The Year Of No Parade

Seven years ago, my newly-wed husband and I spent our first night in our brand-new home.  It was the day before Memorial Day.  We were still painting and had not properly "moved in," but I wanted to stay because we had heard the Richmond Memorial Day Parade went right by our house. 

I will never forget my excitement waking up that morning.  The parade didn't start until 9am, but I didn't know that.  From 6 o'clock on, I kept running to the front door, watching the neighbors setting out coffee for their son's karate school, jumping up each time an unusual vehicle went down the road . . . I was terrified of missing the parade!  My husband seemed simultaneously amused and annoyed. 

Finally he agreed it was time to go out, and we sat on the steps of our vacant rental, cups of coffee in hand, and watched the parade.  All 20 minutes of it.  The middle and high school band, the fire trucks from a three-town area, the Boy and Girl Scouts, a team of draft horses.  I was like a kid in a candy store.

That parade has somehow become a mark of our life together.  The next year we sat on the steps with our blind/deaf Australian Shepherd, Nyssa.  The year after that we added our Newfoundland cross, Jynx.  Then it was Ranita.  The next year, Chinchita.  We haven't missed a year.  I refuse to miss "my parade"!

Last year, both kids were aware of everything, eager to pick up the bubble gum thrown in our yard, despite the fact that Mommy was absolutely NOT letting them chew it yet!  Their excitement reflected mine.  We were so happy.

It felt significant, then, when this Memorial Day dawned and the sun refused to shine.  Rain did not fall upon the ground, it pelted it, viciously at times.  I was disappointed.  No parade.  No floats.  No horses.  No music.  No treats. 

Strangely enough, I also felt vindicated.  I felt as if God himself were sharing in my broken home, my broken family, my broken heart.  It was as if he was meeting my need to have the world realize this year was different . . . and to have them join in my suffering.  How could we have our cheerful, happy, delightful little parade when my perfect little family of four was now a shattered family of three?

It's melodramatic to write these things, I know, but those of you who have been through something similar will be able to relate, I think.  Sometimes the sorrow is so deep you really do want the world to sorrow with you.  

So in my line of Memorial Day Memories, this one will stand out in stark relief as the year my husband left me.  The year without music.  The year without sunshine.  The year without a parade. 

Even as I grieve, I believe that this moment belongs to this year alone.  I believe next year will be different.  I believe the sun will shine again.  I believe the music will play again.  I believe the parade will go on again.  And we will be happy. 

Spring Cleaning in the Driveway

I am not a car person.  I drive a car.  I name my car.  I get the oil changed more or less on schedule.  I take it in when those crazy lights suddenly go off on the dash.

I do not, however, pamper my car.  I don't wipe down the upholstery.  I don't vacuum the interior.  I rarely even use the squeegy things at the gas pumps.  I have never taken my car . . . any of my cars . . . through a car wash.  

Today I turned over a new leaf.  My car was full of all the stuff moms drag around in the winter in case you are suddenly caught in a snowstorm in the middle of nowhere and have to keep your children alive for a week without assistance.  Warm blankets, extra pull-ups, a first-aid kit, a pile of toys the kids had to take with them to the store but didn't care enough about to bring them back into the house.

It was time for drastic measures.

So today I lugged my trusty Dyson, a can of Pledge, a bottle of Carbona 2-in-1, a roll of paper towels, and a laundry basket--not to mention my kids--out to the driveway for an unprecedented venture into cleanliness.  We discovered all kinds of things in that car. 

Happy Meal toys from McDonald's.  Four water bottles, all of which had been opened already.  (I suppose I'd have let the kids drink them on Day 3 of the aforementioned snowstorm, but certainly not before then!)  Receipts.  My atlas. 

(Yes, I still use an atlas.  I know my phone has GoogleMaps.  I don't like to use it.  I don't like allowing my phone to know where I am.  I know NCIS could hack into my phone in 20 seconds flat, turn on the GPS, and determine my location anyway, but there's a part of me that wants them to have to work at it a little.) 

Back to the task at hand.  I sorted everything into recycle (which got dumped into the bin), garbage (which went into the Stop & Shop bags I keep in my glove compartment for just such an occasion, keep in the car (piled in the driveway), and take into the house to disinfect (in the laundry basket). 

Most of you have probably done this before, so this is nothing new.  It was a new experience for me, however, and I was surprised at how fulfilling it was.  I liked seeing my vinyl interior shine again.  I liked the smell of Pledge filling my car.  (Who doesn't like the smell of Pledge?!)  I liked the absence of gravel all over the floor. 

My favorite part, I think, was seeing the car seats so clean.  Carbona is my best friend for tasks like that, and it had its work cut out for it today.  I had treated the kids to their first shakes  a few days ago.  For some reason I thought straws would be neater than open-mouthed containers.  Not so.  By the time they were done, stickiness was everywhere. 

Not anymore!  Those straps and seats and buckles are spic and span!  Of course, everyone wants their kids in clean seats.  I found it particularly pleasing today because, of all types of grime, sticky is my biggest aversion.  I've handled manure and dirt and mud with barely an eyelash flicker.  But get near me with watermelon juice . . . ice cream . . . jelly . . . smashed fruit . . . yuck. 

My children have grown accustomed to the following interaction:
ME: "NO!  Don't touch me!  I haven't washed your hands yet."
THEM:  "But Mommy, I just want to give you a hug!"
ME:  "I know.  And I love your hugs.  But please let me wash your hands and face first!"
THEM (Defeating my evasive maneuvers and wrapping their tacky selves around me):  "But Mommy, I just love you so much!" 

What can you do?!

Suffice it to say, I am looking forward to going to church tomorrow in my spiffy clean Subaru.  There's only one problem.  I had every intention of washing the exterior today as well, but instead I got sidetracked into rebuilding my pasture fence for the critters I am hoping will be joining us shortly. 

(Why mow when you can do chores twice a day?  I think we can all expect some juicy blog posts out of this decision . . . !) 

I could wash it tomorrow afternoon after church, but then I wouldn't be able to mow the lawn (which is about a week overdue since I was unable to mow last Sunday!).  I might have done it anyway and let the grass grow a little while longer except for the fact that the Memorial Day parade goes right past my house. 

And after all, one must keep up appearances! 

What's in YOUR Garden?

A friend and her husband stopped by tonight to pick up some Lily Leaf Beetles and larvae (she's an entomologist) and to take a peek at my yard to see if the husband would be willing to help me with the mowing.  (My sister, sweet thing, had already offered a play-date/mowing solution, but I greatly appreciated his willingness!) 

I found myself dragging them all over my unshorn tick-haven, pointing out all the exotic plants my ex has planted in the past 7 years and talking about plans I have for this area or that.  I casually threw out tree names like Heptacodium and Acer griseum . . . and actually knew what I was talking about.  (Mind you, there were also many to which I replied, "That's some kind of vibernum; we have dozens of different kinds.") 

Suddenly I stopped short and gasped, "I think I'm assuming my ex's persona!  I don't know if this is a good thing or not!"  For this was always Nick's thing: the proud groundskeeper offering an exclusive glimpse of the "Carolina Arboretum."

So I'm looking back over the last hour and asking myself if there was some mild disfunction showing itself as I led the 2-cent tour.  Was my behavior a desperate attempt to retain whatever connection I still have with the ex?  Was it a subtle form of "Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.  My yard now."  Was I turning into my ex?????

No.  No to all.  (Okay, so maybe there was a teensy weensy bit of the second, but definitely not the others!) 

What it was, I think, was an example of one of the many ways my life has been marked by my ex.  Right now I mostly feel he has bludgeoned me in many ways.  I feel scarred.  I feel violated.  I feel betrayed.  Like a character in a Jane Austen novel, I used to consider marriage the highest and best calling a woman could have.  I'm currently resonating more with the Amazon Women. 

To be just, though, I am also walking away from this relationship with some good things.  Ranita and Chinchita are the best, obviously.  They are refulgent, as I used to be, and clever and sensitive and caring.  I see in them both the potential to be and do anything God sets before them, and to bless the world by their presence. 

And tonight I realized I'm a better plant appreciator because of him.  I'm not a horticulturalist.  I'm not a "plantsman."  But I know more about woody ornamentals (that's trees and shrubs, fellow laypeople!) and moving plants than I did a decade ago. 

I know there are dozens of types of Japanese maples (almost 2 dozen in my yard alone!) and even more types of vibernums (another 2 dozen in my yard!), not to mention the varieties of Rhododendrons!  (Ask me the differences between Francesca, Scintillation, and Calsap . . . I can tell you!) 

I can spot a Nootkatensis in a yard while driving 25 miles an hour.  I know that bananas can overwinter outside in Carolina, RI . . . just don't expect to ever pick fruit from them.  I also know that yuccas are incredibly beautiful in flower and virtually impossible to kill, even with help from hungry mice in a bitter winter and aggressive digging by a very determined nurseryman in the spring. 

Should my children end up showing a proclivity for all things green and growing, at least their mother won't be totally ignorant . . . there's something to be said for that. 

On the Rathskeller Porch

This evening I have a few moments while waiting for a friend to just....do nothing.  Of course, I'm not doing nothing....I'm starting this blog post.  On my phone.  In a memo.  Sitting on a bench outside a restaurant.  

The fact that I am in need of such moments and am yet unable to take advantage of them when they arrive is bothersome.  

So perhaps I will do the next best thing and live this moment while blogging about it.  The setting sun is caressing my neck.  A gentle, pleasantly cooling breeze wafts by every so often, breaking the summery heat and reminding me it is still spring after all.  

I just looked up and noticed there are ceiling fans running overhead, which is laughable considering I'm sitting on an open porch!  Whose idea was that anyway, and what could their motivation possibly have been?  Perhaps the same as a person writing a blog on her phone when she could be closing her eyes and snoozing . . . 

There is some kind of 60's soul being piped outside.  ("Cupid, draw back your bow...")  It seems a little sacrilegious somehow.  I'm a music buff, too, so I'm not sure why it's bothering me right now.  And I don't even hate the music...it's not like it's hip-hop! 

Maybe there's already so much noise in my brain that I am craving silence.  Or at least the absence of man-made noise.  

Am I allowed to use that term anymore?  Is it people-made?  Human-made?  I don't know . . . I still think in term of stewardesses and waitresses!  Ironically, Ranita does not.  He looked at me one day while I was distributing supper and said, "This is your job, Mom.  You're the server."  That is just so wrong on so many levels!  

But back to the idea of noise in the brain.  (Sounds like a disease, doesn't it?  Maybe it is!)  I think this blog is becoming my way of taking all that noise and organizing it into music (even if it is hip-hop-esque!).  

This blog allows me to briefly control the things in my life I really can't control.  I can't alter the storyline or the characters, but the process of putting them into words, of determining what to keep and what to leave out, of discovering meaning behind the mundane yet chaotic act of living is empowering and liberating.  

So, dear Reader, thank you for listening to my music.  Thank you for being a part of my song. 

Charmed, I'm Sure!

The bracelet was supposed to have been a Christmas gift from my husband this year.  He never really gave me that kind of thing, unless you count a few pairs of beautiful hand-tied earrings he made while we were dating.  (I wasn't sure what to do with those after he asked for the divorce.  I didn't want to wear them, but I didn't really want to give them back.  I compromised.  I decided to keep them for my daughter. . . they will be something special for her from him.)

This year, I had decided it was time for some jewelry, and I wanted a Persona bangle.  I pretty much demanded a Persona bangle.  It was pretty, and I could ask for charms that meant something special to me.  I was excited. 

I went through the booklets of charms and circled the "Mrs." dangle, blue mottled stones that reminded me of the ocean, charms for my kids . . . all kinds of charms. 

Then, two weeks before Christmas, I found out he wanted a divorce.  Did I still want the bracelet?  WHAT?  NO, I most certainly did NOT want the bracelet.  But that wasn't quite true.  I did want the bracelet . . . I just didn't want it from him. 

So, I tallied up money I'd been given for my birthday, and I had enough to cover a bracelet and three charms.  So what would I get? 

First, I selected a frog wearing a crown for my frog-prince, my Ranita, as I call him.  As an infant he used to curl up on my chest with his legs and arms tucked under him like a little frog, so the name stuck.  Then I picked a ladybug for my Chinchita, "my little bug," because she's, well, cute as a bug in a rug. 

The final charm rests between those two. . . three footprints and an inscription that says, "When you saw one set of foot prints . . . it was then that I carried you" from the poem "Footprints."  Either of my children can tell you that one stands for God carrying us. 

That bracelet means an awful lot to me.  I tell my little ones it's because I can carry them with me wherever I go.  My kids take it to heart.  More than once I have left the house in a hurry and have forgotten to put it on.  I usually notice it in the car, backing out of the driveway.  Ranita tells me, "Don't worry, Mom.  You don't need it . . . we're here with you!" 

I always smile, proud of his innocent insight, and say, "You are absolutely right!  And you are better than any bracelet!" 

This morning, he used it in a different way.  I was struggling with the carpet cleaner my in-laws graciously gave us (one day I'll write a blog about their generosity . . . I sure can't list it all in an aside!).  For some reason I could get the attachment to work, but the foot wouldn't, no matter how many times I switched it to "Floor."  Since Chinchita had managed to get poop on the carpet this morning (don't ask me how; I still have no idea!), I really needed to clean the carpet. 

So I took apart the pieces I could, cleaned them out, and still couldn't get it to work.  Then I did the most productive thing possible: I sat on the floor and cried.  Suddenly I felt a small hand on my back.  My little Frog-Prince stood there holding my bracelet.  "Here, Mom," he said, "I wanted to give you this because I know it makes you happy." 

Sweet child! 

He got a big hug.  I dried my eyes (slowly!), and thanked him for being so thoughtful.  (I did have him put the bracelet back because I didn't think wrestling with the machine was the best thing for my treasure!) 

Somewhere along the line the carpet got washed.  I did much of it using the tool, but then somehow it seemed as if the foot started working . . . I don't know.  The carpet got wet, then it got drier, and the clean water ended up dirty.  The carpet both looks and smells clean.  Sometimes that's all I need to know! 

Well, that and the fact that God really is carrying me.  And sometimes He uses my children to do it. He's carrying them as well.  And sometimes He uses me to do that.  Today he also threw in my mom and my sister . . . and my in-laws, though they probably don't know it. 

Days can be hard.  Some days are really hard.  But it is comforting to remember we never have to navigate them alone . . . whether we're wearing a shiny silver bangle or not. 

Fun at Home

Back when I was young, single, and free, my idea of a great vacation was going somewhere.  Like a Thanksgiving road trip to Wisconsin, by way of Illinois, Iowa, Indiana . . . (at least it felt that way as we wandered around on the right road in the wrong state for many an hour . . . but at least we wandered into an OLD A&W!) 

Or Spring Break Choir Tours to California, Florida, New England (where we didn't get to see my family due to getting snowbound in NYC . . . but I got to see Cats!). 

Or a week-long missions trip to Mexico where we discovered that our "translator's" English was not quite as good as my Spanish, so I ended up getting very familiar with my Spanish-English dictionary and somehow even got invited to move down there permanently.  (At least, I think that's what the pastor was saying . . .!) 

Vacation has a different meaning now.  I have come to relish the notion of "stay-cation."  There's something warm and cozy about your home . . . especially if you haven't been in it much!

Today my kids and I enjoyed just such a respite.  The past week was busy--farm visits for Mom, a birthday party for one cousin, a 60th birthday party for my aunt . . . lots of motion!  So today we hung out.

And I do mean "hung out."  My son, for some reason, decided it was a day for running around in his underwear.  I can't say much, really.  I was in my pj's until noontime when my pastor called offering to bring over some goat's milk (which tasted really good tonight, by the way!).  I dashed into clothes to look put-together . . . an illusion I just shattered by confessing it online!

Do not let the attire fool you, though.  We were productive today.   The kids wanted to do "schoolwork," so I pulled out the "Teach My Preschooler" box.  My daughter practiced writing circles (using a perfect "OK" hand grip) while my son built number trains. 

The kids watched Milo and Otis, a movie that I disliked the first time and grow to love more and more with each consecutive viewing.  I washed and folded laundry. 

(Let me just say that my form of purgatory would not be perpetually rolling rocks up hills or bending down for an elusive drink of water . . . mine is emptying a laundry basket into the washer, doing something else for half an hour, and then finding a rogue sock that could have gone in that load and is now sitting by itself in a not-quite-empty hamper!) 

We ate pork chops for lunch, dredged in dijon mustard, honey, and panko bread crumbs.  My son swore it was inedible . . . until the first bite.  "This is really good, Mom!"  Yeah.  I know.  That's why I made it for you!

I read "Chica Chica Bum Bum" in Spanish and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" in English. 

After nap time we played outside, even though the grass was wet with earlier rain.  The kids got wet.  They were happy.  So was I. 

They went out for supper with their Daddy.  I stayed in and picked a HealthShare for when my health insurance expires next month. 

This is not a "divorce-centric" entry, so I won't go into great detail on the process, but I have to admit that choosing which Christian health-share was a remarkable experience.  Jimmy, who answered my call at Samaritan's, was SO kind and prayed so beautifully for me that I cried.  Really.  I am always amazed and humbled and blessed by our Family.  I thank God for His "hands and feet" in my life. 

My munchkins came home, flooded me with hugs and kisses, showed me their "treasures," and snuggled down for Bible time.  I can now hear them both sleeping deeply . . . hopefully dreaming happily. 

I created some ads for my VBS adventure, and wrote this blog.

And I even feel somewhat rested. 

What more can you ask from a vacation?! 

A Moment for a Memory

There are lots of things I enjoy about writing agricultural profiles: meeting new people, hearing interesting stories, learning new things about agriculture.  Today was something a little special, though. 

I visited the Molodich family in Connecticut.  The women in the family run a produce operation and sell mostly direct-to-consumer.  The men are dairy farmers.  I realized walking around the dairy operation that I hadn't really talked dairy in a long time . . . probably not since I milked my last cow before leaving for college twenty-plus years ago. 

The little black and white Holstein calves were even cuter than I remembered . . . and it was funny how quickly some random memories came.  There was one cow with a backwards 7 on her face.  From somewhere in my mind came "7-Up," a cow we had with a true "7" marking. 

The smells, which I talked about in an earlier post, were almost overwhelming, laden as they were with decades-old associations.  I can't remember another farm visit that evoked such powerful emotions--pleasure, sadness, youth, and age. 

Perhaps it was the unexpected connections, finding we knew several of the same people.  Perhaps it was the similarity in backgrounds: multi-generational farm family navigating transition plans.  Maybe it was just the surprise of finding an old, but still operating, sawmill on the farm and thinking of our little sawmill at home and the hours of use it has seen. 

Most probably, all of those things slowly wove themselves around and into my heart and mind.  All I know is that I was unprepared for what happened within me as the cows began their methodical trek into the milking parlor, unerringly finding their way to their stanchions.  I noticed how the fragrance of the barn altered as they filled the formerly-vacant space. 

There is a scent that is a dairy barn.  It is not just cow.  It is not just manure.  It is not just feed.  It is not just bedding.  It is not just milk.  It is all of them combined with an undertone of iodine dip. 

As the cows came in, letting down their milk in anticipation of the milking machines, that aroma washed over me, filling my nostrils, my clothing, my very pores. 

I was immediately transported in time.  I was no longer a responsible 40-year-old divorced mother of two.  I was 17: imaginative, living with a soul filled with music, dancing toward a future I was convinced would be brilliant . . . at least more brilliant than milking cows. 

Suddenly, it was all I could do to keep a tight grip on my notebook and camera and not slide up beside one of these stranger-bovines, clean off her udder, and pop a machine on those full teats. 

I suspect Mike noticed.  "If you're ever in need of a job . . ." he joked. 

"Be careful," I teased back. "I just might take you up on that!"  Then reality struck and I amended, "But after 20 minutes I'd probably be saying . . ."

"Your legs would be hurting some then!" he finished for me.  We both laughed. 

It was a moment of beautiful camaraderie.  And it was a moment of poignancy.  For I am no longer 17.  Age has taken things away from that bright-eyed, all-knowing, all-ignorant child. 

But age has given me things as well.  Two beautiful children.  A deeper understanding of life . . . and the realization that even now I am only scratching the surface of what there is to be understood.  Heartbreak.  Loss.  Joy.  Hope. 

And even as I longed to crouch between those cows once again, I knew that I would want a moment only, not an hour or a week or a lifetime.  For the life I have, even with its unexpectedness and its trials, is where I belong.  And it is good. 

My Brother's Keeper

Many of us are familiar with Cain and Abel, the characters in history's first murder mystery.  (Read all about it in Genesis 4.)  Abel was a shepherd; Cain was a dirt farmer.  When the time came to offer sacrifices, Abel brought livestock; Cain brought produce.  Abel's offering was accepted; Cain's wasn't.  In his anger, Cain lured Abel to the fields and murdered him.  When God confronted Cain, Cain famously replied, "Am I my brother's keeper?" 

On some level Cain's response has always baffled me.  I am a firstborn, and for as long as I can remember, I have felt that I was indeed my brother's (and sister's!) keeper.  As the oldest, it is my job to look out for my siblings, protect them, guide them, encourage them, and from time to time rebuke them.  I am responsible for them. 

That is a concept I am beginning to disavow, thanks to Cloud and Townsend's seminal work Boundaries.  The problem lies with that pesky little preposition "for."  As Cloud and Townsend present it, I can only be responsible for myself.  This means I am responsible for my actions (and their consequences).  I am responsible for my emotions and how I communicate (or don't communicate) them to others.  I am responsible for setting and maintaining limits on myself.  I am also responsible for choosing what/who is allowed within my circle. 


Notice what I am responsible for: myself.  I am my responsibility.  Nobody can do this work for me.  And nobody can really take that responsibility away from me. 

Also notice what I am not responsible for: anyone else.  I am not responsible for anyone else's actions, thoughts, emotions, successes, or failures.  I am not responsible for anyone else's happiness or contentment. 

If we stop here, it seems as if Cain actually had it right.  How can he be his brother's keeper if he is not responsible for Abel? 

Ahhh.  Cain was responsible in regards to Abel, but he was responsible to him . . . not for him.  What does that mean?  To my fledgling understanding of this matter, it means that Cain (and you, and I) are responsible to show our brothers love, compassion, and concern. 

Where we see a legitimate need and have both the ability and the inclination to meet it, we should.  Where we see persistent sin (in a believer), we should gently and lovingly confront it with the goal of fostering spiritual growth.  It means we should consider our brothers' feelings, thoughts, and needs in our interactions with them. 

Wait a minute.  Didn't I just say I wasn't responsible for the feelings of others but now I suddenly am again?  NO.  Example.  Let's say my son falls down and gets a gash on his knee that requires stitches.  My son is screaming in terror.  (Did not happen . . . this is hypothetical!) 

Responsible for means that I take ownership for my son's terror because I am bringing him to get stitches.  I do all I can to make his bad feelings go away, taking credit for it if they do, feeling the blame of it if they don't.  I probably end up feeling guilty as well as angry at my son for making me feel guilty. 

Responsible to means I empathize with my son's terror and offer him what comfort I can while assuming no personal ownership either for his terror or for the alleviating of it.  I give what I can without basing my value or effectiveness as a person or a parent on his reactions. 

Back to Cain.  He was not responsible for Abel: his walk with God, his offerings, his anything.  He was responsible for himself: his walk with God, his offerings, his everything else.  He was responsible to Abel: responsible not to harm him out of anger, not to blame him for his own deficiencies, not to try avoiding the natural consequences of his own sin by eradicating the one who "sinned not." 

This is a challenge for me, and for all of us who have grown up with an over-exaggerated sense of responsibility.  The irony is that by assuming responsibility for everyone else, we often give up responsibility for ourselves.  In my case, it was my emotional well-being that I surrendered.  I somehow expected others to take care of that for me while I was busy taking care of it for others. 

It doesn't work that way.  Instead, my needs weren't being met and those around me were deprived of the opportunity to identify and meet their own needs.  Everyone lost out. 

So, with the help of my supportive family and brilliant counselors, I am working to break that pattern.  I am allowing my children to handle their own emotions while providing them with the love, support, words, and techniques to do so effectively.  (Responsible to!)  I am allowing the people in my life to make their own choices, whether I agree with them or not, and to experience the natural consequences of those choices.  (Responsible to!)

I am also learning to identify my needs and come up with ways of meeting them.  (Responsible for!)  I am accepting that my feelings of guilt are mine.  Nobody can make me feel guilty; they can only try!  (Responsible for!)  I am learning to accept that sometimes making the moves that protect my heart, my mind, my spirit, and my family can be painful, but that pain also is mine . . . and it is not necessarily an indication that those are the wrong moves.  Many times it is the sign that I'm in just the right place doing just the right thing. 

This is a hard process for me.  I have mostly been able to forgive people freely because, in a sense, I usually blamed their failings on myself!  It's easy to forgive if there's really nothing to forgive!  Now that I'm seeing "me" and "not me" more clearly, that forgiveness thing is sometimes a lot harder.  It's more difficult to forgive when one actually has stuff to forgive. 

But the struggle is a good one.  It is an opportunity for growth and maturity . . . and with God's grace, it will bear fruit. 

Words Can Never Hurt Me?

You probably didn't know this about me, but I am a woman of words.  I'm very persnickety about words, and like to have just the right words for any thought I'm trying to communicate.  Struggling to find the words to express myself is a painful experience. 

That also leads me to be extraordinarily sensitive to the words of others . . . too much so, I confess.  Words of praise elate me; words of mockery or derision can bring me despair. 

So it is that tonight has been a rough one on my psyche. 

My kids are 2 and 4.  While they have pretty advanced vocabularies for their respective ages, it is understandable that they are in the very early stages of word-craft.  Or are they?  I am beginning to think that my son, at least, has already mastered the trick of verbal manipulation. 

Yesterday and today were long days.  My kids spent yesterday morning with my mom and finished their day with "Daddy day" while I went out to a meeting.  Today we left the house early to spend the day at my sister's so she could work on a wedding.  (She's the florist of my "Guilty Pleasure" Fleur de Fleurs in the sidebar.  Check her out.  She's incredible!) 

By the ride home, my daughter was sacked out and my son should have been.  I swung through the bank drive-through and we got one lollipop.  (It's hard to see my daughter when she's sleeping back there!)  I told my son he could have it after supper and his sister could have a couple chocolate chips. 

He did not like waiting.  He threw his sippy cup at me and hit me in the shoulder (while I was driving).  I told him he had lost his lollipop.  And here began the verbal assault. 

"You don't love me!"
"Yes, I do.  I love you all the time, even when you get in trouble."
"I hate you!"
"That's okay, I still love you."
"You're stupid!"  (He knows this is an off-limits word in our home.)

I told him I wouldn't respond until he stopped insulting me. 

As we sat down to supper, he got angry that I gave him a half piece of pizza to start with instead of a whole one.  The fact that I assured him he could have the second half after he finished the first was insufficient.  Finally I decided that the real problem was fatigue, and the only solution for fatigue was sleep.  So I brought him into the bedroom.

"I won't wear my pajamas!"
"I'll put them on for you."
"I WON'T wear them!!" 
"Okay," as I put him in bed wearing his pull-up and placed his pj's on his dresser beside his bed.  "If you change your mind, they're right here." 

I got his sister into bed, read their Bible story, prayed, skipped a song (because I suddenly lost my voice two nights ago . . . could it be a stress reaction???), and kissed them saying, "I love you." 

"I want a bedtime story," my son says. 
"I just read you your Bible story."
"I want a bedtime story!"

I don't know about you, but even when I know that someone is behaving a trifle irrationally and I can pinpoint some pretty legitimate reasons for said behavior, there comes a point when I am done placating.  This was my point. 

"No more stories tonight.  I love you.  Good-night." 

I sat down to write this blog, and through the monitor I heard, "You don't take care of me!  You don't love me!"

Then my daughter: "My dolly has dog hair on her!  Give me my baby; I need my sister!"  (Her "baby," "dolly," and "sister" are one and the same.)

Then my son, "I'm thirsty!" 

(I did not miss the irony of a child asking for something from someone he just claimed "doesn't take care of him."  I don't see anyone else around here getting up with him in the morning, serving him three meals a day, reading stories, giving snuggle time, solving problems from lost toys to skinned knees, changing the water for his fish, kissing him goodnight, waking in the middle of the night to put him in the shower and change his sheets after an accident . . . but what do I know?)

I put Baby Livvy in the crib.  I gave my son a drink.  I said good-night.  Again. 

I sat down at the computer feeling as if I'd been physically bludgeoned. 

I know this is motherhood.  If you want the spontaneous hugs and "I love you, Mommy's" and "Thank you for giving us cookies!", well, you have to take the temper tantrums and the outbursts and the like.  And I am pretty sure that 13 years from now, I'll look back on these days, sepia-colored and nostalgia-filled, and long to be back in them. 

But tonight, all I can say is as much as I really do love them . . . I'm awfully glad it's bedtime! 

What is "Right"?

Maybe you're like me and were raised with a strong sense of "right and wrong."  Some people rebel against that construct.  Not me.  I like a world where black is black and white is white, where right is right, and wrong is, well, wrong.  I like rules, regulations, clearly-defined expectations.  

This is why I was always a good student.  The teacher would give an assignment.  In the words describing the assignment were expectations: length, type of writing style, necessary elements.  Some teachers even handed out rubrics!  What could be better than that?!  Not only did you get the assignment, you knew how many points were ascribed to each requirement and what kind of performance would result in which grade.  

Surely this is Heaven!

Over four decades, I have internalized those same values, judging myself against the assignment of perfection.  Now, mind you, I am also very orthodox in my acceptance of the Bible and Christianity, so I know (cerebrally) that no one is perfect except Christ and that Christ died to cover my imperfections with His perfection, gifting me with an undeserved imputed righteousness.  

That's in my head.  My heart is another story.  

My heart is striving for perfection.  Perfection in thought, in emotion, in intent, and most definitely in action.  How I suffer in soul when I fail!  

I am finding that there is something even harder than failing . . . determining what is actually "right."  It seems so simple: What does the Bible say?  Well, the truth is that the Bible says different things in different situations.  The Bible says, "Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse" (Romans 12:14).  The Bible also has Jesus overturning the money-changers' tables and calling the Pharisees white-washed tombs.  

You can argue that Jesus can get away with those things because He is perfect and knows all hearts, etc. etc.  And you are right.  But there's the rub: in some cases the perfectly "right" thing to do involves cursing, NOT blessing.  

I have been trained that Christians do "good" things: we smile, we placate, we sacrifice selflessly, we serve joyfully, we speak kindly.  It is true we should do these things . . . when they are warranted.  Frankly, though, there are times when doing the "good" thing is actually doing the "wrong" thing.  

Yikes!  My paradigm is all out of wack; my world is in chaos; my mind, heart and soul are in distress!  (I joke not.)  How am I to know what to do when the truly right thing feels wrong and the wrong thing feels right?  

I didn't run into these quandaries so much in my all-knowing teens and twenties.  Getting married, having kids, getting divorced . . . those have rocked my world.  Ask yourself, when is letting your spouse choose a restaurant you don't really like compromise . . . and when is it losing your sense of self?  When is issuing a punishment and then changing your mind rectifying a wrong . . . and when is it failing to build healthy boundaries? 

And when is the amount of heart-rending self-doubt and second-guessing so counterproductive that the best decision is to stop worrying about it, do what you do, and be at peace with the fact that you will sometimes make mistakes and the God of the universe is big enough to fix them if we are humble enough to leave it in His hands? 

I do NOT have this all figured out.  What I think I've learned can be summed up in a very few points. 

•  I am not God.  I will make mistakes.  God expects them, that's why He sent Jesus.  I need to rest in the person and work of the triune God . . . and stop trying to be what I can never--should never try to--be.  
• Boundaries are healthy.  God invented and maintains boundaries.  Some boundaries are brick walls, and it hurts to run into them.  It does not mean the wall is bad or wrong; it means the person running should have had sense enough to stop before making contact.   
• The fact that something makes you feel badly does not mean that the thing itself is wrong.  Having an emergency C-Section is painful (hopefully after the fact . . . not during!).  Does that mean the doctor should have let the child or mother or both perish to spare the short-term suffering?  Of course not!  Life is full of C-Sections.  
• Godly counsel is worth its weight in gold.  Caveat: NOT ALL CHRISTIANS HAVE GOOD ADVICE!!!!!  Some have downright terrible advice.  Test the spirits of your "counselors" before relying on them.  Once you find them godly, honest, and correct . . . listen to them.  Their third-party objectivity will often be invaluable when your emotions are rioting.  
• Pray . . . and trust the Holy Spirit.  There will be times when God is telling you something that doesn't make sense to anyone else.  How you recognize it as the voice of God is probably unique to you, but for me it comes as a solid, unwavering conviction in the pit of my stomach.  I just know.  Always go where God is leading.  

I don't know where God is leading me right now.  I can see options down the road, but I don't have any idea what will actually happen.  What I know is that He is taking me one small step--albeit rocky, precipitous, terrifying steps--at a time.  And I know He loves me and my children . . . and my ex.  And I know He has never failed me in the past . . . and He will never fail me in the future.  "Yea, though he slay me, yet shall I trust him!" 

And in that I rest. 

Fun with Oil Changes

Being a stay-at-home mom, and a divorced one at that, my kids go everywhere with me.  Doctors appointments, shopping, banking . . . all the dreadfully boring adult jobs get their own unique flavor because I do them with two pre-schoolers in tow. 

Today was no exception.  The day started out with an 8am appointment at Pierce Imports, my trusty automotive guru.  Not only was Cebu the Subaru 1,000 miles past due for an oil change (how does the time fly so quickly???), but I had recently noticed that a front headlight was out.  (BJ--is that a padiddle?  I forget.) 

I always cringe a bit when heading out to these sorts of appointments.  My son, on the other hand, was delighted: "We get to play with the toys!!!" 

He was not mistaken.  By some stroke of genius, the owner keeps a small plastic crate of toys under the ubiquitous magazine table.  Now I must admit, the first time my son found this stash, I was a bit chagrined.  He was just walking, and the toys looked as if they'd been there since my childhood in the 80's.  The entire collection had (and still has) a coating of that unique mixture of oil and dirt that proliferates in an automotive shop. 

I almost forbade him to touch them, but my farm background raised its head.  I used to walk barefoot in the cow pasture, and I managed to survive.  He'd be fine.  I took a breath, cautioned him not to put them in his mouth, and let him go at it. 

Today was the same except I had two precocious children tearing into the toys.  And truth be told, it is a fun collection of toys.  Many of them were from McDonald's Happy Meals . . . you can tell because it's stamped on the bottom. 

The assortment includes a Sherman bobblehead (Mr. Peabody's sidekick), a trio of Smurfs (Brainy, Baker, and Crazy . . . whose names are also on their feet), some plastic Indians (Native Americans?) with headdresses and spears, and a dozen building toys whose name I don't know but are very fun anyway.  There are two kaliedescopes, one that doesn't really kaliedescope anymore, and a cool, brightly-colored T-Rex one that does. 

While my daughter had conversations with the Smurfs, my son dug out the best spider ever.  It is green and black with articulated legs . . . I should have taken a picture . . . maybe I will next time I'm there!  And here is where the marvel of the 4-year-old imagination comes in. 

He suddenly decided this spider wasn't a spider . . . it was a plane.  By straightening the legs and pushing four together on each side, it actually did look like a plane.  Of course, then he decided the spider-plane was being shot at.  (I can only blame this on watching Peanuts--darn that Red Baron!) 

Once he was shot up too much, naturally the spider was dead.  So he needed to fall into a hole.  Enter Mommy and another toy . . . a bull-dozer/lift machine.  (It's the weirdest thing...it has a bucket like a bulldozer but behaves like a lift boom.  I don't know.)  Whatever it is, the little foreman instructed me to use it to dig a burial hole for the spider-plane. 

Being a good mom, I did.  (In the air, down the back of the couch we were sitting on.)  Not being a good bulldozer operator, I didn't do it well enough.  I left "big rocks" in the way.  Rather abashed at my failure, I did what any good employee does--I passed the job to someone lower on the totem pole. 

"Here, Honey," I said, handing my daughter the machine.  "Can you help get those big rocks out of the hole?" 

She was successful. 

The spider-plane then crashed into the hole and was buried under the other toys.  But have no fear, he was resurrected to fight another day! 

While this mayhem was happening in our corner of the waiting room, two other patrons were looking on.  They began interjecting compliments about my son's tenderness (yes, he was repeatedly butchering the spider-plane, but he was doing it while comfortably ensconced in my lap) and my daughter's language abilities (NOBODY believes she's two!). 

As for me, I got to enjoy one of those "breaths" we moms need so much.  It was a moment to see my children as separate from the socks defiantly thrown behind the couch, the acrobatics of climbing on crib rails and chair arms, the "no, I won't's," and the "you don't love me, Mom!s" when you deny a fifth cookie. 

I can't wait for our next oil change!

A Case for Bibliotherapy

I am a voracious reader.  At least, I was once upon a time.  I used to begin each day with an hour in the Bible and my journal.  Beautiful, precious time.  Time of conviction, yes, but mercy and love and peace as well.  I can remember whole days lost in the pages of a book.  All different kinds of books.  Mark Twain, Robert Frost, William Goldman . . . I wasn't really choosy.  I just loved to read. 


Then the babies came.  My son slept very well at night, even from the beginning, but we had nursing issues, and I spent 90 minutes of every two hours either nursing, bottle feeding, pumping, or cleaning up/preparing to do it all over again.  The only book I read was What to Expect When You're Expecting, specifically the chapters on breastfeeding and breastfeeding nutrition. 

Morning devotions were a thing of the past.  I went to bed at 7pm with my son, woke up in the night and did my brutal nursing, bottle feeding, pumping, cleaning up routine, and crashed again.  There was no way I was waking up one second before the little one did, I can tell you that!

And so I entered the world of the wordless.  Even my thought life stultified a bit as I struggled to teach my son Spanish and ASL, two languages in which I am not fluent.  (Though my Spanish has improved marvelously in the last 4 years!)  Once my daughter came along, reading was so much a thing of the past that I almost didn't remember it. 

Not to say I never read . . . I had bathroom reading: Our Daily Bread, Wheaton, Decision . . . highbrow stuff like that.  And I read to the kids.  Touch and Feel Farm.  A Fly Went By.  TRUCKS. 

Then I started taking my kids to Story Hour at the library.  Since we were there, I let them each pick out a couple books.  Then one day, I picked out a book.  And I couldn't put it down.  And I stayed up until way too late reading because one more chapter was never enough.  And it felt great!

Then my counselors started recommending books, and I became a junkie for all things psychological and relational.  I devoured The Dance of Anger by Harriet Lerner (a book which EVERY woman . . . possible every PERSON . . . should read) in one day . . . and then re-read it about six times over the following month.

Then my husband asked for a divorce.  My reading disappeared aside from Writer's Market 2016, which every writer-for-hire should invest in.  My writing exploded.  Children's stories.  Farmer profiles.  Event recaps.  I began blogging.  I put in hours I didn't know I could put in and poured out more words than I ever imagined I possessed. 

For the past two months, any "free time" I have had has been spent at a keyboard, trying to generate as much word-based income as possible. 

Until this weekend.  This weekend I hit the wall.  My kids were scheduled to go on a Pajama Party Sleepover with my in-laws.  I woke up Saturday with a headache.  The kids left.  My headache persisted. 

I went to the library's book/bake sale fundraiser to drop brownies off that my neighbor had made.  I couldn't resist.  I bought 2 books: a David Baldacci (my go-to, guilty-pleasure author) and a Tony Hillerman.  I mowed the lawn for 4 hours.  My headache persisted.  I told myself I had to write.  My headache persisted.  I gave up.  I streamed some TV and went to bed. 

Sunday I awoke headache-free and was certain I would write after church.  Instead I mowed the rest of the lawn for 2 hours.  When I came in, tired and hot, I said, "Kristen . . . you need a break."  So I picked up Tony Hillerman.  And I read.  I finished Skeleton Man.

Yesterday, my kids napped.  Instead of working, I picked up Hell's Corner.  Today I finished it. 

I confess I felt a bit wanton, like I was playing hooky when I should be in school.  There was a fatigue so deep in my soul, though, that I just needed a break.  And I took it.  And this afternoon, as my kids slept, I started to write again.  And I was glad to be back to work.  And I got my article done before supper, so tonight I can work on other things and still get to bed early. 

The point of all this?  Sometimes, when the pressures of life are beating at your door, and you're kicking the wall as hard as you can to get to the other side, the green, verdant side, the best thing you can do is take a stay-cation with a great book. 

Maybe you don't like the crime novels like I do.  Maybe you like a cheesy romance (I did, before romance kicked my butt!).  Maybe you like recipe books or knitting books.  Whatever it is, make the time to run away to a different world for a little while.  (For me, it took a few days!)  When you come back, I think you will find the world a brighter place. 

I did. 

Here, Fishy, Fishy, Fishy

I've grown up with animals, and I generally feel pretty confident caring for them.  Dogs, horses, cows, goats, cats . . . no problem.  But fish.  Wow.  I am in a whole new world here. 

For one thing, fish need a surprising amount of care in a very specific sort of way.  Water, for example.  How hard can it be, right?  You put clean water in, wait til it gets a little murky, and replace it.  Oh, nooo. 

For one thing, fish are very sensitive to the quality of the water.  You can't just use tap water.  You have to add a water conditioner (complete with skin conditioners, if you can believe that!).  It needs to be room temperature to avoid shocking their system.  Additionally, you can't just replace all the water.  You can only replace up to half the volume of their bowl (vases, in our case) because there's actually good bacteria in there that they need to remain healthy. 

Good grief. 

I am also finding that Betta fish are not terribly intelligent.  That may not surprise most of you, but it came as a bit of a shock to me.  The only other fish I'd had close interactions with was my ex's Arawana, Killer Kowalski. 

Killer Kolwalski was very smart.  He was also a bit of a bully.  When he lived at my in-laws', he liked to terrorize my mother-in-law and her aunt.  Really.  Whenever they'd walk into his room, he'd bang into the side of the tank and act like he was attacking them.  They were afraid of him.  He knew it.  He loved it. 

PT and Sharky, on the other hand, are not so bright.  My biggest complaint is their seeming inability to find food unless it is floating on the surface of the water.  Why should this bother me, you ask?

Uneaten food is one of the key issues leading to the degradation of water quality.  When I put food in and it starts to sink immediately, so does my heart.  Unless it passes right by their eyes, it's a lost cause.  It will sit on the bottom of that tank, or caught in the fake foliage, until doomsday . . . or I next clean the tank.

Our most recent pets, turtles, were much easier with this.  They loved scrounging for food on the bottom of the tank.  In fact, our musk turtle, Teddy, actually had to be taught to eat food from the top of the water . . . but even he learned!

To add insult to injury, I think the bloody things purge!  Honestly!  The fish store people said to feed from 1 to 3 tiny pellets at a time, but only as much as they scarfed up quickly (to avoid slimy, moldy yuckiness forming on the bottom of the bowl).  I do this.  I started with one three times a day.  I moved up to 2.  I've started with three.  Both fish attack and chew quickly.  So why is it that PT already has a collection of junk at the bottom of his vase when I just cleaned it this morning?!

I can't tell you.  It's annoying, though, because I am terrified of killing these things and adding yet another emotional loss to my children's psyches.  (Again, I have been responsible for 2,000-pound draft horses and felt less pressure than I do over two 3-inch fish.)  Let me just say PT has been put on a diet until he stops adding debris to his water supply!

Perhaps I shouldn't be so hard on my poor little Bettas.  They are undeniably graceful and beautiful, and my children adore them.  And after all, they have figured out that meal time for us is meal time for them.  As soon as we sit down to eat, they both swim around furiously, bobbing up to the top looking, presumably, for food. 

I guess that's something. 

Baseball Fever

Spring means different things to different people: rebirth, growth, change, shorts and tank tops. For me, it means baseball. I love baseball. The smell of old leather, the crack of a wooden bat (or the ting of aluminum), the white of the bases, the green of the outfield, the sliding, the running, the calling "I got it!!!," the blooper reels when overpaid, overgrown boys forget all their training and crash into each other because they didn't respect the other's "I got it!!!"

I grew up in a farm family where work was much more highly-valued than play. Baseball, however, was something different. Baseball was an acceptable past-time. During coffee break we kids would play catch or home-run derby, and for a couple minutes Dad and Grandpa would join in.

Father's Day parties and summer birthday parties weren't complete without the big baseball game. Age didn't matter. Everyone played. Old shingles marked the bases in the middle of the newly-shorn hayfield. Little kids swayed beneath the weight of the bat while the pitcher crept as close as he could to give them a chance to make contact. Dads fumbled while fielding little dribblers, eventually throwing to first just late enough for the runner to be safe.

Grandpa, his arms still burly from years of milking cows, would saunter up to the plate, limping slightly from an old broken hip. The outfield would move back. He always managed to hit the ball far enough that his gimp couldn't prevent him from getting a home run.

Baseball wasn't just relegated to playtime, though. Many were the nights we'd be grading apples in the barn, the pickup truck's doors wide open so we could hear the radio broadcasting a Red Sox game. Packing tomatoes, picking corn, and listening to baseball all seemed to go hand-in-hand.

To be honest, I still prefer listening to the games on the radio. The sound of Joe Castiglione describing the weather conditions and the uniforms--and where he had dinner the night before--always brings back that childlike innocence and delight.

The only thing that can surpass it is taking my own kids to McCoy on a Sunday afternoon. (Larry Lucchino--NO NEW PARK!) We all go in carrying our gloves; I've had mine nearly 3 decades now. My 2- and 4-year olds gape at the giant murals, not yet aware of their significance, but impressed all the same.

We settle into our seats, elbows touching the people beside us. John Fogarty and I do a duet of "Centerfield," and my kids roll their little eyes begging, "Mom, stop singing!" They scan the seats, hoping for a glimpse of Paws and Sox. It's a different story when "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" starts, though. My kids know all the words, and they belt them out at the top of their lungs, drawing smiles from the grown-ups around them.

There's a down-home camaraderie at the ballpark. Well, at McCoy, anyway. On my first trip to Fenway I was about 8, and some inebriated gentlemen in front of us kept yelling at my siblings and me because we were cheering too loudly. Really?? Too loudly??? At a ball game???? Give me a break.

But it's different at McCoy. One day, a man a few rows behind us caught a foul ball. He'd noticed my son in his Red Sox warm-up suit and his light curls spilling out from under his Red Sox cap. Suddenly he passed the ball down to my son. I'm not sure who was more excited: me or my son. That's a special ball. We don't play with that ball; we treasure it.

So when I went online this spring to sign up my son for T-Ball, I was disappointed. He was two weeks too young. He'd be really good at T-Ball. He throws hard and straight. He hits with authority and power. And boy, does the kid like running the bases.

Watching him in the backyard with his sister, however, I'm realizing that perhaps an extra year is not a bad idea. Like me, he loves baseball. But right now he's getting the chance to love it on his terms: hitting when he feels like it, pitching when he feels like it, running the bases when he feels like it, coaching his little sister when he feels like it.

I am reminded of three little kids growing up in the '80's, playing catch under the maple trees, inventing their own three-way versions of the game, and developing a love that has lasted. It was a precious time.

 I wouldn't deprive him of that for anything.

I Love a Rainy Night . . .

I'm sitting at my lovely new "office," looking out my window that looks so much larger without a turtle tank in front of it, and watching the rain.

I love rain.

I love gentle, soaking rains that seep into thirsty fields.  I love pounding, driving rains accompanied by ground-shaking thunder and blinding lightning.  I love warm, misty rains you can walk in, your face upraised, knowing God is kissing you.  I love icy cold rains that you run from, hunkered down, as fast as you can until you reach a cozy kitchen and a mug of hot chocolate.

I'm not sure why rain has such a hold over me.  Perhaps it's from growing up on a farm where rain was life and the lack of it was, at worst, financial disaster and at best day upon day of lugging irrigation pipes 30-feet-long and six inches around, one on each shoulder across burning cornfields.

After that, the threat of "drought" never leaves you.  And the relief from drought never fails to energize you.  I can remember dancing in drought-breaking rains as a kid . . . with the grown-ups standing just inside the open barn doors, close enough to feel the spray, doing nothing but watching the drops and relishing the coolness in the air.

Maybe I also like the rain because, let's face it, too much sunshine can get to be just plain too much.  Think desert.  And when your soul is tired and grieving, it's nice to have the weather cooperate as if you were the heroine in a Charlotte Brontë novel.

For some reason, rain is romantic.  (In the literary sense . . . although I guess it could be in the amorous sense as well.  I rather missed out on the latter, but I have a good imagination!)  Think of all the "rain" songs:

"Singing in the Rain" performed by Gene Kelly
"Who'll Stop the Rain" performed by Creedence Clearwater Revival
"Rockin' With the Rhythm of the Rain" performed by The Judds
"Rainy Days and Mondays" performed by The Carpenters
"Alabama Rain" written and performed by Jim Croce
"Kentucky Rain" performed by Elvis Presley
"I Love a Rainy Night" performed by Eddie Rabbitt
"Smoky Mountain Rain" performed by Ronnie Milsap
"Rain is a Good Thing" performed by Luke Bryan
"Rain, Rain, Go Away" performed by children everywhere

Yeah, I could keep going with this, but I am exposing far too much about my musical preferences and am afraid I will lose half of my audience if I keep it up!  Have a good listen, and enjoy your next rainy night!

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish

Divorce is a time of transition, upheaval, distress, and just plain upside-down, inside-outness.  It's hard on the grown-ups dealing with thwarted affections, broken promises, and shattered dreams.  I think it's much worse on the innocents. 

My kids have been accustomed to a pretty boring life at home with Mommy.  Suddenly we're out all the time as I go from meeting to meeting to meeting.  Last week the first day we got to stay at home was Friday.  FRIDAY!!!  My poor kids had somewhere to go 6 out of 7 days. 

It's not just our schedule.  They notice the absence of Daddy.  They don't like it.  It makes them anxious. 

To top it all off, we had to get rid of their turtle.  Teddy's buddy, PJ, died a few weeks ago leaving him the sole inhabitant of a 150-gallon fish tank.  Ludicrous, really.  The turtle had a greater percentage of personal space in our house than I did.  Add to that the fact that I never maintained the tank.  That was my ex's job.  (We each brought baggage into our marriage: he came with a fish tank; I came with a horse . . . well, two horses!) 

In seven years of marriage I hadn't learned to clean the tank.  I wasn't about to now.  Besides, that tank was expensive!  It had a giant filter that ran 24/7 and lights that ran about 12/7.  On my new shoestring budget, I couldn't justify throwing money at something I knew I was not going to be able to handle. 

So Teddy had to go.  My son was heartbroken.  Over the past couple months, we've been talking about releasing him back in the wild where we found him and how excited he would be and how he would get the chance to have a family.  I, being a little more jaded, had a sick feeling he'd be dead in a week, but since his buddy had died in our care, I reminded myself he was just as safe in the wild as in our house. 

On Mother's Day, before church, Daddy joined us to release him.  My son was very sad, but Teddy really did seem to know he was home and was happy to leave his captors behind.  I was glad to think that if he did die, he'd die free . . . and there's something to be said for that. 

To ease the pain of the separation, I did a very foolish thing.  I promised the kids they could get a Betta fish.  How hard could that be?  It lives in a bowl.  No filter.  No heater.  No lights.  Easy. 

Tonight Nick came with us, and we got the kids their fish.  Make that two fish.  Yeah.  That was Daddy's idea.  Rather than one cute glass bowl with a peace plant, we'd get the plastic divided one for $12.  It came with a lid (no waking up to dead fish on the floor where HE jumped looking for freedom), and both kids could have a pet.  (Mind you, we already have two hairy dogs each weighing over 50 pounds . . . don't they qualify as pets?  I do not know what I was thinking.)

It's OK.  After all, it's still only one tank.  Technically. 

Now, of course, there's no peace plant, and the tank only comes with one fake plant.  We had to get something for the other side.  My son picked out a tiny shipwreck.  I should have known right then!

I knew we needed food.  But what kind?  Flakes?  Pellets?  Crunches?  (What is this . . . the Stop & Shop cereal aisle?!)  Then I spot fish saver . . . to heal the skin and fins of Betta fish.  (What am I getting myself into?!!!)  And last, but certainly not least, don't forget the water conditioner. 

Good grief. 

The girl at the counter realized I was stymied . . . it couldn't possibly have been the glazed expression in my eyes or the drool running down my chin, could it?  She carefully walked us through the entire process.  The kids picked out their two fish and named them on the spot.  Sharky for him; PT for her.  The counter girl dumped each into a plastic bag, and led us to the counter. 

A young guy (but they all look young to me now!) carefully took out our plastic tank and inspected it for cracks, finally declaring it sound.  We paid. 

We had supper and a separate adventure that one day may figure into another blog, but not this one.  We went home. 

Per instructions, we rinsed all the gear off in very hot water (no detergent).  Next we had to figure out how to get the fish into the bowl.  Nick did some magic with the bags, gently scooted Sharky into one half and PT into the other half, and we were golden. 

Almost. 

I looked at the kitchen table, and it appeared that there was a puddle growing near the tank.  At first I thought it was drippage from the rinsing.  Oh no.  There's a one-inch crack . . . and it's full-out leaking.  Apparently my husband had dropped the tank at some point. 

I suddenly wished I had kept my big mouth shut about a replacement pet in the first place.  My parents never soothed my losses with presents.  Good Yankee farm kids were taught to suck it up.  Why, oh why, had I bought into the touchy-feely, support-your-kids'-emotional life message??? 

Too late now, Mom.  Suck it up! 

But Moms are brilliant.  They also tend to hoard vases.  I do, anyway.  Down came two of my largest vases.  (My poor ex is sitting with a sick expression on his face saying, "I can't win.")  I rinsed them with very hot water (no detergent!).  Here things got a little trickier.  How do we get both fish into their new tanks without leaving one high and dry?  Nick managed it with his very large hands.  All was well. 

Except for one thing.  The lid.  I know many people keep Betta fish for long periods of time in open bowls.  I, however, know people who lost them to kamikaze leaps from an open bowl, and I do NOT want another emotional loss for my kids at this particular time. 

No problem.  I pulled out some cheese cloth and a couple elastics.  Custom-made, vented, fitted lids.  They look a little tacky and will probably be a hassle when I go to feed them in the morning, but such is life.  Maybe in a few days I'll wash off some of my bamboo and stick them in the vases, trusting the foliage to keep my fish friends contained. 

In the meantime, I have some lovely decorations for my kitchen table. 

Mowing the Lawn, Cutting the Grass, It's All a Pain in the . . .

My ex-husband is a "plantsman."  As such, he was in charge of most of the outdoors stuff during our marriage.  He brought home dozens of one-of-a-kind viburnums, rhododendrons, and maples. He designed the walkways and put up our pergola.  He mowed the lawn.  His goal was to one day have the "Carolina Arboretum." 

I was more than happy to leave the yard work to him.  I enjoy a gorgeous yard, but maintaining it is, well, work.  In recent weeks I have been given that responsibility, and I'm finding it both fun and a pain in the . . . well, you know. 

The fun part is that I get to make all the decisions.  (I am realizing I can be a bit of a control freak, so having authority over unimportant parts of my life sometimes gives me great pleasure!)  And I get to dig in the dirt.  And add color to barren places.  And find a babysitter to watch the kids while I mow the lawn for 2 hours and get flushed and winded and gain a blister on my middle finger and realize I have at least 2 hours more to go to actually make the whole property look good. 

There are many reasons why the lawn takes so long.  The first is just sheer size.  We have three acres, two of which are mostly open.  I say mostly because, well, did I mention my ex is a plantsman?  Over the past 7 years he has probably brought in over a hundred different plants.  Dozens of these are trees or large bushes. 

Now I like trees.  I like large bushes.  What I don't like is mowing around trees and large bushes.  Some people are smarter than I, and they mulch.  (This gives a lovely large circle around which you can mow without damaging the bark of the trees and killing them.)  I, however, do not like to mulch.  So I don't.  Maybe by the end of this year I will.

The other issue with our yard is that it is chock-full of nooks and crannies.  Small, unevenly-shaped nooks and crannies, usually stuck behind a tree or large bush.  I find myself going back and forth a million times . . . kind of like when I try to parallel park my Subaru Outback in the city. 

While I have to say I appreciate the exercise I get while manhandling my push mower, I don't appreciate the mental agony I suffer as my perfectionist streak screams "Get closer . . . you missed a spot and it looks ragged!" and my plant preservationist side howls, "Don't skin the cute little tri-colored Japanese maple!"  Neither side is ever satisfied. 

To resolve this problem, I have come to a decision.  No, I'm not hiring someone to do it for me.  (Although, again, maybe by the end of this year I will!) 

I'm planting ground cover.  Lots of ground cover.  The invasive, out-of-control kind that chokes out smaller, more attractive specimen.  Oh yeah!  No more mowing for me!  (I'll leave the pasture to grass . . . I'll need it if I ever actually implement my sheep plan . . . ask me about it sometime!) 

I've already begun, too.  I have some gorgeous purple phlox--I love phlox!--growing by our walkway.  Actually, they are now growing mostly in our walkway.  So, to kill two proverbial birds with one stone, I have begun cutting sections out of the walkway and transplanting them to unsightly places that will need mowing or other forms of maintenance. 

One day I accidentally broke a hen off my hen and chicks . . . yup, transplanted that. 

Then I noticed that the fastest-moving ground cover of all--sedum (of which I have nearly a half dozen different varieties)--had jumped its bounds into another walkway.  Bye-bye, sedum!  Welcome to your new home. 

I even indoctrinated my kids.  Today the three of us were in the garden doing the following necessary tasks:

1. Identifying rogue ground cover
2. Carefully extracting said ground cover (which my 4-year old son does surprisingly well, I must say!)
3. Transplanting and watering it in
4. Pulling up Norway maple saplings  (I will blog on that topic some other day!)  

We're starting small right now, covering bare spots in the perennial beds and starting on the hardest-to-mow spots.  But I'll tell you, I've got plans.  There's an 8'x2' stretch of nothing (more or less; guesstimating area is NOT my strong suit!) between two fences and under the gargantuan Norway maple that served as a junk wood repository in my ex's tenure.  I thought that looked sloppy, so I cleaned it up.  Now I understand the method in his madness.  Instead of a mess of wood, it is now a mess of saplings.  (Again . . . another day.)

Therefore, I am in search of the perfect ground cover.  It should be tallish . . . 1-2 feet . . . drought and shade tolerant (as it's under the water-sucking Norway), virulent (because it needs to out-compete the Norway saplings), and preferably pretty.  We have some Solomon's Seal in an adjoining area, and that is along the right road, but I would like something different.  Variety is the spice of life, you know! 

Once that is complete, I have whole blocks I plan to put to short ground cover . . . like those violets that take over the world but look so pretty and even choke out all the grasses so I'll never have to mow again, but will always have a carpet of loveliness. 

Ahhh!  That will be heavenly!