her gently used toys when she recieves a new toy. Give older children an opportunity to earn expensive toys or video games. They may not like the idea but the item will mean much more if they have a hand in getting it.

Experts suggest not showering your child with gifts during the holidays. Very young children are overwhelmed by lots of gifts and often start playing with the boxes before all the gifts are even opened. Ask family members not to go overboard with their gift giving.

The values you want your children to have may not come naturally, However, it’s worth taking the time to talk about them and most importantly model them, not just occasionally, but from the time they are infants until they leave your home.

“The absolute best way for your child to learn about kindness, gratitude, empathy is to see those in action at home.”

Letting Go

Our children

Fly free as happy birds

Singing

Inside our Spirits dance as we dream of all they will be In this world and in heaven

Summer day drifts into starry evening Grace Peace and Amen

Paula Timpson

Success Burns Within

Success Burns Within Success Burns Within

Traveling through the fires of life

Paths of flames embrace your soul

Jump or plunge towards great success

Emotion brought forth as a roar

Fun sometimes lost within the flame

Relieve as sparks hail high in sky

Crawling through hot coals it seems

Relaxing as the fire fades away

Slowly flows towards your goals

Many steps toward intense pride

Faith keeps the coals a blaze

With this you shall ignite

Smoke trails towards the sky

Shapes the happiness you see

Keep the fires burning inside

Penetrating deep within thee

Marcella Kumer

Fall Edition

“A Lion Walking” by Géza Vastagh, circa 1890s

† Public Domain via WikiMedia Commons.

making peace

Wild friends, worry not: you’re safe with me.

Old eyes have I now-if you hide I won’t see;

Old legs won’t chase you should you choose to flee;

Old bodies contentedly sit quietly, Happy to let the wild world be.

Ruth Lee

“Pont sur le Béal ” by Félix Vallotton, circa 1922 † Public Domain via WikiMedia Commons.

Two Stars in a Window

Years ago, I wrote up the story of my 10 siblings—5 sisters, 4 brothers and myself—doing 24 hour caretaking for our parents, Herb and Mary Kohler Christman, in their home for six years. It was 16,000 words long. I presented it to all siblings before they died. Now, I’m as old as my parents –in my 80s—and I decided it’s never too late. So it is my intention to get this story to a book publisher and even made into a movie. Yes, I have big goals. I also decided to share parts of this story to the readers of Screamin’ Mamas. I titled my true story “Two Stars in a Window,” due to my parents’ love story.

Photo of Cristman Family - 1950 - Back Row Left to Right: Carl, Jannetta, Lester, Anita, Paul; Front Row Left to Right: Carole, Mary, Dorothy, David, Mary Alice, Herb, Gladys

Carole Christman Koch

TWO STARS IN A WINDOW

It started during World War I, when my mother’s father took her (around 17 years old) on a horse and buggy ride. While riding by a home with two stars in a window (a custom of placing stars in a window when son(s) were in the war) her father said, “Mary, I want you to meet those nice young twins when they return from the war.” She bashfully agreed.

Both twins returned home safe; my father having received the Purple Heart. Alas, Mom’s father died before the war was over.

At some point, Mom attended a church social, where she met a nice young man. They fell in love and got married. Unknown to my mother, for a length of time, was that she married one of the twins represented by 2 stars in a window, that her father wanted her to meet a few years before.

Fast Forward

Prior to our parents having strokes, the sisters decided we’d houseclean for them in their elder years. We set a date and arrived for our first day of cleaning. Gladys and I accepted the garage and outside deck, while Anita, Jannetta, Dorothy, and Mary Alice cleaned inside the house.

Gladys and I worked hard until we got to the deck. We couldn’t help ourselves. All of us had a great sense of humor, inherited from our mother. We took the hose, filled a cup of water, and threw it in the open screened window of the kitchen at whomever we could hit. In turn, the sisters filled glasses of water and threw it outside at Gladys and me.

A water battled ensued until our stern father came home and scolded, “Grown children, and you, too Mom! Clean this puddle up now! I’ll be back and it better be cleaned up!” We did clean the mess up, laughing through the whole process.

By July 10, 1981, Pop had a stroke at 84 years old. Since Mom was physically incapable of taking care of Pop alone, the sisters set up a schedule for a 24-hour caregiving system for them.

Pop was able to walk, but did not know his children. He knew Mom, though.

These were some of the incidents we had with him:

• rituals getting him to bed,

• chasing animals out of his room,

• talking naughty to his children when bathing him,

• playing Santa Claus to his daughters, etc.

Fondest Memories

This is one of my fondest heartwarming memories: Pop’s twin brother, Rob, was flying in from Indianapolis to visit Pop. I dreaded the part that Pop would not know his own brother. He didn’t. But, I had them sit in the living room. Conversation was mostly with me and Rob. Then Rob, asked Pop, “Do you remember World War I?” I was totally in awe. Pop and Rob talked a length of time and had some laughs about the war experiences. It turned out to be an awesome visit.

My wedding day was also celebrated at our parents’ church with Pop attending, although he said he didn’t know anyone. My sisters planned the reception for us at our parent’s home. My husband had the privilege of dancing in a pig’s trough, a Pennsylvania Dutch tradition, if younger siblings in your family married before you.

Photo of Dad & Twin Brother

Koch

After Pop’s death, August 11, 1982, we the sisters, decided Mom was fine during the day, so we only came for dinner and slept over. By October 21, 1983, Mom had a stroke, which left her child-like and unable to walk.

One of the incidents I recall about our feisty mother was the following: We slept on a cot in her room, near her hospital bed. One side of the railing had an opening but we never felt she’d experiment. Mostly, she kept us awake singing, talking, and acrobats. One early am, I awoke to find mom sitting on her wheelchair, next to the hospital bed, with a big grin on her face. She had crawled out by herself and managed to sit on her chair. I scolded her to no avail. She just grinned. Mom died on October 13th, 1987. We, as a family, had been caretaking some six years. I commend my family for this. I think my wise mother would say to each and everyone of her children: “You all did the best you could. Piff (favorite expression) on those last 3 months when I was in a nursing home. Piff on it.

This has been the most beautiful love story I could ever have imagined since I first saw those two stars in a window with my father. Pop and I, and our children and future generations, will always have the memory of the most beautiful love story ever told. Thank you.”

This is when we decided the brothers were to help out with the caring of our mother. A 24-hour caregiving system was set up for all 10 of us. At times, wives or older children of the brothers helped with Mom’s care. We ranged in ages 40 – 60.

• Some of the incidents of caring for Mom: clapping every time her “favorite” daughter came in the door.

• Sisters always kept their traditional birthday parties with mom, mine being dressing up for my Halloween birthday party.

• Moving Mom’s plants one more time when she said “I love you, Carole, hiding her pills in the mashed potatoes, exercising her on the floor and giggling, but having to call a brother to get her up on the chair again.

About The Author

Carole Christman Koch - “I enjoy my life, even the elder years. I believe in thinking positive, no matter what. I keep busy with writing. I don’t worry about cleaning so much any more. My husband asked when I was doing our bedroom as there was dust on dresser. I said “It’s not its turn yet. He then wrote I love you notes in the dust. Works for both of us. I started a newsletter to my grandchildren as some moved farther away. I decided to tell them my growing up years. All children should know their grandma’s life. And then I add humor of things I do. My daughter had my 80th birthday party at her home and I wore my purple wig --I like fun no matter what age I am.”

Photo of Mary Kohler Christman

The Shortest Longest Poem

Do I miss you? always

NEVER SAY NEVER

Patricia Zollmann Kissinger

While in the middle of a chat with my younger sister, my youngest child comes running in the house announcing with jublilee that our neighbors are selling their treadmill.....and of course, he wants it.

"Mom, I've got the money to buy it and I really want one!" After calmly reminding him that we don't have the space for a treadmill, although wishing we did, he left the house without a pout. Continuing our chat and at the same time wondering what he was up to next, he came flying through the front door once again, this time asking where my tape measure was. He quickly procured it and left as suddenly as he appeared only a minute ago.

hanging outside.

No sooner does my sister let out a few words, guess who enters the house with the same exuberating excitement he possessed a few minutes ago? If you guess, Matthew, you are correct. With a "please excuse me" interjection, but without permission for the interruption, Matthew blurts out that the treadmill is only twenty-five by forty inches (I actually don't remember the exact dimensions) AND folds up! Therefore we would have room for it. Once again, with a smile and giggle on my face and in my heart, I explain that having to fold and unfold a teadmill every time it is to be used wouldn't be convenient or feasi-

My sister and I both let out a chuckle at his boyish eleven year old enthusiasm for an item that most kids wouldn't ask for....let alone pay for. We both agree that Matthew is an unusually unique child with character bursting at the seams of his mismatched clothes. This son of mine, the one who reminds me frequently that he is a "Mama's boy" never ceases to amaze me or melt my heart. Not wanting to linger too long on the topic of my son (even though I could talk about any one of my six children all day long), I change the subject to the more mundane topic of the pleasant weather

ble. Without complaining or uttering an objection Matthew exits the house once again.

Wondering what was going to whirl out of his mouth the next time, my sister and I continue our prosaic, but pleasant conversation. Needless to say, it is hard NOT talking about Matthew since he continued to pop in and out w ithout much warning or ado! I guess he decided since his pleading for a treadmill wasn't going anywhere he would drop the subject. Still amazed at how gracefully he accepted my rejection of the treadmill, especially knowing how he usually doesn't

“Without presenting him time to utter another word, and with a slightly elevated voice, I enunciate emphatically, ‘Nooooooooo! WE ARE NOT GOING TO HAVE A RAT IN THIS HOUSE! PERIOD!’”

Zollman-Kissinger

NEVER SAY NEVER Cont’d Z-Kissinger

give up, I feel good about our dialogue.

Only a few minutes later, the same excited and energized Matthew, enters once again, practically out of breath. (Who needs a treadmill? Just run back and forth between the neighbor's house and ours!) I am now starting to feel slightly annoyed with his persistence, while thinking at the same time, he was born to be a salesman.

"Mom! Can we have a rat?! They're giving away a rat, for free....and the cage, too!" Without presenting him time to utter another word, and with a slightly elevated voice, I enunciate emphatically, "Nooo! We are not going to have a rat in this house! Period!”

Understanding the tone of my voice and the enlarged opening of my eyes, Matthew leaves....once again. By now, I am sincerely wondering who these neighbors are and why they're doing this to me. I've always been a good neighbor to those I live near. What did I do to deserve this? This isn't fair to my son or me.

Out of curiosity, I googled "rats as pets," and was surprised to see all the entries. To my delight, everything I read about rats was positive. They're intelligent, affectionate, clean, fun, and easy to train. Those characteristics sounded familiar......hell, those are the same ones I looked for in a husband way back when. Surely, these articles weren't implying that men are similar to rats?! Excuse me for allowing my thoughts to stray.....

After my son came back for the fourth time, I'm not sure who was more shocked, Matthew or me, when I announce that I would be willing to`give "Boots" (the rat's name) a try if the neighbors were willing to loan us Boots on a trial basis in case we didn't like her. (Remember, I'm middle age and menopausal.....which means I am

at times irrational.) Needless to say, Matthew's mouth fell open and he immediately ran out of the house (imagine that) yelling, "We’re Getting a rat! We’re getting a rat! !" without giving me a chance to change my mind....which I may have if he had lingered around. (....being menopausal.) To end this ratty saga, I immediately fell in love with Boots (unlike with my husband to be 28 years ago) and decided to keep her. Not only is she pretty, she's fun to hold, enjoyable to observe, and playful with her black beady eyes and twitching whiskers. Three days later, we acquired "Muffin," her mommy, once again, on a trial basis to see how living with two rats would fare. Not only with the thought, "If one is fun, two would be more fun," but mostly so Boots would have a playmate when we are not spending time with her. I can honestly report that we are all enjoying our two new pets. Never did I think I would own a rat - let alone, two of them! The moral of this story is, "Never say never!" Or, "If at first you don't succeed, try try again!"

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Patricia Zollmann-Kissinger hasn’t blogged with us in awhile but her posts are still with us to enjoy. She has six children, four boys and two girls. (God bless her!) She also has lots of beautiful grandchildren.

By trade, she is a Mathematics teacher with degrees in Mathematics and Secondary Education from Rockhurst University and a Masters from UMKC in Counseling. After teaching in schools for two years, she became a private Math tutor and has been doing so for about 30 years. Between her love of teaching and her kids, she started homeschooling in 1987 and continued until her kids were in high school. Her passions include Mathematics, writing, running, photography, reading, learning, and, of course, her kids! Please visit her website at: pzkphotos.com and like her on FB. ◆

Happy Birthday!

Paula Mahon

I wish you homemade Halloween costumes of bedsheets, magic marker, and cardboard.

A year of creating the imperfect treehouse, collections of stamps, sparkling stones, and seashells, cartwheels at recess and caterpillars caught in jam jars, Weekends of wandering deer trails in the woods, watching the warblers on cattails in the swamp, and dark nights with bright constellations.

I wish you afternoons of Tom Sawyer and Jim Hawkins and long narratives with action figures.

I wish you the warmth of a cat on your bed and the adoration of a dog at your feet, the curiosity of the different and the ease to ask an ear for the unattended, an eye for the overlooked, a voice for the dismissed and a touch for the hurt.

Now blow out the candle.

“The Childrens Party Book/Our Birthday Party.” iIllustration by Francis Tipton Hunter, 1923. † Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Best of the Blogs

Talking to Zombies

I knew my little ones were talented but now I know they are down right geniuses. Today Kaitlyn informed me that she speaks cat and owl and Lexi speaks Zombie.

“ Polish: FantazjaBajka /FantasyFairy-tale” by Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz, 1922. † Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

M otherhood Before Maternity Leave & a New Evolutionary Twist

I remember what it was like to be a working mother when the concept of maternity leave was very foreign. It still has a ways to go for many working women, including leave with pay, but this is a glimpse into the matter back in 1980.

I was an Assistant Professor in the School of Social Welfare at UCLA. In August, I gave birth to my second child and was expected to start the new quarter in just six weeks. Not only was there no maternity

And so began the new routine: up at 5:30 to ready my infant and five-year-old for the day; load the car with my books and papers, baby buggy and all the infant needs for the day; drop my five-year-old at his Montessori school; drive five miles to work; park across campus; load the baby buggy with his equipment and my work materials; then strap the baby to my chest and walk across campus to my office. On mornings when I had to be in the classroom, I’d pick up the older woman who stayed

leave, but neither did the university stop the tenure clock which kept ticking away the time remaining to keep my job, income we needed to also keep our house. Putting my infant son in daycare was not an option.Not only did he refuse any type of container other than Mom for his feeding, but even more pressing, he had a dangerous respiratory problem. He had an incident that resembled SIDS enough to put him on an apnea monitor when he slept. I was not about to leave my baby behind and go to work.

To the rescue came the kind and forward-looking Dean of our School. Because I had my own office, he said I was welcome to bring my baby to work with me. “Besides,” he said, “your office is in the middle of the offices for the Child Welfare Training Grant, wouldn’t it be hypocritical to do otherwise.”

with the baby in my office. During the ten minute class break, I’d dash to my office, nurse the baby, then return to finish teaching.

Fortunately, my son was a smiley, happy baby, even with his respiratory problems. And so, students took turns holding him as we worked in groups in my office on their Master’s Thesis, and one student and I even nursed our babies in tandem as we worked on hers. Faculty and office staff “borrowed” Daniel to sit on their laps and play for a short break from their daily routine. As he developed childhood asthma, I could monitor his breathing and medication regimen in a safe environment, with a hospital across campus,which, thankfully, I never needed to use.

”But this new evolutionary twist would ultimately be valuable to women only if men also evolved pouches for carrying their young.”

Diane deAnda

At the end of the year, my Dean recognized that the arrangement would not work with a rambunctious toddler. Again, as the social worker he had always been, he granted me the sabbatical for which I had earned enough teaching credits and helped me apply for a grant which gave me two additional quarters off, in total, a year at full salary to work at home with my young son.

For the rest of my teaching career, my sons were welcomed at the workplace. Daniel’s con tinued asthma episodes had him at work with me whenever he was recuperating and needed monitor ing and medication. Students became accustomed to seeing Daniel playing on the floor with his cars in the back of the classroom while I stood teaching at the front of the room. On one occasion, when my students hesitated, this very bright seven-year-old stood up and correctly answered a question I had posed to see if they understood the principle I had just illustrated.

Over the years, numerous students commented on how important it was to see me bring my children to work to help them realize that working and motherhood were not incompatible, that childrens’ welfare comes first, and that children should be welcome in all types of environments. However, I recognize how fortunate I was in contrast to mothers who had no options other than to quit work or leave their infants, and then only if child care were available, and that even today many working

mothers have few positive options. Although there has been some progress, our society is still wanting when it comes to making the welfare of children foremost in its priorities.

I have thought about how evolution could have solved the problem. How different and less complicated our lives would be if we had descended from marsupials instead of primates. Bondingwould begin with the first sight of the inch-long human scooting its way into mother’s pouch. No more expensive medical equipment or complicated medical procedures would be needed; human marsupial medical teams would just need to peek into the pouch.

No more baby carriers and strollers, no more arsenal of baby equipment, Mom’s built-in carrier would replace them all. But this new evolutionary twist would ultimately be valuable to women only if men also evolved pouches for carrying their young: pouches for bonding and caretaking, for keeping in shape or accepting as enhanced by use, pouches recognized by the species as a place for the young whether the adult carrier be at home, in a restaurant, or in a board room.

If nurseries were a mobile part of the human anatomy, perhaps the issue of childcare would never have developed, because the answer would be built-in. ◆◆◆

Change

Change

Let's be positive. Sometimes I'm scared of change. Change is so harsh. Scary! But then I remember, God is within all of us. He is guiding me and preparing me for something better!

You CAN choose love in any moment. It's rewarding, uplifting and feels great to overcome. Overcoming feels so sweet. Everyone is perfect and good in their own way. The universe supports you. Only supports!

Tortora

Eva

How many times can my child say the word “Mommy” while I’m trying to eat my dinner upon coming home from work? The answer is 25 and counting…. and that is only in a 10 minute period. Can I just get 20 minutes to eat in peace?

Please???

Deanna Wolverton

Fly Me to the Moon

Katie Bennett

‘Die Mondkanone’, German, by Gerdt von Bassewitz, Scanned by Groth-Pfeifer, Circa 1915.

† Public Domain in the US via Wikimedia Commons

Iwas riding in the car down a country road with my two-year-old son at the end of a long summer day. We'd just come from grandma's house and I was excited to do something fun together at the end of the week. So, I decided to tell him about something fun I'd planned for us. (cont’d below...)

"What? Oh, honey. We're not actually going to the moon," I replied. I tried to assure him that we were just going to the park for moon-themed activities and not flying to the actual moon. Every time the subject came up after that, my son would sternly remind me that he did not want to "blast off" to the moon. I had no idea what a conflict I'd been raising in his little mind all week!

My two-year-old son listened carefully from his car seat as I explained that at the end of the week we'd go where there would be crafts and other fun activities in the park. And, because my son loves everything space and moon-related, I really played up the fact that it was moon-themed. At first, he seemed very excited about the prospect!

As we moms like to do, I talked up the event ahead of time, telling my son about all the fun moon-themed activities. I brought it up every day leading up to the event. A few days before the event, I brought it up and my son gave me a look of deep concern, as if he'd been considering something very important all week.

"I don't wanna' blast off," he told me in a very serious voice. (cont’d next column, above...)

About The Author

Katie Bennett, also known as K.M. Bennett, is a fiction writer living in the midwestern U.S. She has a Master of Arts in Writing (technical writing). Her work has been featured in several podcasts, including the NoSleep Podcast and the Nighty Night with Rabia Chaudry podcast. Her short stories have also been featured in multiple small-press anthologies. During the day, she works as a technical editor. She lives with her husband, son, and two rescue dogs. To learn more, see ThatKatieLady.com.

“And, because my son loves everything space and moon-related, I really played up the fact that it was moon-themed...

‘I don’t wanna blast off!’ he told me in a very serious voice.

Terror in the Suburbs!

It all started in this lovely little house. It was the early sixties and suburban living seemed an American ideal. Charming dwellings with manicured lawns and colorful hedges nestled cozily between neighbors seemed a wonderful place to call home. Falls were always magical and winters were a wonderland. Storybook, really. But they always say, if it’s too good to be true, it probably is.

So, here’s the real story. There were four of us in the family - Mom, Dad, my older sister and myself. Plus, the family dog, Chippy, made five.

The house was nice enough on the inside, two bedrooms, a guest room, living room, dining

room, kitchen with a big bay window over the sink and a beautiful yard lined with evergreens and oaks. Every morning I would look out that window and watch the sun rise over those majestic trees. It was fantastic the way the rays filtered in - spilling light everywhere. But when the sun went down, my illusory life took a quite a dark spin - in the dreaded basement - ending my imagined joy with a ghastly nightmare. The same ghastly nightmare from the first day I remember being in that house until the day we moved out. Here’s how it went . . .

The family and I were down in the basement having a merry time. It was a big room, split into

Darlene Pistocchi

two sides. We always sat to the left. Mom filled the corner with a comfy couch and big stuffed cat that my dad won her at a carnival. Above the couch, hanging from the ceiling, was a net filled with all sorts of stuffed fishies - in particular I remember a blowfish and a porcupine fish. Kind of cool. The concrete floor was covered in gold and black vinyl squares. Moving to the back of the room was a shelf with a few statues of terriers (Chippy look-a-likes) and assorted cocktail glasses. To the left of that was the washer and dryer, and then there was the boiler room. Hearing those flames ignite to heat up the water in that monstrous furnace followed by the sound of the water rumbling - I dared never to go

way, even Chippy. I was always the last one up. Just as I was ready to leave the horror scene, the door would slam shut! Everyone was out except for me.

“Clunk... Clunk...”

I could hear him, his heavy footsteps trudging across the gold and black vinyl. And as he got closer I could him breathe, a spine-chilling rattle that gives me goosebumps still now. I turned around and there he was. Slowly rounding the stairwell. He dropped his heavy foot on the first step and klunked some more as he slowly started climbing towards me. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I shut my eyes tight and howled with all my might. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed

in there. Not to mention that was where the “man” lived. Yes. The man. The man that my mind imagined in this illusory life. It was petrifying. He lived in that boiler room and he would leave everyone alone as long as we were quiet.

So there we were, in my dream, the famiy downstairs sitting at the card table playing Rummy or Hearts. We always enjoyed a good game of cards, but no one really spoke for fear of being too loud and waking up the man. Still, we had fun.

Then, out of the clear blue, I would scream. Very loudly. I don’t know why, I just did. Then I stopped. Mom, Dad, my sister, even Chippy, looked at me like I was crazy. And then the horrible happened. The man woke up. It was horrifying - the sound of him groaning and banging into the furnace as he got up and started walking.

Quickly, we gathered the cards in a pile, then shuffled to our feet and pushed our chairs in. One by one, as fast as lightening, we were at the stairwell heading upstairs. I could see the light shining from the kitchen upstairs as everyone cleared the door-

until I could scream no more. And then I woke up. Just like that. In my bed. Sweating. Shivering, Shaking. But safe and sound in my room. My sister fast asleep in the bed next to mine. Chippy, cozily tucked in next to me. The traitor. But I was happy to snuggle with him. I was even happier when we moved from that wretched house. Storybook, my a-s-s!

As time went on, Chippy and I got closer. Whenever I was alone, in the dark, or having trouble falling asleep, there he was, looking at me with those silly doggie eyes, little black snout and his cute beard. I’ve had dogs ever since and I never had a nightmare like that again. ◆ ◆ ◆ Me & Chippy

FUN TRIVIA: This took place in Seaford, NY. There were/are several spooky houses on Long Island but there was one in particular that was not far from this location. That family’s story became a huge hit in the movies, 1980s. There is truly something about Long Island! Be the first to email screaminmamas@gmail with the right answer and receive a complementary print copy of this issue!! ◆ ◆

“I turned around and there he was. Slowly rounding the stairwell. He dropped his heavy foot on the first step and klunked some more as he slowly started climbing towards me.”

Pet Kids

Pet Kids

“Picture a caramel-colored short-haired cat and a black schnauzer-terrior cuddled up, side-by side in their own respective bed, music playing in the background, both snoring away. That is a snapshot of Butterscotch and Annie.”

I heard the pen drop on the floor from the bedroom. I peaked around the corner to check it out. Butterscotch was perched on the top of the desk.. I saw him take a pen out of the pen holder with his teeth, put it on the desk, push it on the floor with his paw. I then saw Annie put the pen in her mouth between her teeth and chew on it. This deadly duo was working together. I laughed out loud. “You rascals”, I said.

The next day I was vacuuming, which the pets hate by the way. They hide so fast at the first sound of the vacuum. Under my bed, I found a lair of toys, both dog and cat.Then I cleaned under another bed in a second bedroom finding another lair of toys. I put them all in the container they belong in when not in use. I put the vacuum away. I turned around to see Butterscotch and Annie taking one toy at a time back under the bed. “Pardon me”, I thought.

Annie has another hiding place, but this time for treats. I had gotten both of them pet stress beds which really are quite nice and set them next to each other. I often find them lying next to each other in their respective bed. I decided to launder these beds. I picked up one and then the other, and lo and behold dog and cat treats fell Out onto the floor. You see Butterscotch can open drawers. Inside the drawer, are the pet treats. You guessed it. Butterscotch got out a bag of dog treats and cat treats and dragged them on the floor. His teeth marks could be seen embedded in the treat bags. Of course, they both hid them in their bed, after munching down a few. I found the empty pet treat bags on the floor of the closet, empty. Who says pets Aren’t smart?

Can our pets see things that we can’t? I am a firm believer they can and here is Why. Butterscotch will jump up from a nap, stare at the

wall, follow something with her green cat eyes, and stare, and stare and stare. It is very eerie to watch. I wish he could speak and tell me what it is he sees, but then again, maybe not.

Annie is a rescue from Texas. Her schnauzer-terroir looks are quite pretty now that her hair has grown out from healthy food and care. Annie does not appreciate Thunderstorms, to say the least. She shakes so hard it scares me. She hides behind the couch. She refuses comfort from me. Eventually she wears out and falls asleep, but not before Butterscotch cuddles up to her side. He stays there until the storm stops. A cat who comforts the dog he lives with. Pretty cool I’d say.

When Butterscotch is mad he knocks things down. I have awakened to the sound of crashing in the kitchen only to find he has knocked a dish off the counter because his food or water is empty. Well,how else is he going to let me know? He also leaves apresent of you know what—yes, after I have left him on a trip with a family member.

is not, so sometimes they slide across the hardwood floors. I can almost see them laughing.

Another really fun moment is Annie’s bath. Yes, she needs to bathe, trust me. I don’t know who gets more wet, her or me or the kitchen floor. We also call her psycho dog after a bath because we put a towel down and she rolls and rolls and rolls to dry off. Such a funny scene.

Butterscotch is envious that Annie gets to go out in the real world for walks. Whenever he gets a chance to run out the door, off he goes. Of course,he can only go down the hall so we are not too worried, but always bring him home, of course.

The two have brought us so much joy,

“I saw him take a pen out of the pen holder with his teeth, put it on the desk, push it on the floor with his paw. I then saw Annie put the pen in her mouth between her teeth and chew on it. This deadly duo was working together.”

Butterscotch and Annie get along as well as a cat and dog can, I think. They respect each other’s boundaries for the most part. Butterscotch has learned Annie’s growl very well and Annie has felt the sting of Butterscotch’s claws.

They are both musically inclined. Their human family listens to music quite often and leave it on for them when they have to leave for a bit. I sometimes tap to the music on my leg, and Annie has picked it up and also taps her paw on my leg.

My daughter knits. That’s right up Butterscotch’s perverbial alley. I have found yarn in the most unusual locations in the apartment. I have found knitting needles far from their desired location. When one knits at my place, it is a pet human affair. They tangle the yarn, drag it off, bite it, and basically play with it. Yes, Annie likes to knit, also, lol.

They both run after each other from one room to the next at times. Some is carpeted, some

laughter, love, and yes, sometimes hilarious Conundrums as well as scary scenarios, They are both about four years old now. We hope they live long well-cared for lives.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Patricia Lynne has published a children’s book along with being published in several magazines, anthologies, and won many writing contests.

My career as a court reporter where I edited many transcripts and my degree prepared me to write after retirement.

My family of three children and two pets add to my many poems and essays, which I hope you enjoy reading.

I Talk to My Chickens

Jodi Decker

About 5 years ago, I got interested in having backyard chickens. I bought a few books, my husband built a coop, and off we went. My motive was simply to raise my own eggs. I figured the eggs would be fresher, certainly, and more organic. Additionally, it seemed like a fun hobby.

My “flock” was small—usually 4 to 5 chickens. Now, keep in mind, there were no roosters in the bunch! Neighbors don’t take too well to roosters waking them up at the crack of dawn. Heck, I don’t take too well to being woken up at the crack of dawn. Chickens, in general, will let you know when to feed them, by squawking loudly and insistently in the morning, non-stop. They are loud customers.

So, what is the difference between a chicken that’s a pet, vs. a chicken that’s not a pet? Well, frankly, I don’t eat my chickens. Would you eat your cat or dog? I do eat their eggs, though. Also, my chickens have names. The current flock consists of: Fugly, Piggy, Red, and Speckles. While they tend to come running whenever they see a human (translation: food supplier), I do believe they know their names, as I can call one of the stragglers and they come running.

Chickens also have distinct personalities. Yes, just like people. Fugly is sweet and dainty. Piggy is, well, a pig. She is the first to come running for breakfast as soon as she hears me, and she will hog the food from all the other chickens,

even doing body blocks to keep them away. Red is the typical big red hen you see in all the children’s stories. She seems elegant, but is a very cooperative egg layer. Speckles is a little speckled hen who is very sneaky, perfecting the art of laying her eggs in the neighbor’s yard, in order to avoid detection. In fact, we have found chicken eggs laid anywhere but the coop. It might be inside the wood burning stove, on top of the compost, or behind and under the most difficult places to access. I have bordered up more secret egg laying places than abandoned houses. I think they revel in trying to outsmart me. The fun part is that every day is an Easter egg hunt in my own backyard.

It’s hard not to give chickens human personality traits. Selfishness and greed seem to be big ones. No matter where you put the feed, they fight over it. No matter how far you spread the feed, they have to run and see what the other chicken might be getting that they aren’t. It always reminds me of the grass being greener in your neighbor’s yard.

Of course, we’ve all heard of pecking order. There is definitely a head honcho in chicken world, and they rule the roost. That means when she squawks or pecks, the others defer immediately. These head chickens do not suffer fools gladly, and sometimes they even try to be the boss of me, which is literally like biting the hand that feeds you. They do seem to understand commands, too. When they sneak around the side of the house to

“I talk to my chickens. And, they talk back. Did you know that chickens have 26 distinct sounds they make? While I don’t pretend to know all of their chicken language, chickens certainly make for entertaining pets. Yes, pets.”

snack on the cat food, I loudly shout, “no!” or “bad chickens!” and they know to flee immediately. At times it feels like I’m chastising toddlers. Speaking of cats, you would think they wouldn’t be afraid of the chickens. Nope. The cats quickly slink off when the chickens show up, as the cats have realized that they can’t take these chickens down and would be the losers in that skirmish… ‘fraidy cats. Sometimes they all seem at peace with one another, and you can spy a cat sitting or lazing around next to a content chicken.

Chickens love treats, and one they gobble up readily is leftover spaghetti noodles. I have a hunch they think the noodles are white worms. They are excellent at doing pest control, and it’s particularly funny when one of them finds a bug in the yard, grabs it, then runs gleefully around the backyard trying to eat on the run, so her chicken sisters don’t steal it. It’s like a chicken steal the flag game. They love scraps, so they help us with the dish duty. What they can’t eat are avocados and chocolate, which always begs the question - who would feed those to their chickens? One chicken book advised to not give them beer, either. It seems that a drunk chicken probably can’t cross the road. Of course, you can’t talk about chickens without mentioning the eggs. Their fresh eggs are delicious. There is definitely a more robust flavor from a fresh egg, a darker yolk, and if you find the egg very soon after it’s laid, it sits warmly in your hand—a very lovely feeling. I remember the first time a chicken laid an egg, I happily declared myself a chicken grandmother, I was that proud! When a chicken lays an egg, they typically do an “egg song,” bragging to everyone in the nearby vicinity about their egg-laying prowess. They even “egg each other on,” announcing the arrival of the other chicken’s eggs. There are some who theorize this behavior is actually to warn off predators, but that seems like it would do the exact opposite, as it’s like a grand announcement.

Another interesting factoid about my chickens is they roost in the trees. This surprised me at first, until I found out that chickens were originally jungle fowl. Before coops existed, and they became domesticated, they flew up into the trees for safety at night. Yes, it’s a myth that chickens can’t fly. In fact, they can fly short distances, including up into trees. When they fly down in the mornings, it sounds like the whish and whirr of a mini-helicopter coming in for a landing. I also discovered that at sunset, they sit in the trees and make a soft purring noise…. perhaps a lullaby to lure them all to sleep.

There are so many expressions and metaphors that chickens have given us that have entered our daily vocabulary. Someone who’s afraid is labeled a chicken, they have chickened out, or they’re chicken-hearted. We talk about a pecking order in families or at work. Smart people are called egg heads. We egg each other on to victory. We claw our way to the top. We can crow about our successes. We can be madder than a wet hen. Women can have a hen fight. When we aren’t prepared, we wing it. When we’ve said or done something embarrassing, we’ve laid an egg. Chickens have been the subject of lots of fairy tales, stories, books, and movies. You can even do the chicken dance. More than all that, chickens make for wonderful pets. Even better, they are pets with (food) benefits, which means they are productive. They are fun, they are interesting, and they might just be closer to humans than we give them credit for.◆◆◆

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jodi Decker is a college teacher, family historian, and content writer for FB page Seven Years Insane. She is a contributing writer to the book Poems From the Asylum, the true story of her grandmother’s 7-year stay in an insane asylum. Her dad, Ralph, is pictured center with Jodi’s chickens. ◆ ◆ ◆

In the Light

In the light

We

Gazing

Every

Paula Timpson

“ Sunrise, Northport Harbor, by Arthur Dove, American, 1929,Princeton University Art Museum † Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons