I think I have a pretty good vocabulary. I was that nerdy kid who ran out of things to read so I read medical textbooks and the dictionary. My spelling of all those words sometimes fails, but nobody is perfect. Oh, and typos. I’ve decided not to stress about typos on this blog, they happen and I fix them sometimes. But the iPhone’s auto-complete and correct feature tends to kick me down a path of infuriating typos every day. A few days ago I tried typing “helper” and it correct the word to “leper.” very intuitive, apple – most people probably DO talk about leprosy with more frequency than they they do about helping. Granted, without the phone I wouldn’t be blogging at all, so the trade is more than fair. Just don’t think I’m a world class dolt because something says “of” instead of “is”. Or if lepers join the conversation without warning.

Words. Right.

So now Ella is building her vocabulary.

She understands rather a lot. But she only speaks a few of those words. Ok, like three.

Dad.
Cheese.
Uh-oh.

I don’t if uh-oh counts as a word, since it’s sort of like “huh” or “um”. Just a filler sound appropriate to the moment. But she says it when she drops something, etc., so she has it right at least.

I can only conclude that words do not exist for her when it comes to describing me. All lack of any consistant sound in reference to her mother is pretty solid evidence of that, right?

She has many gestures in place of words. Goodbye is a solid wave. All gone is a palms up move. No and yes are appropriate head movements. Pointing occurs with pretty much every third thought that flits through her mind so I don’t know how to qualify that gesture. Anything related to drinking is a search for her sippy cup. I guess that’s not a gesture – but it is the action accompanied by the word, so…

Ok. It’s not that many.

Time to word up, Ella. Your three words are cute, but they’re not going to get you far in this life. You have to add at least a few adjectives to make it past the front door. And people who just say “cheese” and “uh-oh” all the time aren’t people at all but are battery opperated toys made by Hasbro.

Overall good progress. Let’s keep it moving.

I haven’t had much to say the last few days. I don’t have a problem with that, do you?

Yesterday I got knocked flat with strep throat. Don’t know how I got it – one of lifes little mysteries. A trip to the dr., 2 shots, a prescription and a handful of painkillers later, I feel pretty much the same except my fever keeps coming and going and I feel like a menopausal woman stuck in a freezer. Alternating between freezing under a blanket, then boiling up so hot I have to check the thermostat to make sure it’s not 90 in here. Rinse, repeat.

Anybody want to come clean my kitchen while I’m down for the count? Any takers? No?

Darn.

Ok, here is a funny story. Sort of. Last night my loving husband offered to make me a cup of tea with honey and lemon. The staple of sore throat remedies, right? I thought that was great. I took a sip, and immediately tears started pouring from my eyes – apprently one of Shannon’s tried and true sore throat remedies involves cayenne pepper. He added it to the tea and failed to mention the fact.

I was in so much extra pain, I started hurling hateful things at him and actually swore at him for the first time in my life. That obviously was incredibly uncharitable of me and I felt horrible afterward – he was just trying to help. I apologized. But I have tried the cayenne thing before and already knew it didn’t do the trick for me – rather made things worse. But he didn’t know that.

Ah well. He took me to the doctor and entertained Ella for the long wait, and he’s a wonderful husband. I appreciate him so much. Even if my throat was burninating the countryside. And the peasants. And all the people everywhere. In their thatched roof cottages.

I’m going to go quadruple check the thermostat. This is ridiculous.

Is it true for most people, that the pallet becomes more sophisticated with age? 10 years ago I wouldn’t have touched a bell pepper.

A few weeks ago I had lunch with Emily and Katrina at the local coffee shop. They served a roasted red bell pepper soup that was so amazing, it literally took one bite for me to know deep down in my heart we would be meeting again.

An early trip this morning to the farmer’s market yeilded me these beauties:

A few minutes under the broiler and we have this:

slice ‘em, dice ‘em, peel the skins and remove the cores.

Then we add them to this pretty mess:

A cast of onions, garlic, carrots and yellow squash. (Was supposed to be potato, but I’m out. So squash was in.) simmering in a bath of olive oil, they’re happy and and sizzling. To that, I added some tomato sauce, chicken stock, and the peppers.

Simmer, simmer,  simmer.

Put in the blender and blend, blend blend.

Back in the pot, add CHEESE! YAY! and cream. I added a tablespoon of sugar too, but don’t tell anybody.

It’s not exactly like the one I had before, but it’s pretty darn close. And it’s equally delicious.

Want to know something funny? I briefly entertained the thought of taking the food out of the pics and photoshopping them into another kitchen that was less messy. And then I realized that in the time it would take me to photoshop my food into someone’s kitchen…I could have cleaned my own twice over.

Who’s retarded now?

But seriously, I have a LOT of roasted pepper soup, if anyone wants to share some for dinner…

You know how sometimes you might hear someone say “Her eyes were throwing daggers!”

I’m pretty sure the women in this family have perfected that art.

At 4 months, it was a little crosseyed but there it was.

A year later, she’s still got it. A little more curiosity in that one, I think. Maybe it’s just my friend Lori, who knows how to get those expressions on disk.

I hear Ella comes by it naturally though.

When I was 12 or so, I went through a dramatic personality change. I went from being a happy-go-lucky girl with a smile and a curl, to a buttoned up deep thinking and soft-spoken teen. My answers to questions were “yep” and “nope.” With little elaboration.

In my teens, I discovered the truth behind the proverb “Even a fool is thought wise, if he keeps silent.” Not wishing to be thought a fool, I heeded the advice and learned to keep silent. I remember a time when I was 16 or 17, in a weeks time I could count all the phrases I spoke aloud on my hands.

As an adult, the practice of silence was so much a natural part of me that I woke up one day and realized I’d walled myself off from the world, in almost every way. There are benefits of course, to keeping to one’s self. Less opportunity for saying the wrong thing. People think you’re smarter than you are. But people might also think you’re arrogant, self-absorbed, or indifferent. I’ve experienced all of those things. And when people think you to be arrogant or engrossed in your own thoughts, there is no opportunity for building relationships. The only relationships I successfully maintained were with people whose own ability to communicate exceeded mine so greatly that the deficiency was absorbed. My marriage not excluded.

The courtship of Shannon and Leah can be summed up in one simple picture. Shannon on the phone in Florida talking for hours and hours, Me listening to him on the other line in Pennsylvania saying “uh huh” for hours and hours.  You have to know by now that I’m not prone to exaggeration. That is exactly the truth.

I think it’s been a year, maybe just a little more, that I’ve discovered the art of conversation once again. The 11 year old me in breaking out, silence is no longer golden, and I am engaging in conversations more easily than I can ever remember. I’m glad, because it’s enjoyable. It still pays to watch my tongue…I find myself occasionally uttering the most annoying or insane things from time to time, and if someone is listening, well…I feel so embarrassed. But it’s a rare occasion. And I’m thankful for that.

I want to grow in my ability to communicate with others. I want to sharpen the economy of my words. I want to remember to choose what I say carefully. It is important to me that people hear me when I speak, so what I’m saying had better be worth their time. On that same token, even now, if I feel like my words would be dismissed or not heard, I prefer to say nothing. Shannon and I have been over this one a few times. He says “You never tell me anything!” and I reply with “It doesn’t seem like you are interested, so why would I bother?” And of course, the misunderstanding is rectified. But that scenario has played out more than once.

The less one says with one’s mouth, the more they say with their demeanor. I’ve noticed this over the years. If you leave the air silent, people feel the need to read your body language, and your facial expressions to understand you. They can’t not know what you’re thinking, so they read between the lines.

Sometimes what I think is an expressionless face is in fact a stony stare.

And It’s amazing, but my 1 year old daughter has the same ability. The silent gaze.

It’s not a cold shoulder…we’re just thinking about what we’re going to say.

I love hearing stories of interesting plane experiences.

I’ve had some interesting flights. There was the one where I was flanked on every side by nuns (in full habit) and sailors (in uniform.) I had to check and make sure Julie Hagerty wasn’t the flight attendant!

There was the one where the flight was empty and I got to stretch across five seats in the center isle and and get a solid 7 hours of sleep. I will remember that flight forever.

There is the most recent flight I took, sitting next to my sister, listening to the passenger behind us discuss her life in Dubai for three hours. If I thought I knew about the middle east before that, I thought wrong.

So what flight experiences stick out in your mind? Here is an open invitation: tell me about your most interesting plane ride ever. I’m all ears. I want to know.

The latest album by “The Killers” offers a MADDENING assortment of nonsense lyrics. Chief among them being the line “Are we human? Or are we dancers?”

You don’t have to be in first grade to understand that being human and being a dancer are not mutually exclusive states of being. On the contrary, being a human is rather a PREREQUISITE for being a dancer. I’ve seen some dogs in tutus, and the occasional chimp pirouetting, but really – dancing is a predominantly human activity.

Perhaps The Killers should consult first graders in future lyric writing endeavors.  Sense might be had, after all.

That being said, I do love dancing. It DOES prove to be invigorating to the body, mind and soul.

I wish I had appropriate photos to go along with this post. However, I only know of about 5 photos in existence of me actually dancing, and none of them even remotely depict the graceful awe-inspiring sight that is me, on the dance floor. So just employ your imagination where necessary.

My dancing career is somewhat laughable. But I will outline it here for posterity none the less.

Age 5(ish): enrolled in a gymnastics class. I don’t remember it lasting long, but I still remember one or two things I learned. Also, my brother TJ was with me, and he was better at some stuff, like the crab crawl.

Age 7: went to private(ish) ballet lessons taught by a friend. Totally loved it, but I was so incredibly self-conscious. (kicks 7 year old self in the behind.) lasted just long enough to learn the 5 positions, and one or two other moves.

Age 14: learned the waltz at a friend’s birthday party.

Age 15: enjoyed ska and “skanking.” We’ll leave it at that.

Age 17: discovered dance lessons on tape at the local library. Spent one afternoon at bff Jenny’s house with her and TJ learning basic Irish Step Dancing. Retained 2% of it.

Age 18: swing dancing. I found a video at the library that got me hooked, and between myself, TJ and Jenny, we felt like we actually mastered a step or two. Then we decided to take it public and went to some dances in Orlando. Two words can describe that experience – “total humiliation.” Nothing like thinking you know how to dance, and then realizing you know NOTHING.

We took some actual swing dance lessons, and gradually improved to a point of not-as-humiliating-as-before.

Age 20: met Shannon. He had in the past five or so years been involved in the Orlando swing dancing scene. Naturally, the common interest drew us together.

Age 21: attended Christian music festival up north, discovered unknown talent for hip hop moves to random “Christianized hip hop.” I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m all about transparency, OK? People do strange things at live concerts.

Age 22: while engaged to Shannon, took honest to goodness real swing dancing lessons and finally felt less like a dork on a dance stage.

Since then, I’ve danced socially a few times and I have been very pleased to find that once certain steps have been mastered, most dances are easy to pick up. Salsa, Foxtrot, etc. And I have thoroughly enjoyed the majority of my experiences to date.

I enjoy dancing. Both watching and participating. I think I would like to take dance classes on a more formal level, at some point. Hopefully soon. I’m not sure what form, but I kinda don’t think it matters. I know enough now to know that I really love dancing, and while I’ll never be a pro I can at least have proficiency at something I thoroughly enjoy.

I’ve noticed that I don’t wear dresses as often as often as…ever. I should do something about that.

I have 5 brothers. The youngest was born just a few weeks before I got married.

Hard to tell from the small photo, but he’s drooling like mad. Dad knows how to have fun.

This was 2005, in Indiana – attending our cousin Cassie’s wedding.

I had a hard time when Graham was born. I was in my 20’s, had been away from home and was about to leave for good. And while in hindsight I know he was born at the right time, back then it felt like the timing could have been better. The reasons for my mania were a few. A big one being grand selfishness on my part – I felt upstaged by his birth while I was trying to plan my wedding. I felt like my parent’s attention was so divided that I was robbed of the glory that is one’s wedding experience. My mom was either pregnant or seriously postpartum. I cannot imagine being in her shoes that year.

I realized at some point that I just felt this horrid bitterness about Graham. I don’t think I touched or held him for at least a week after he was born. I cannot believe how selfishly I acted – I’m amazed at my own capacity for such bitterness and resentment.

There were some other reasons behind my attitude. On some level, I felt like he was supposed to be a replacement brother. And on some level, I felt like “geeze, how much do I, as the oldest of all these kids, have to bear? When does the train of giving and sacrifice pull into the station so I can get off?”

Unbelievable, right?

At some point, I got a reality check – God know’s how to kick you where you need it. I had a heart to heart with my mom and apologized to a tiny 2 week old Graham. And I finally held him. I think there was a lot of healing in my heart. God didn’t send him as a replacement. But as a gift of another kind, to fill a void we didn’t know was there. Our family was incomplete until he got there. It took 22 years, but he finally got there and you could (and still can) feel the whole-ness.

He’s almost five now, and I think he changed the Shropshire family in a drastic but good way. He’s a comic and a hero at the same time. And being stapled to the bottom of the totem pole with 4 bossy girls directly above him, he’s grown a massive personality that refuses to be sissified or ignored.

Case in point:

If you tilt your head upside down, you can tell he’s grinning from ear to ear. I guess having older brothers who can chuck you over their shoulder (or over the edge of a cliff)  helps keep the “tea party machine” at bay. This was 2008, attending our brother TJ’s wedding. Both men pictured put on the ol’ tux pants for that one.

Graham is one cool guy, and I’m so glad he’s my lil’ brudder. I’m glad I get to watch what happens in his life. How tall is he going to get? How old will he be when God smashes into his life? Is he going to be a fixer? A fighter? Will he have the same air of authority that seems to come with all Shropshire men?

I really want to find out.

I’m glad that I get to.

Yesterday I had a truly bizarre experience. While chatting on the phone, the doorbell rang. I got up to answer and saw an older gentleman at the door. He had our business card in one hand and a badge in the other. I said “I’ll have to call you back.”

He just wanted to ask questions – there were some general ones about our new business, and about our paperwork (oh crap! Did we miss something?) and then the questions got WEIRD.

Turns out he’s a detective in charge of human trafficking cases in this area, and due to some wording on our business cards that refer to “models” red flags were raised and he had come out to investigate. Big WOW.

After being satisfied that our business was legit, and our use of models was for promotional purposes at events (totally fine, he said) he explained that there are some bad scams out here right now, with people claiming to be modeling agencies and instead running an underground you-name-it ring. As I understand it, it involves escort services and the like, and preys on the young/stupid/insecure southern girl, but even more prominently, on the young foreign girl who came here to work and gets trapped.

I’ve never in my life been accused of something so heinous. And while the weirdness of that whole conversation pretty much takes the cake, afterward I was just struck very hard by the grevious fact that he had to ask at all.

Why is this going on in our community?why are we largely unaware of it? What are we (the ambassadors of peace and mercy, the followers of God) doing about it? I’ve been plenty aware of the human trafficking going on globally – Africa, India, Asia…but in Destin? I really didn’t know. And now that I do know, I want something to happen. Something should be done.

I don’t know what – I guess I should start researching that, and start praying for steps of action.

So weird. And so horrible.

There are a few who know me and know what donuts mean to me. Donuts (or doughnuts, if you prefer) are a transcendental experience for me. Spiritual, almost. I asked for them for mothers day. Keep your stupid jewelry, give me donuts!

As a kid, for my birthday my dad would wake me up early and take me to breakfast. At a donut shop. Probably the highlight of my childhood memories. Next to my pink bubble yum gum radio controlled jeep.

I remember learning that you could make faux donuts by deepfrying refrigerator biscuits. And then some years later learning that Chinese buffets employ this technique from coast to coast. I fully intend to perfect the homemade donut, it’s a life persuit I’m determined to achieve. And I get chills at the thought of Ella someday soon being woken up early on her birthday and whisked away to a tiny donut shop and plied with a brilliant Boston cream. No, not chills…tears. I’m tearing up right now at the thought. Geeze.

As a teenager, my friends and I indulged in some online role playing games. My character? A cross between Indiana Jones and Devlin Buchanan. And my character was OF COURSE obsessed with Donuts.

Wonder no more why my cell’s ringtone has been and forever will be the Indiana Jones theme song.

Donuts are an important part of my life, albeit not as plentiful as I would prefer. I dream of opening the perfect donut shop. Everywhere I have ever lived, I’ve said “I’d love to open a donut shop here.” because the need is SO PRESSING.

Think long and hard about your commitment to donuts, because today is national donut day.

Don’t squander that donut.