Category Archives: Loudoun County

Idol Worship & My American iLife

“You shall not make idols for yourselves or erect an image or pillar, and you shall not set up a figured stone in your land to bow down to it, for I am the Lord your God. Leviticus 26:1

I must come clean. I am somewhat (okay, wholly) addicted to American Idol. I plan my life according to its airings.

When the eight o’clock hour hits, I Velcro myself to the sofa, darting upstairs at commercial time to give a rapid-fire, two-minute good night to my littlest guy, Sean. My husband, enabling my sad addiction, puts Sean to bed solo on American Idol nights (two a week). But alas, Sean voiced his irritation (disappointment) last week with a comment that stung: “Mom, when you watch American Idol, you never say goodnight to me.”

Bad mommy. He’s painfully correct, of course. I nestle in for my one-hour celebrity-wannabe indulgence, a vapid American distraction, and, in doing so, I willfully relinquish the bedtime stories and the wacky singing that’s been a hallmark of our goodnights. I hand over 15-30 minutes of mother-son bonding to a forgettable reality show. It is time for some priority realignment.  (Besides, we do have TiVo—so I can always sink into my sofa after bedtime.)

My guy is eight. Still a youngster who doesn’t mind his mom smothering him with kisses (provided it is out of sight of same-aged onlookers). He tolerates me rapping The Cat & The Fiddle nursery rhyme  (unlike the other five, who slump down in the car seats or turn up the volume on their iPods.). He still enjoys snuggling up with me or his Dad and saying our special prayers. He never forgets to pray for the soldiers and their families. Sean is a cool kid to hang out with, and I am trading my hang-out time for television trash.

This week, I am buckling down and getting back to the basics: bedtime rituals matter. American Idol does not. Who even remembers the past contestants, or, for that matter, any winners beyond Carrie Underwood and Kelly Clarkson.

Are you like me? Is there an idol in your life that is usurping family time? Facebook? Gmail? The Bachelor or Bachelorette? Are you constantly plugged in, tuned in, paying homage to some screen somewhere in your house, car, or office?

Do you sit in the stands to “watch” your child’s game but miss the goal or basket or run because you had your head bowed to text messages and emails? Guilty as charged. Guess what, our kids are watching us. They notice how much we miss, even if we don’t.  My beautiful, charmingly honest daughter Cady called me and her Dad out on that—“I always see you looking down at your phones.”

Pocket the cell phone. Stash the iPad or iPod.

Get back into the game of life. 

Mike and Sean do fist pumps for our Steelers.

Our kids want to play. And be read to. And snuggle. And be cheered on from the sidelines.

American Idol, meet TiVo. I will see you when I see you.

I have my own reality show to star in. 

Be blessed–and be a blessing!

Martha, LoudounCrazyMom

PS–Later today, I’ll hunker down in front of this screen again to tell you about my Letter #7 of 52. Right now, I need to get myself dressed for Sean’s midday basketball game, which I intend to watch in its entirety. :)

Cady presents her Mother's Day creation -- chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Song of the Week--Control by Royal Tailor

Letters #5 & #6: To the Beautiful People

The King is enthralled by your beauty; honor him for He is your Lord.  Psalm 45:11

Bryan in the recovery room (yes, he gave his approval for this post).

CNN chatters in the background. The elevator doors open and close periodically. There is a constant hum from the nearby vending machine, the sound broken only by the occasional voice.

I am sitting in the surgical center waiting area. My middle child, Bryan, 14, was rolled into the surgical suite about an hour ago. I kissed that handsome kid’s forehead, and let the two surgical nurses whisk him away for two hours of sinus surgery.

It isn’t often that I am given two hours to do nothing more than sit. Most days, I am on my feet from before sunrise to long after sunset. Someone’s schedule—either mine or a child’s—dictates nearly every waking hour. Except for today.

I’ve read People magazine from front to back.

I scrolled leisurely through my emails.

I wrote two handwritten letters—each composed expressly for beautiful people.

And now, I’m typing away on my husband’s MacBook Pro, oblivious to the quiet activity that envelops me.

The pages of People were filled with the world’s beautiful most people. Heidi Klum. Kate Middleton. Angelina Jolie. Emphasis on the world’s, as in the media-hyped, society-defined, PhotoShop-enhanced beautiful people.

Truly beautiful people don’t necessarily wear makeup, or a size two. They might wear surgical scrubs and a comforting smile as they wheel a nervous 14-year-old away from his worried mom.

Beautiful people light up a room, usually unbeknownst to them. They pour out their love of life, and of others, with an emotional charge that could power Manhattan.

Beautiful people get in their car and drive three hours—not realizing until two hours into the trip what their exact destination will be–to comfort a disintegrating best friend whose hospitalized daughter has just been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis.

Beautiful people lift you up with praise, challenge you to adjust your point of view, acknowledge your pain, and listen without questioning.  Beautiful people give generously, of their time, their wisdom, their encouragement. Beautiful people know what’s important—faith, hope and love. And they know what isn’t: the superficial fodder that obstructs our vision into the soul of another.

Handwritten letters #5 and #6 go to two beautiful people—my college roommate and beloved friend, Cathy, the one who jumped into her car and found me crumbling in a hospital hallway. And the other is written to my eldest daughter, Shelby, who loves me, organizes me, encourages me, challenges me, and motivates me. My 18-year-old girl is a whirlwind of energy and generosity—in spite of that damned cystic fibrosis diagnosis.

Beautiful people check me out at Wegmans, Kohls, and Rite Aid. They take my drive-thru order at Chick-Fil-A or McDonalds. Beautiful people answer phones, fix cars or furnaces, or teach children. They steal away for a night out to celebrate 27+ years of friendship. Beautiful, gentile, patient, uplifting people are all around me. And today, I see them not in the pages of People or Us, but in the pre-op room. Lynette. And in the recovery room. Erin. And in the neighborhood, getting my youngest son off the bus while I sat in a surgery recovery room. Christina.

Thank God for the beautiful people.

Be blessed—and be a blessing,

Martha, LoudounCrazyMom

Click for this week's inspirational tune:"Beautiful" by Mercy Me.

Day 32. Tender love is the secret.

Words of encouragement. God, do I need those. Especially today, frustrated by the hoops I’m having to jump through to get my daughter, Shelby, in for an endoscopy. Life is already difficult enough when you live and breathe every moment with cystic fibrosis. Why do the insurance companies and doctors’ offices twist the knot in my stomach even tighter? Deep breath, Martha.

So I get home today, and my daily reminder from God is waiting in my inbox. It is perfectly written, and perfectly timed. God knows just how to reach each of us, where we are at any particular moment in time. It’s a song on the radio. A phone call from a friend. A smile from a stranger. The last-minute doctor’s appointment that opens up when you’ve given up all hope. God’s steadfast love rushes in with what we humans call “a God moment.”

Maybe you need a God moment today, and every day from here forward. Sign up for Reminders from God, a little sustenance from heaven to pull you through, encourage you, love you.

Reminders from God

Reminder from God - Day 32 

“Tender Love is the secret. Love those who you are training, Love those who work with you. Love those who serve you.”

Letter #4 of 52: Sweet Child of Mine

We love because He first loved us. 1 John 4:19

Cullen

At three, he spent endless hours on our Naperville, Illinois, basement floor, meticulously constructing elaborate Lego vehicles.

At seven, he collapsed into unexpected tears when his sugar-cube igloo–a first-grade project–refused to take the shape he envisioned.

At ten, he stoically listened as we shared his big sister’s life-altering diagnosis, knowing full well he, too, would have to be tested for cystic fibrosis.

At eleven, he spent 12 consecutive days away from home, having the time of his life at Summer’s Best Two Weeks camp. I limped through, missing him terribly. (This summer, four of our five will head to SB2W--our youngest, Sean, for the first time.)

At fourteen, he evaded human contact, disappearing into his bedroom for hours, his teenage body hijacked by hormones, growth spurts, and mood swings.

Now sixteen, he fascinates me with his computer acumen, the ease in which he navigates the worldwide web and its universe of possibilities. He is bright, witty, artistic, athletic, well-mannered, and is a die-hard fan of Christian rapper, Lecrae. He engages in conversations again, and says “yes” far more often than “no.” My boy has returned, and he is moving closer to manhood with each passing day. That’s heartening, but it tugs at my heartstrings, too.

Letter #4, a store-bought card with my handwritten message, is this mother’s love letter to the eldest of her three amazing, equally adored sons.

All they need is love. Love is all they need.

Tell a child you love them today. Write it down, so when you’re not present to tell them, your handwritten letter will be.

I am a mother of five–so in the weeks ahead, I will compose letters to ALL of my cherished children. (Got that, Cullen, Shelby, Bryan, Cady and Sean? ;) )

Be blessed–and be a blessing!

Martha, Loudoun Crazy Mom

Click for this week's inspirational tune: "This is the Stuff" by Francesca Battistelli

What a Bunch of Crock — Chicken Tortilla Soup Disappears!

Things disappear around our house. My Jeep keys. The school ID that gives me side-door access on rushed mornings. The carefully hidden boxes of Hot Tamales I convince myself no child of mine will ever unearth. And lately, my crock pot fixings, like the widely popular Rombach favorite, Chicken Tortilla Soup.

Okay, it’s true. I am in the midst of an intense love affair with my crock pot. Its shiny silver and jet black exterior says high-tech gadgetry, while its simple two-temperature controls whisper, “I’ve got ya, girl. Do not sweat dinner tonight.” I found London Broil on sale at Bloom, but didn’t have a clue how to cook it rapidly and tastefully so that my brood would have dinner before the evening basketball dash.

Google, I love you. You are the yin to my crock pot’s yang. I plug in my search term and within seconds, an endless list of recipes tumbles out before me, with color photographs that send my taste buds into overdrive. That London Broil was melt-in-our-mouths delicious last night, teamed with baby carrots, onions, a flash-of-the-whisk marinade, and brown rice. Simply work-night perfect.

This afternoon, when I arrived home about 1:30pm, I knew exactly what would fill my crock pot passion tonight: Chicken Tortilla Soup. I had all the ingredients in the pantry–except fresh cilantro, which I did without. I zipped downstairs, retrieved the family pack of chicken breasts, put a pot of water on the stove top and got the chicken boiling while I pried open cans and dumped ingredients into my beloved crock pot. Within 30 minutes, the crock pot was heating to HIGH, and I was off to walk the dogs, my chicken breasts swimming patiently in the pool of cooling water. Four hours later, dinner would be cooked to crock pot perfection.

So here’s the crock pot recipe du jour, Chicken Tortilla Soup I.

I pulled it directly off allrecipes.com, which is a site I head to often as it lets me adjust the number of servings according to my needs. We are a family of seven–four of whom are skyrocketing teens–so I plugged in a serving size of 24. This should deliver two dinners and a few school/work lunches to boot. I didn’t have fresh cilantro, so I added cumin instead. Also, keep in mind that white hominy is found in the canned food aisle. I used the Goya brand. The first time I made this soup, I searched the dry goods aisle for hominy. No luck–so I substituted chickpeas, and the soup was equally wonderful. Rather than type out the recipe, just click below and jump immediately to allrecipes.com to adjust the recipe to your family’s servings needs. :)

*Want to make this recipe gluten-free? Just drop the tortilla chips. Our gluten-free daughter feasts on this soup at all hours of the day.

Chicken Tortilla Soup

fhttp://allrecipes.com/recipe/chicken-tortilla-soup-i/detail.aspx

Okay, back to making beds and vacuuming. My favorite sister is coming to stay tonight.

Be blessed–and be a blessing!

Martha, One Loudoun Crazy Mom

PS–I only have one amazing sister, you silly goose. :)

Letter #3 of 52 Handwritten Missives: A Top 10 List

Lists.

They are ubiquitous, used to quantify or qualify seemingly everything in the world. Think Letterman’s nightly Top Ten.  People Magazine‘s World’s Most Beautiful. Fortune Magazine’s Wealthiest Americans. The New York Times Bestsellers List.

Personally, I classify myself as a habitual list maker. While admittedly I do not like having a laundry list of odd jobs to tackle,  I do enjoy the sense of accomplishment that accompanies crossing off one of those pesky tasks. I did it. I completed a task. At that instant, I am a success. Yeah for me. When I worked in the publishing field, I never left my office without my yellow legal pad stacked with tomorrow’s to-do list.

I use lists to get things done, and sometimes, I use lists to spell out something entirely more important. Like the 45 Reasons I Love My Husband. Or the 75 Reasons I Love My Mom (written for her 75th birthday). Or the 16 Sweetest Things About My 16-Year-Old.

So today, with lists on my mind, I am employing the universality of a list to write Letter #3 of my promised 52 handwritten letters.

Today, my handwritten, postage-stamped-and-mailed letter takes the form of a top ten list:

The Top Ten Reasons You Make the World a Sunnier Place.

1. You always answer the phone with joy in your voice, a warmly spoken welcome that says you have time for me, you are listening.

2. Your smile lights up the office. It’s always there, no matter the weather, or the time of day, or the business at hand.

3. Regardless of how long your own to-do lists may be, you stop what you’re doing and greet me by name.

4. You know my family, and each child’s name–even those who aren’t in your school yet. How do you do that…for all of us?

5. You are incredibly dependable and so respected. We parents can always count on you to know the answers, offer solutions, and provide support.

6.  Your desk is proudly cluttered with all kinds of handmade treasures, many of them given with love by students or their families.

7. You love your job. Abraham Lincoln said: “Whatever you do, do your best.” Every day, you do your best, for all of us. Thank you.

8. You are God’s loving presence in a government-owned facility. Yes, there is a Constitution-mandated separation of church and state, but We the People can show our faith in every little thing we do and say. And you do–praise God.

9. You are fun-loving and good-humored–you make me laugh with your witty comebacks, and that inner happiness is catching.

10. You are gracious, kind and giving, and a treasured blessing to all who cross your path. Thank you for being unforgettable you.

Now it’s your turn.

You might know the intended recipient of this list letter. In fact, you may have someone similar in mind for your own letter. Go ahead and make a list. A top ten list. A top five list. A list of the 20 things someone does to make you smile or feel loved.

Make a list that makes a difference.

Use Letter #3 to encourage, appreciate, or celebrate. Imagine your child or spouse finding just such a list tucked under their pillow tonight, or in the car seat tomorrow morning as he or she heads to work.

Okay, so back to my own to-do list. Write blog: check.  Write letter: check (as soon as I get off here–just need to put it in ink). Make chicken noodle soup for dinner:…..coming up!

Be blessed–and be a blessing,

Martha

One Loudoun Crazy Mom

Cookies–Delete from Computer; Add to Life

In all likelihood, my computer is clogged with cookies. But my life. It’s been missing them–the homemade, Toll House variety. So yesterday, Sean and I–mostly Sean–made homemade cookies right after school. The iPad sat gloriously idle for quite a while as he measured and mixed ingredients, parceled out dough, and watched his creation blossom into edible treats.

For the most part, I love technology, and the ease in which I can unearth answers that during my own childhood required delving into World Book Encyclopedia, or a long afternoon at the public library, scrolling through microfiche. That said, I realize that while technology certainly has its benefits, it’s also stealing precious family bonding time, of which I seem to have less and less. Apple dominates my family’s waking hours–iPad, iPhone, iTouch, iTunes, MacBook. An app is running somewhere in my house nearly 24-7.

Yesterday, Mom and Son embarked on a different breed of application: the homemade, real-life variety. How fun it was to watch Sean measure out all of the ingredients, carefully offloading them into the KitchenAid. He was meticulous and precise, breaking the two eggs tenderly over the Pyrex measuring cup. Two tiny shells slipped into the glass cup, and I talked him through fishing them out with a teaspoon.

Sean measures out ingredients, learning every minute of the baking session.

Break an egg, Sean.

At first, Sean didn’t want to set aside the iPad. Yet as the mixer filled with ingredients, and he realized it was his personal masterpiece, his interest in the process, and his pride at doing it all by himself, swelled right before my eyes. He baked solo, with mom coaching and cheering him on from the sideline.

Sean cleans up the overflow brown sugar granules. Our Sean has amblyopia, and is dutifully wearing his eye patch for the required hour while we bake. Thank you, Sean!

When it came time to line the parchment-covered cookie sheet with little piles of dough, Sean scooped up the batter by the teaspoonful and slid each dollop onto the tray with his fingers, licking them after every disbursement.

Every dollop delivered by an eight-year-old's hands await high-temperature transformation from dough to cookie.

Eleven minutes later, the timer buzzed, and I pulled the cookies out of the oven. We waited a few more minutes, and then I handed Sean the spatula to lift the fruits of his labor onto the wire cooling rack. Another minute passed, and then Sean snatched up one of his homemade cookies and nibbled away. iPad, beat that. :)

Introducing the iCookie--Sean goes from cookie master to cookie monster in 11 minutes flat.

This afternoon, Sean and I had:

a hands-on math lesson: following a recipe and measuring out ingredients;

an in-the-lab science lesson: mixing ingredients and watching them transform before our eyes;

a confidence-boosting, do-it-yourself lesson: Sean now knows he’s a cookie-baking whiz.

Technology is here to stay. It is an essential part of everyday life. But it will never replace the actual art of living and loving. Or the taste of a beaming eight-year-old’s chocolate chip cookies.

Original Nestle’s Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies (direct from the package to you)

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. salt

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened

3/4 cup granulated sugar

3/4 cup packed brown sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

2 large eggs

1 2/3 cups (10 oz. pkg.) Nestle Toll House Dark Chocolate Morsels

(Sean made his cookies with half dark chocolate and half white chocolate morsels)

1 cup chopped nuts (optional)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Combine flour, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar, and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl until creamy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. (We cracked eggs into a glass Pyrex measuring cup first, and then transfer to the mixing bowl, just in case a tiny shell slipped in.) Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in morsels (and 1 cup chopped nuts if desired). Drop by rounded teaspoon onto ungreased baking sheets (we covered ours with parchment paper instead of spraying, which makes for super easy cleanup).

Bake for 9 to 11 minutes or until golden brown. Cool on baking sheets for 2 minutes; move to wire racks to cool completely. Makes about 4 1/2 dozen cookies.

Be blessed–and be a blessing,

Martha

LoudounCrazyMom of five :)

Letter #2 of 52: A Horrendous Day Heads North, Thanks to Compassion

I just set my kitchen timer. 30 minutes.

That’s all I am allowing myself to draft this post. The Stuff of life is calling my name, and the elementary school bus, carrying my eight-year-old Sean and his buddy, Alex, will be here before I know it. So here goes–on with the 52-week letter writing campaign (the handwritten variety).

One of my favorite quotes...which is framed in my entry way.

Letter #2 went out today, one week after my first letter, and I hope my recipient, a kind-hearted, patient registration manager, will find my handwritten words to be at least half as uplifting as I found her actions to be.

When this crazy notion crept into my cranium a few months ago–to write one hand-penned letter once a week for the entire year–I have to admit I thought I would eventually run out of recipients. But what I am realizing is this: The world is filled with people who need to be uplifted, encouraged, and appreciated (me included). One day at a time. One letter at a time. I have a feeling that God will put someone on my heart every week, and this won’t be my work, but rather His.

So here’s the back story. Last Wednesday afternoon, Shelby and I headed to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland, about an hour-and-a-half drive from Leesburg, sometimes longer, depending on traffic. Shelby had a 3:30pm appointment with Dr. Cuffari, doctor of Pediatric Gastroenterology and Nutrition. We arrived at 3:00pm, in plenty of time to complete the necessary, new-patient paperwork. So I get a number, am called up to the registration desk, and quickly realize that our appointment was actually yesterday. My face must have turned ashen, as the registration clerk said, “It’s okay, Mom, we all make mistakes. It’ll work out. Don’t worry.”

I am sinking in sudden despair: We are a day late for an appointment we’ve been anticipating for months–Shelby needs to see the GI doctor ASAP.  She is struggling with pain every single day. But while my brain is trying to wrap itself around the possibility of another month or more of waiting for that critical appointment, I ask if there is any chance that the CF team–located in the same building–can see Shelby today, since we’ve driven 1 1/2 hours for an appointment that was actually yesterday.

Thankfully, Wednesdays and Fridays are also the days that Johns Hopkins holds its Cystic Fibrosis clinics, and though we weren’t scheduled until Friday morning, the CF team graciously agreed to see Shelby. But then another wrinkle appeared–our insurance card had expired, as Mike’s company had switched its coverage at the beginning of the year. The CF team couldn’t complete the PFTs, pulmonary function tests, without insurance authorization. So Shelby and I sat there, waiting, waiting, waiting. She was so angry, lashing out at me for screwing up the all-important appointment. I was crumbling internally, blaming myself, running worst-case scenarios through my head nonstop.

And then one Ms. Evelyn Robinson stepped in. The staff in the back had tried to reach the insurance company. They were put on hold indefinitely. I asked Ms. Robinson if I could use the phone and try. She said it wasn’t necessary, but that I could try. So I called. And I sat on hold for 30 minutes, alternating between squatting and standing at the check-in counter. When I finally reached a human being, I was told to call another number. And you guessed it…another ridiculously long hold. Mrs. Robinson kept checking on me, “Mom, you need a chair?”  ”Any luck, Mom?” And dead-end after dead-end, phone call after phone call, Ms. Robinson kept encouraging me, “Mom, don’t worry.”  ”Mom, it’s going to be okay.” She joined in on the phone calls–trying to find the right company, the right phone number, the right person. And while she called, I made another phone call, this time to Dr. Cuffari’s office, to tell them of the appointment mixup, beg forgiveness, and determine the earliest time they could fit Shelby in. God is so good. He gave me Ms. Robinson on one end, and a helpful, accommodating young lady on the other line. They could see Shelby on Friday–in Frederick, Maryland, an hour closer than Hopkins, and she could attend the first half of the school day. Did I mention that God is good?!

In the end, the insurance information didn’t come through until after we’d left the offices. But everyone at the CF center stayed 30 minutes beyond quitting time to see and treat Shelby. Yes, they went ahead and did the PFTs. As the doctor explained, “We’re not going to let red tape get in the way of treating Shelby.”

On our way out, I stopped and told Ms. Robinson how grateful I was for her help and support. And I gave her a huge hug, breaking into tears of thanksgiving in her arms. I think Shelby was a little embarrassed, but she wasn’t mad anymore. She knew that I’d done all I could to repair the mistake. So the anger and frustration dissipated, and we chatted all the way home, stopping briefly for Chick-Fil-A.

That Wednesday afternoon should have gone down as one of the worst days ever. Instead, I walked out feeling whole, extremely blessed by everyone at Hopkins, particularly Ms. Robinson, and realizing exactly to whom I’d be writing my second letter.

Through our words and actions, we all have the power to influence someone’s day–to raise them up, or to knock them down. We can choose to be inpatient, rude, or condescending. Or we can choose to be Ms. Robinson, who saw a mother struggling, and who offered compassion, patience, and encouragement. Another person might have dismissed me–told me to go home, that there was nothing they could do, that it was all my fault.

Wednesday is a day I will never forget, not because of everything that went wrong, but because of everything–and everyone–that went right.

Every day is just ONE day. A reminder to myself (and you) to take one day at a time:

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34).

Are you anything like me? I need inspiration and encouragement, to know that I am not ever alone in my trials. That my failures do not make me unlovable or unworthy. God is always with me, but sometimes I forget to be still and listen so I can hear His call. God’s love is second to none…which is just one of the many reasons I love this website:  www.iamsecond.com. Real people. Real stories about the power of God’s faithful love, boundless forgiveness and eternal presence. I invite you to watch and share with those you love.

My husband gets home tonight after four days at the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. Maybe Letter #3 will be a love letter to my husband of 21 years. Mmmmm….

Thanks for reading–a little or a lot of my blog. Stop by anytime for the ramblings of a mother of five. :)

Be blessed–and be a blessing,

Martha

Fresh Air = Fresh Perspective in Loudoun County

Let’s be honest: We Loudouners are a blessed bunch.

According to the financial powers-that-be, Loudoun is purported to be the wealthiest county per capita in the US. And not only are we wealthy on paper, but we are wealthy in natural resources. Consider our breathtaking landscapes teeming with livestock and crops, and steeped in historical significance. Add in our proximity to the nation’s bustling nucleus, serving up monuments on the Mall and the nation’s greatest collection of free-admission museums. We have everything we need, and certainly most everything we could want–including come November, a Chick-Fil-A in Leesburg!

Sometimes, maybe a little too often, I’m guilty of taking this bountiful Loudoun life of mine for granted. God must have known I needed a fresh perspective–a Fresh Air Fund perspective, courtesy of our most recent house guest. Bubbly nine-year-old Cade, a Queens, NY native, burst into our lives serendipitously.

Tonight, while my children sleep in their comfy beds inside our roomy house, I want to share our Fresh Air experience with you. If one person who reads this decides to open their home and heart to a Fresh Air child, I will be one especially happy Loudoun crazy mom! So here goes.

Sometime before school ended, I responded to a direct mail letter that landed in my mailbox. It was a compelling call to action from the Fresh Air Fund of New York City. This Tommy Hilfiger-supported nonprofit was looking for Friendly Town host families who would be willing to welcome a 6-17 year old boy or girl into their homes for two weeks away, giving them a respite from summertime in the big city.  Friendly Towns are suburban or rural towns stretching from Maine to Virginia. We hosted a Fresh Air child five years ago, the summer before Shelby was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, but hadn’t done so since.

Timing is everything.

When that Fresh Air Fund letter bounced across my desktop, I felt it pull me in. I sent an email expressing interest and then…forgot about it.  Until a few months later, that is, when a Fresh Air fund volunteer contacted me, and arranged to come out to the house to meet our entire family and check out the living quarters.  Yes, it was time to open our home again. We consulted with eight-year-old Sean, who would be the sole Rombach kid home for a week while the other four were away. Was he certain that he could do this? Could he share his room, share his things, be gracious and kind to a little boy he’d never met? He assured us that he could, and even drew a hand-made welcome sign and taped it to his bedroom door.

On the morning of June 30th, our Fresh Air child’s arrival day, I returned home from my morning walk to see the message light on our answering machine blinking. The Fresh Air Fund coordinator was calling from the bus. Our seven-year-old match had cancelled out the night before, but they were able to put another youngster on the bus for us. His name was Cade, he was nine, and he was en route to our house. Okay, mild, controlled panic overtook me–until that inner voice reminded me that I am not in control–ever–that God is, and that if he decided Cade was the boy for us, well, there was no turning back now. I wrapped up my bedroom preparations and hopped in the Jeep, driving the hour to College Park, Maryland to meet the bus and Cade–due to arrive at 12 noon.

I stood there by myself, surrounded by other families, most with their children, holding signs welcoming their Fresh Air children back for the second, third or umpteenth time. Cullen, Bryan and Cady were at camp for another week–Summer’s Best Two Weeks (the best Christian sports camp ever!). Shelby was traveling around Europe with friends. And Sean was at baseball camp until 2pm. It was just me…and a little boy from Queens, meeting and greeting for the first time in the Holiday Inn parking lot.

A stop atop the rocks at Bear's Den.

Can you imagine being nine, climbing aboard a coach tour bus with children and adults you don’t know, driving 3 1/2 to 4 hours south, and then going home with a total stranger? Now that takes a kind of courage and confidence that I don’t think I possess even at 46. On my first trip to New York City, I was so obviously nervous and out of my element that I was an easy target for a scam within five minutes of stepping out of Grand Central Station. Not Cade. He was effervescent with excitement, a smile lit up his entire face. Fearless and ready for two weeks of fun. He knew, better than me, that great things were ahead for all of us. After hugs and hellos, we climbed inside the Jeep, top down at Cade’s request, and headed home to Leesburg–stopping only momentarily for a smoothie and a call home to Cade’s Dad. Our two weeks were underway.

Bryan, Sean and Cade play Monopoly at the kitchen table.

What does an inner-city kid want to do when he lands in Leesburg, Virginia? Anything and everything! Bike riding around the neighborhood was a particular joy. NYC kids can’t ride their bikes in the street like our kids do, here in our safe, suburban neighborhoods. The neighborhood pool was a huge hit, as were the flippers that gave Cade more confidence in the water. He and Sean must have retrieved hundreds of sunken dive toys, over and over and over again.

Cade takes the lily pads by storm at the AV Symington Aquatic Center.

We camped out in our yard and roasted marshmallows over the fire pit. We ate pizza at Fireworks and CiCi’s and Chuck E. Cheese. We went bowling (twice)–a first for Cade, who ended up with a couple of strikes and spares. We drove the winding gravel back roads in our top-down Jeep, stopping at Bluemont Country Store for a whopping scoop of ice cream. We played Jenga, Apples to Apples, and got hooked on Monopoly again (Cade’s idea). We hit the water slides and lazy river at Leesburg’s AV Symington Aquatic Park during its discounted hours of 5-8pm. We hiked to Bear’s Den, taking along our dogs for good measure. Cade doesn’t have pets–and he treasured every minute with ours.

We devoured movie popcorn and sodas as we watched Cars 2 and Transformers 3. We visited the Smithsonian’s Natural History, Air and Space and American History museums. We went grocery shopping, and shoe shopping. We watched the Leesburg Fourth of July Parade and sat in the rain to await the fireworks display. We sucked down free Slurpees on 7/11 and popsicles or ice cream almost every other day. We played computer games and watched YouTube videos. We made pancakes and waffles and sunny-side up eggs. Above all, we celebrated a little boy who said he had the best two weeks of his life, just hanging out with our family. Loudoun County was a world away from an apartment in Queens.

Cade downing waffles with an extra heaping of whipped cream.

The morning we packed up Cade to head home, we all realized that this little guy had left his mark on us all. Talk about happy, positive, and grateful. Cade kept us smiling–and he couldn’t have been kinder or more polite. We thought we were giving Cade a fresh perspective. In truth, Cade gave us one. Is he coming back next summer? You bet–and we’ll be keeping in touch all year long. Who knew what an impact a little Fresh Air could have on our Loudoun County life?!

Sadly, the bus trip from New York City to Northern Virginia is missing something big: more Fresh Air kids. The huge coach touring bus might have carried 40 or more children to Friendly Town homes. Instead, only 14 children were on board. Next year, the Fresh Air Fund hopes to fill the bus to capacity. I wonder…might you consider being a Fresh Air family with us? Could we recruit other families? Would your church or neighborhood put a notice in their newsletter? Ten years from now, could we have Loudoun County Fresh Air reunions?

All you need is an open bed and a willingness to share one or two weeks of your summer with a New York City child. Talk about a good thing. To learn more about hosting, visit the Fresh Air fund website–www.freshair.org  and set the process in motion. By being an early bird, you likely will be able to correspond with your matched child before she/he ever arrives. How cool is that. Cooler still…giving a special child a special place in Loudoun County next summer. Even if next summer isn’t a possibility, maybe you can help the Fresh Air Fund send inner-city kids to one of the group’s four upstate New York camps. A donation does a lot of good for a lot of kids.

Cade heads home to Queens, NY--we miss him already!

Have questions about the program? I’m happy to share our family’s experience. Post your questions anytime!

Tomorrow, we are off to the Newseum, where from now until September 1, any paying adult ($21.95 plus tax) may bring up to 10 children with them for FREE. Award-winning photojournalism, Berlin Wall, and hands-on kids activities…five kids and one mom are on our way! If it’s a crazy-good experience, you just may read about it here.

Have a blessed week in the summer heat!

Martha, one Loudoun Crazy Mom

Summer rushes in–time to pick up dinner at the local farmers’ market

We wait impatiently for Spring.


Winter has outlasted its welcome by the time the inaugural daffodils sashay along the roadways. We embrace Spring with eager, open arms, like a best friend’s hug after a long separation.

But Summer. This season of heat, humidity, poolside salvation and carefully planned family vacations arrives suddenly. One day there are cool breezes and no bugs, and the next enters like a blast of heat from Mother’s Nature furnace, scorching the Earth in a matter of hours. Gnats and mosquitoes take up seemingly permanent residence. The lush green grass that carpeted our lawns turns dusty brown overnight. Weeds creep in and clutter out garden beds. The pool and A/C are our saving grace.

Summer stealthily lands overnight.

The school buses stop coming. The homework ends. The lunches don’t need to be packed. The requests for school volunteers comes to a halt. Summer freedom arrives like a missile, shot into our lives to blow up all the regular weekday routines.

I used to love the summer sun and heat, beating down on me beachside or poolside, me a teen lifeguard soaking up all that unprotected sunshine. That was, of course, until my sun-kissed skin reached its mid-forties. And before I gave birth to five kids. Now, I still treasure summer and all the freedom it brings, but the eight hours at poolside have been replaced with other stuff. Really good stuff. 

Summer's seasonal veggies line a table at Leesburg's Farmers' Market.

Really good stuff like heading to the Leesburg Farmers’ Market at 8am on a Saturday morning with my husband of 21 years. Mike and I relish that hour out of the house, coffees in hand, strolling the canopied stands teeming with homegrown and homemade offerings–ripe, seasonal vegetables and fruits–many of them heirloom varieties no longer sold at retail stores; breads and sweets; fresh organic eggs, milk and cheeses; beef, pork, lamb and chicken; salsa and wine; crisp, colorful flowers; and direct-form-the farm fruits and vegetables. We talk to everyone– neighbors we bump into, our pastor who frequents the market, the farmers and bakers who bring their goods to us.

Lola's famous chocolate ginger cookies are worth a stop.

Last Saturday, a young woman sat strumming her banjo, entertaining us as we moved blissfully from stand to stand. We picked out zuchinni and yellow squash. We grabbed two pints of sour cherries, which have a very short season but are absolutely perfect in a homemade pie. I bought custom-made dog treats for our four-legged family members–just $5 for a bag of 12. I made my usual stop at Becky’s Pastries for Portugese sweet bread (which makes amazing french toast) and four massive apple turnovers ($2 each)–the best I’ve ever eaten! And that’s saying a lot, because I crave apple anything!

Hubby Mike found his favorite Cherokee tomatoes, royal specimens cloaked in an almost purple skin. Their rich smokey flavor is peerless with slices of fresh mozzarella, basil and a drizzle of balsamic vinaigrette. Naturally, we grabbed fresh basil and mozzarella at the market, too.

There are ample meat options, as well–on this trip, we brought home THE best bacon and kielbasa, from our friend and Mount Jackson, VA pork producer, Farmer Steve Baker. We are huge fans of Steve’s pork–and so is anyone who favors Fireworks‘ Smokey Blue pizza, which features Steve’s bacon. He supplies sausage and bacon to American Flatbread in Ashburn, too. We’ve been buying our pork from Steve for 10 years now. If you love a ham for the holidays, in our humble opinion, Baker Pork offers the best. It makes my mouth water just thinking about Baker ham.

Mike making a purchase at the market.

The truth is, you can pick up everything you need for a summer dinner on the porch or deck, all produced locally, right at the Leesburg Farmers’ Market–or any farmer’s market near you. The Leesburg Farmers’ Market is open year-round, but summer hours are longer: 8am-12 noon. If you haven’t visited a farmers’ market recently, shame on you. Get out there and buy local–it’s fresher, safer, and better tasting than most anything you can find on a supermarket shelf. Plus, where else can you actually hold a conversation with the person who nurtured the food you’re about to put in your family’s mouths?And just wait until apple season…I’ll be fighting you for the best honey crisp apples. So you better arrive early. And Becky’s sells out of the poppyseed laced sweet bread ($4.50) in no time–so buy one for yourself AND your neighbor. Spread a little edible summer sunshine.

Taking home my fav Portugese sweet bread from Becky's Pastries. Yum!

Today, summer feels slow and easy–and quiet. Shelby, our eldest, is in Europe touring with friends. Mike took Cullen, Bryan and Cady to Summer’s Best Two Weeks, the PA-based Christian sports camp that is the absolute highlight of their summer break. Sean is along for the ride. It’s just me, the pets and the computer. Tomorrow, the lightning fast pace of summer will resume, with baseball camp, and a work week, and an evening trip to Hershey Park for their preview visit (buy one-day ticket for tomorrow, and visit for the final three hours the night before). Sean and I have a summer date.

Heirloom tomatoes awaiting an invitation to dinner.

What’s on your plate for tomorrow…and how about next weekend, when the Farmers’ Markets throughout Loudoun County are open for your business? This LoudounCrazyMom challenges you to make one dinner this week with foods purchased at the local market–not the local Giant or Wegman’s–but the local farmers’ market. Let me know what you’re cooking–maybe we can swap recipes!

Until our next summer adventure…

Martha, one loudouncrazymom