Kristin Williams Balla

I think that I might need to borrow a shotgun. To insure the quick wedding of one daughter? Of course not. To threaten the barely-teen boys who stalk another daughter? Maybe…but no. To terrify the over-twenty-one-year-old-man-child who wants to date a third daughter? Possibly… but no. It’s all about the birds. The birds have got to go!

I don’t hate birds, mind you. Despite the fact that as a child my bedroom light blazed every night for a year after seeing the movie “The Birds,” I really like birds - as long as there is a freshly Windexed pane of glass between us.

At our old house (in East Fallowfield) I attached a Brent-built bird feeder to the deck railing just outside the office window directly above my desk. My whole universe exploded with new-found joy! Suddenly I had a virtual zoo at my virtual fingertips.

A vast assortment of birds, squirrels and tiny chipmunks gathered to gorge on the birdseed I purchased in super-sized bags and stored in a Rubbermaid container beneath the smorgasbord. I had the perfect pets. I wasn’t allergic to them and I didn’t have to change a litter box. 

This year, Attila did not give me a Mother’s Day gift. As far as I can remember, he never has. Lest you think he is a barbarian (the name Attila throws some) he is the most generous man I have ever known. We are simply a couple who don’t do gifts very often (at least not for each other).  “Gifts” is not the “language of love” for either one of us.

I don’t think that I have ever received an anniversary gift (October 11th will mark our 29th). We don’t usually exchange Christmas presents, and birthdays? - almost never. We sort of get the things we want as we go along.

Attila and I don’t have expensive habits or hobbies. We don’t collect anything (except for children). Attila doesn’t hunt, fish, golf or boat. I don’t wear much jewelry (it gives me a rash). I don’t wear perfume or  make-up, get my hair or nails done, or go tanning. I’m allergic. I am even allergic to malls.  

We don’t smoke, drink, snort crack, gamble, shoot heroin, play the lottery, or have indoor pets (once again, allergic). We don’t own a single flat-screen HD TV. We don’t own an iPod or digital camera. We share one antique computer. We don’t buy movies on DVD (we can always borrow from our son-in-law’s extensive library). 

Our kids are horrified by our outdated Nokia Tracphones and persistently beg us to “get a plan.”  We have a plan! We don’t plan to spend $75 per month on cell phone bills!

So what gift did my incredibly generous husband enthusiastically offer up this past Monday? He announced that he was going to thoroughly clean our bedroom and bathroom. I nearly swooned. There is nothing sexier than a man who cleans.

Our bedroom is on the third floor of our house. It is, quite literally, in the trees. This does not cause a problem in the winter, but in the spring the baby birds chirp incessantly. I assume they are begging for nice juicy worms. It is soooooo loud. And so annoying.

When Attila was cleaning he must have bumped the sound machine on the bedside table. I went upstairs to use the bathroom and discovered that the third floor was hosting a bird convention. Flashback to a bad 1960s horror film! It turned out that the machine was chirping at full-blast, in perfect harmony with the nest occupants outside the bedroom window. I had achieved surround-sound (we don’t own that either).  

I turned the sound machine off. I sat and marveled at the clean floor which had so recently been covered by dust bunnies encased in tumbleweed. “Twilight Zone” flashback! Nah, just kidding.

We have the sound machine under control, but the bird cacophony outside the window continues to test my patience. Forget the shotgun. I’m not the violent type.  And youngins do have a way of growing up and leaving the nest sooner than we think!

Many, many years ago I purchased a grapevine wreath. It had the name Balla painted across the top banner, a wood cutout of a little house at the center-bottom, and six painted wood hearts (three down each side) declaring each family member’s name: Attila, Kristin, Lyryn, Brent, Declan and Ashley. That was two children ago!

When Johnna joined our family in 1999, I pulled off the old wood hearts and purchased new unfinished ones at the craft store. I bought nine so that I would have a just-in-case-one-is-ever-needed left over. I coated all of them with textured vanilla-colored paint. Using an antique maroon acrylic, I carefully printed each one of our seven names onto each heart, and super-glued them back to the wreath.

My OCD compels me to create balance, which meant I had to have an eighth name. I decided that Jesus would be perfect, and voila! I was able to simultaneously achieve balance and proclamation.

Johnna was nine when we threw her first birthday party that was ever held in our home (she had arrived at the age of eight). We decided to invite some friends from her previous school. Mrs. Hernandez complimented me on the lovely wreath over our fireplace and innocently asked, “Who is Jesus?”

I tried not to laugh. Really, I did. In Spanish, Jesus is a common name.  Mrs. Hernandez thought that maybe she had missed meeting one of our children! I had to explain that I was referring to Jesus Christ.

Leigha had written her name on our hearts when she lived with us as a foster child from June 2002 through June 2004. We were devastated when she returned to her birth family at the age of eight, but were also blessed by regular weekend visits with her over the next two years. When Leigha returned to foster care two years ago we were devastated once again, but there was nothing we could do about it at the time.

And then the call came in April 2008. Were we willing to be an adoptive resource for Leigha? As one friend said, “It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t say yes.”

The Balla Family wreath hangs above an antique sideboard in our living room. Today I took it down. Close inspection revealed a disturbing amount of dust. I had to vacuum it with a brush tool, blowing a fuse in the process (our house was built in 1900!). But tenderly vacuum it, I did. I gently detached the Jesus heart and reapplied it to the bottom-center of the grapevine. 

I retrieved the box that held the extra white heart and the small container of paint. At first, I forgot to stir the paint and it poured out clear and pinkish on the test paper. After vigorous shaking it returned to its’ original warm brown color and I was in business! I was very careful (nearly reverent) as my paintbrush slowly formed the letters    L e i g h a  across the heart. 

It has come full circle. Our daughter has returned home! To prove it, I have a recently-Hoovered wreath with her name on it. God knew she would return to us. He gave me just enough faith to hold onto one last heart with which to officially announce it.

Here is a list of the latest searches that directed people to my blog. Why? Because it amuses me, that why!

Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up. Well, I probably could, but I didn’t. I am glad no one is cataloging my google searches!

I have added a step to my morning computer routine. When I go to my blog to check out new posts by family/friends, I also read the list of top “searches” that have directed people to my blog. Here is the latest bizarre collection:

First of all, I didn’t know that there is a famous chef who shares my brother’s name.  And who the heck is searching for a “bearded man working with a computer?” I have one (Attila) if they want to borrow one. Humans never fail to fascinate me. And “human girls in black and white” obviously fascinate someone else! 

Currently I have no viable job prospects. I did find a Monster listing  for a “Revenue Assurance Specialist” which was followed by “Armored Car Messenger.” It sounds to me like one could take care of the other.

With gentleness and tact, loved ones have made several suggestions regarding my job search. I lobbed off ten years of work history on my resume, and removed the dates after my BA and MS degrees. I look ten years younger, if I do say so myself! If it comes up in an interview I won’t lie or mislead of course, but if it doesn’t come up I don’t plan to address my jobs going back to 1743.

I was encouraged (read forced) to buy a new interview outfit. I actually was already aware that I needed to do this, but it still irked me to have to do it.  Lyryn acted as my personal shopper and we managed to find a black professional-looking pant suit and a coral collared top at Fashion Bug. Lyryn insisted that the tail of the shirt is supposed to hang below the jacket, but I felt compelled to ask the opinion of a saleswoman (a fellow grandmother). She told me that yes, it is absolutely “in fashion” and I look very professional in the outfit. Seriously? Please! 

Next, I bought myself a blow dryer. I have been air-drying my hair for centuries now. I don’t have bad-hair days, I am having a bad-hair decade! My au-natural coif has been described as “unkempt” and “unprofessional.” I call it real - relentlessly real (and easy to put up in a pony tail when I get hot flashes).

People, it’s just hair. I wash it on a regular basis. It doesn’t define me. It doesn’t tell you whether or not I am smart, talented, funny, loving, compassionate, organized, etc. It only tells you what our culture has brainwashed you into believing it tells you. 

You think it tells you that I am lazy. You think it tells you that I am unprofessional. You think it tells you that if I “don’t care about my appearance” then I can’t possibly care about my work. All I can tell you is that my hair obviously lies and you are watching too much TV and reading too many fashion magazines! 

But I will still learn to blow-dry my hair into some effort-showing style (style being a relative term) so that I am not dismissed out-of-hand by potential employers. And I will buy lip gloss (just for interviews). 

I won’t wear eye makeup and you can’t make me. I am allergic to all things. I rub my face and eyes all the time. Visions of raccoons come to mind and that image would not be helpful in scoring a great job. Or maybe that is an upcoming trend I am not aware of?

My last bastion will be the dyeing of my hair. I will hold strong until I  deem myself entirely unemployable unless I  break down and do it. I am allergic to chemicals so do I really want them poured on my head? I earned every one of these kinky white hairs.  Should I not be proud of the 31 kids who put them there?

Enough ranting. I need to call my daughter Lyryn so I can schedule my blow-drying lesson.

While you will see it openly addressed in TV commercials (what isn’t?),  the rather serious issue of constipation is rarely discussed in polite company (whatever that means). Just recently, the cumulative stories of the Balla family women have caused me to ask myself the $64,000 question: “Constipation… petty annoyance or silent epidemic?” If it is happening in our family, isn’t it likely to be wreaking havoc in other families as well?

Last month Leigha had to see the doctor about the stomach pain she had been experiencing for several weeks. We were advised to get an x-ray of her abdomen, which we did. Diagnosis: Constipation. Prescription: Eat less cheese.

Several months ago Ashley was rushed from Devereux to the Bryn Mawr Hospital ER, suffering from severe pain in the abdomen. There was real concern that her appendix might be feeling just a wee bit cranky. After a full day of testing, she was discharged with a diagnosis: Constipation. Prescription: Eat less cheese (especially since Ashley is lactose-intolerant).

Johnna has never complained of this condition before, but lately… whine, whine, whine! Diagnosis: Constipation brought on by pregnancy. Prescription: Give birth to a son on or about July 5th.  

My anomaly had turned into a coincidence which seemed to be turning into a trend, so I decided to call Lyryn to find out if she too suffered from the family curse. If she did, all four daughters would be accounted for, turning my survey into a clean sweep.  And yes, you got it! Lyryn suffered from constipation during pregnancy, brought on by the use of anti-nausea medication.

Jesse happened to be in the room when I called Lyryn. Finding his end of our conversation to be slightly peculiar, he asked her “Who are you talking to - a telemarketer?” No Jesse, just your crazy mom-in-love doing a constipation survey.

So what about me? Recently I have been suffering from extreme metaphorical constipation, a word that also means “bound” or “blocked.” I have wanted very much to start writing my book and even promised a good friend that I would get 5000 words on paper (aka computer) by yesterday. I failed. I managed to type zero words, while  using several hundred thousand of them to castigate myself in my own head (quite loudly too, so please pass the Tylenol).  

In conclusion, I have learned that constipation runs rampant in my family. My recommendation to any fellow sufferers out there is this: Eat less cheese and don’t get pregnant!

As for me, on Monday I will begin writing my book. There will be a small bowl of prunes by my computer to help me on my journey.

I am realizing that I need to expand my job search, and possibly my horizons as well, so I am now seriously considering jobs that are located in Lagos, Nigeria. Also, the U.S. Navy is very, very interested in me and they have a multitude of opportunities I might want to consider. Although I would LOVE to be licensed to carry a weapon, I don’t think I would enjoy (or survive) basic training.

In my daily search I come across many interesting job titles. Alas, I  am not qualified for most of these careers. ”Java Developer” is intriguing, but the only thing I know about java is that I like it with milk, no sugar. I am also curious about the job entitled “Director, Vector Development Protein Expression.” If it has anything to do with steak, I’m in! And then of course there is the one that offers “Careers at eBags, Inc.” Are they referring to the bags under my eyes or my purse that passes for luggage? I have extensive experience with bags and might want to more thoroughly explore the opportunities awaiting me at eBags.

Facebook is opening a world of nostalgia to me, as high school friends crawl out of the woodwork and start to communicate with each other. I feel compelled to check the site every day to see what my “friends” are doing and thinking. Yesterday I was complaining to Attila about how addictive ”MyFace” is - this was a subconscious combination of MySpace (which I hate) and Facebook (which I actually really like). So… if you aren’t on MyFace yet, you better get with the program. I need more friends and I am very competitive! :-}

As I mentioned in a previous post, I am using my forced “vacation” to work through the long overdue projects on my to-do list. Last week I researched how Attila and I can donate our bodies to science (just in case someone can actually use these battle-weary-flesh-covered-vessels-of-humanity). For years we have each mentioned that this is our desire (after any usable organs are taken) but I never actually educated myself on the subject. So…

Paoli Hospital hooked me up with the Humanity Gifts Registry in Philadelphia. They sent me donor cards to fill out so we can officially register. We keep a card for our records and inform our family, doctors and hospitals of our wishes. The only cost is for transportation of the body to the medical school. By law, this has to be done by a funeral home, and can range anywhere from $35 -$400 depending upon the distance they have to travel.

I am not trying to be morbid here. I am being practical. I don’t want my kids to have to make decisions about this kind of thing while in the throes of losing their parents. No offense to anyone who feels otherwise, but Attila and I don’t believe in burial. Attila considers it “a waste of real estate.” We know where we are going and we know that we won’t be needing these bodies there!  But we respect the fact that everyone has their own extremely personal feelings on the matter, and we are not rendering a political statement or attempting to make converts to our belief system.

The drug dealer across the street appears to be away today. Cars frequently drive up to the house. Someone sits in the car with the engine running while the passenger runs up to the door, knocks, waits, knocks, waits, then runs back to the car and they pull away, drug-free.

I know this because my office window (where I spend much of my day) is directly across the street from the alleged drug dealer’s door. I might not have noticed on my own, but the kids informed me that sneakers hanging up on an electrical wire indicate that a drug dealer lives on the corner. Our house sits on a corner. There are sneakers hanging from the wire. In addition to that, the drug-dealer-designation was confirmed by our next-door neighbor. Who knew?

I have days when I wish that I lived in the wilderness. Then I remember that I do live in the wilderness – the urban wilderness.  It makes me sad. But maybe I just need lunch.

I feel like bragging on my husband today. I’m not sure why today is the day - it just is. Through all the challenges, sorrows, stresses and crap in our life (the Balla Family has had our share), I can still look at Attila and know that God has blessed me beyond anything I would or could have ever deserved. I am humbled by this.

Recently I was reading through my 1979 journal writings. As I turned the hand-written brown-edged pages, I was literally transported back in time. Back then I sported a short permed blond Afro (what was I thinking?) and wore much, much smaller clothing enfolding a much, much smaller body. 

I lived alone in my own apartment in Ardmore, while working full-time as an Office Manager during the day, and earning my Master’s Degree in Counseling at night. I obviously had no time to fall in love, so of course, that is when God decided to introduce me to Attila.

I stumbled upon an unfinished poem that I wrote about Attila soon after I met him:

I used to love the silence

in the place I share alone

but then you came with flowers

and made my house your home

the darkness now seems darker

when your presence is away

my pleasure in the silence

has diminished by the day

Attila didn’t sweep me off my feet. I didn’t sweep him off his. It was more like a huge sigh that we sighed simultaneously as we recognized our life partner in the other. I was only 21 at the time so I had not had to wait very long for him. Poor Attila was 34 and more than ready to meet his wife!

March 23rd will mark the 30th anniversary of our first meeting. I have been with Attila longer than I have not been with him! Even my fertile imagination is not extensive enough to picture life without him. I have never met a more steadfast and generous soul.

Naturally, Attila is not perfect. He does some crazy things. Several months ago he entombed all of our drafty, ancient windows in plastic. He  managed to trap an innocent roll of tape inside one, and an alcohol swab packet inside another. I am not even sure how he accomplished this! But I crack a smile every time I open the mini-blinds.

Attila is more moody than he was when we were first married. The slew of medications that he takes for survival, combined with the pain he experiences every single day (and never, ever complains about) don’t help much either. But one morning Attila came humming into the kitchen where I was pouring coffee. Humming is good, but oh so rare. I asked him what made him feel like humming today? He answered, “I’m humming because the girls aren’t home, and you are.” That’s the kind of sweetness you can’t buy in a pastry shop.

I could go on forever. That is why I decided to record it in my book “Attila My Hon: More Than a Conqueror” - which I have to start. Attila keeps telling me that I won’t write the book until he dies. I can’t let that happen because it is going to be my love song to him! I will keep you posted on my progress.