D-Day

Today my divorce became final.  I am no longer married. 

It was quite a day. 

My kids and I went fishing with Pop and Grammy. 

My son caught his second fish.  (Pop casted it, but Ranita hooked it and reeled it in.  Two fish in as many days on the water is pretty impressive for a four-year-old!)

We saw loons, a bald eagle, and a group of sunfish.  The weather was perfect.  We sang songs and laughed.  I wept a little. 

By the time we got home, I was in need of a couple Tylenol.   I am again in need of a couple Tylenol, but I'm going to walk the dogs and go to bed instead. 

I was hoping to feel a sense of closure tonight.  I don't.   I just feel tired, worn-out, sick, and in need of a good cry. 

I also can't help but wonder about the man who was once my husband.  When he called the kids today, what was his motivation? Did he really want to talk to them only, or did he want to smear a little salt in my wound?  Did he hang up the phone and feel sad, like I, or was he grateful to finally be rid of me? 

Did he even realize today was the day? 

Is he spending tonight in his parents' guest room, in the bed we've shared as husband and wife before heading to Maine for a vacation just like the one I'm on now? 

Or is he with her? 

I know these questions belong in his circle, not mine.  Those who have been through it assure me that a time will come when I don't care about his circle at all. 

I believe them. 

Sometimes I already feel that way, though most assuredly not tonight.  

Perhaps that is the saddest thing of all.

Addendum:
Just heard from my lawyer I'm NOT yet divorced.  It will probably be another week (judges are vacationing, you know).   Oh well.  What's another week?

Living in a Maine State of Mind

I took my first solo trip around the great state of Maine today.  

This really shouldn't be a big deal.  After all, I've soloed from RI to Wisconsin and RI to NH.  I was the designated driver when my brother, his future wife, my gal pal, and I toured CA and Nevada.  I make my living traveling to new places and writing about them.

I am perfectly capable of managing a one-hour trip from Greenbush to Corinth.  So why is this such a big deal?

Maine was Nick's territory.

For over a decade, he and his parents have been exploring Maine.  It's their second home.  If we were contemplating a trip, Nick chose where we were going and how we would get there.  I was just along for the ride.

Not this time.

This time, I did my pre-trip recon on-line from the comfort of my home in RI.  I programmed a trip into “My Maps” on Mapquest.  Today I borrowed a Maine Gazetteer (which is also something I have always subconsciously considered Nick’s personal property) from Pop and headed off to interview farmers for some articles.

Along the way, I saw places we went together...like on our hiking trip last summer when I remember thinking we were in a better place than the year before. (Boy, have I got great instincts!)

For nearly a decade, Maine has been Nick’s turf.  I was a visitor.  Not anymore.  

As of today, I am claiming Maine for myself.  I will come to know it my way...and it will be good.

Grief Explored

Who knew that grief is a shadow, hovering underneath the seemingly normal everyday, suddenly manifesting as something solid and immovable at  the most unexpected moments?  

Who knew you could be in the throes of grief while reading a book, playing with your kids, eating breakfast, and be completely unaware until your sister sends a text--How’s vacation?--and you burst into tears?

Who knew grief was a vacuum cleaner, inexorably sucking every ounce of energy, vitality, strength, and life from you, bringer of the greatest fatigue known to man, one that neither time alone nor time with friends nor sleep nor food can alleviate?

Who knew the last week of a marriage was actually a deathbed vigil, sitting quietly, waiting for the inevitable, remembering the past, grieving the lost future, simultaneously dreading the final moments and wishing they had already come and gone?

Are the final moments the worst?  Will it all be easier once the final decree is signed, sealed, and entered into the legal records?  Are these unbidden bursts of sorrow at their most crippling and inescapable now?

Is it really true that healing will come quickly once the legal bonds are severed, like a body heals once a cancer has been excised?

Or is it more like an amputation where the physical wounds heal, but phantom pains recur, reminding one of the lost parts, momentarily deceiving oneself that it was never really removed after all?

I pray it is the former.  

I suspect it is the latter.  

Fishing for Love

Eight years ago, my boyfriend's parents invited me to spend a week with them at their camp in Maine.  I was nervous and excited.  He and I sat in the backseat flirting with each other while his parents drove us to their family's vacation spot.  Six months later, we would be married. 

Today, I made that same trip with my two kids, my two dogs, and my mother-in-law riding shotgun.  My father-in-law drove ahead of us, towing the boat and the fishing gear.  This Thursday, while we are together at Camp, my divorce will become final. 

I can't help but spend some time remembering that first trip.  Pop and Nick and I fished.  A lot.  I never really fished before I met Nick.  I frankly don't really enjoy fishing.  I enjoy the fighting part, bringing the fish to the boat, but I hate seeing them torn up from the hook, thrashing around while I try to get it out, and gasping before I finally throw them back into the water. 

This morning my son said something to the effect that Mom doesn't fish.  I replied, "I fish." 

Pop said, "Your mother likes to fish." 

I said, "Not really.  I like being on the boat." 

"But you fished in the ocean . . . "

"I fished because I liked being with Nick.  I was in love." 

I remember those days.  I remember how it felt good to spend time doing an activity I don't particularly love because I'm doing it with someone I do. 

I would not choose to go fishing with Nick now.  Not on the shore, not on a boat, not in the ocean, not in a moat. 

But this week, I will choose to go fishing.  I will fish with my little boy.  I will fish with my little girl.  I will fish with my ex's mom.  I will fish with my ex's dad. 

Why? 

Because I am in love again. 

I am in love with two little kids who think fishing on "The Brown Boat" is the greatest thing in the world.  I am in love with a little house with "Duke's Place" on a plaque over the door.  I am in love with a man and a woman who have treated me like a daughter for almost a decade and feel like my second parents.  

And because I am in love, I will once again enjoy fishing. 

Why Kids Need Grandmas...

Everyone knows that Grandmas and Moms are different creatures.  Moms lay down the law; Grandmas come up with reasons why whatever happened couldn't have been their grandbaby's fault.  Moms force-feed balanced meals complete with vegetables; Grandmas consider ice cream a complete meal in itself.  Moms get exasperated when the kids don't pick up after themselves; Grandmas find pleasure in picking up after the little tykes. 

While Moms and Grandmas can sometimes butt heads about the line between spoiling and showing affection, it is becoming evident to me that Grandmas serve a special role in the life of a child.  In a word: FUN. 

Tonight we are spending the night with Grammy and Pop (and my almost-ex...) in preparation for our first new-family vacation at my in-laws' camp in Maine.  (The ex won't be there this trip . . . we're saving that for August!)

As soon as we walked into the door, my kids were bouncing off the walls.  They were greeted with hugs, kisses, and presents.  Ranita got a ball and bat; Chinquita has a bowling set.  They are ostensibly for use at Camp, but I will not be remotely surprised if they find themselves driving back home to Carolina with me next week! 

I used to argue with my in-laws about the gifts.  I do not come from a family of random gift-givers.  We give gifts on Christmas and birthdays.  Period.  To my in-laws, any time they see their grandkids is a holiday.  In vain have I demurred, "But I don't want them expecting gifts every time they see you!  I want them to love you for you, not just for your stuff!"

I still feel that way, but I think we've compromised a bit.  I have stopped griping about the gifts (mostly); they have reduced the volume and frequency of the gifts (a little). 

The best example of why grandmas are important came to me during bath time tonight.  I think I have already revealed that I am a utilitarian bath-giver.  My motto is "Get in, get clean, and get out."  I don't play in the bath.  Sometimes we will sing silly songs, but that's the extent of it! 

Grammy's baths are a whole different experience.  She has a big jaccuzzi-style bathtub, so after the kids gets all clean, she hits the jets for 10 minutes.  The shampoo in the water explodes into a thick foam, and the kids spray it all over.  Grammy laughs.  I think, "What a mess!"

The kids are in heaven. 

Not only that, but I notice that the emotional stress of the day has disappeared from their cherubic faces.  I couldn't have done that for them because, frankly, the exhaustion is still hanging on me like widow's weeds. 

Thank God for Grammies!

In the Footsteps of Grandma Marion

Grandma Marion, the reason I insist on using "M" in all my writing, was my dad's maternal grandmother.  I never met her; she died a few weeks before I was born.  All my life I have heard of her, though.  My mother remembers her as one of the kindest, godliest women she knew. 

Because I bear her name, I've always felt an extra kinship for her.  Even as a kid I can remember wanting to be like her, to be a woman of God, a woman of kindness, a woman of love. 

I'm still working on that! 

There is another way I'm like Grandma Marion, though, that I never wanted to be: we have both been divorced.  (Or will be as of this Thursday, anyway.)  

Grandma Marion's ex also left her with two kids.  In fact, he even gave her the unenviable responsibility of telling his parents, which was especially loathsome since they lived next door.  My ex told his parents, though I did have to prompt a little as I knew Grammy calls every week like clockwork, and I didn't want to have to a) break the news or b) lie, which I am genetically unable to do without experiencing such overwhelming guilt that I have to immediately confess it which defeats the whole purpose of trying to lie in the first place! 

My great-grandmother then got another blow: a replacement wife.  A cute little Irish lass, straight from the Old Country, with the endearing accent to boot. 

And the saga deepens.  Her former father-in-law proposed . . . and she accepted.  Picture that, if you can.  She marries her father-in-law, moves in right next to her ex and his new wife, and somehow manages to gain the reputation for never having said a bad word about any of them.  She even visited her ex . . . and his wife . . . and from all accounts was as friendly as one could possibly be. 

I admire her stoicism . . . her holiness.  And yet, I have questions.  Was she in love with her father-in-law?  They seem to have respected each other, but was it love or security?  Did she remain "in love" with her ex?  Did she make her choices in order to remain close to him or in spite of it?  Was she jealous of Muriel?  Did she sometimes secretly wish their marriage ill?  Or was she happy with her new life and happy for them . . . or had she stopped "feeling" anything about them at all? 

I have asked my grandmother these questions.  She can't answer them.  Grandma Marion never spoke of it. 

I wish she had. 

This kindred spirit namesake of mine walked a path so similar to mine in a time when divorce was something shameful and marrying your father-in-law tantamount to incest.  What struggles did she face, moving back in with her mother with 2 kids, remarrying, moving back to the site of a first marriage, raising the children in what can only be considered a very unconventional situation? 

How I would like to sit down and hear her story from her own lips, the unedited version . . . or at least the version edited by her own perspective. 

Why does it matter?  I'm not sure.  But it does.  I feel a sense of loss at missing so much of a story that I feel would inform and enlighten my own. 

I think that is part of why I am blogging.  More and more I'm discovering the power of our stories.  Everyone's stories.  I've journaled since I was a kid, but I'm learning our stories are not just ours.  In a sense, they belong to us all.  Sometimes it is someone quite different from us who helps us truly define ourselves. 

And nowhere is that more true than in our families of origin.  Theirs are the genetics, the patterns, the beliefs that shape us in ways conscious and unconscious.  Perhaps that's why the Bible is structured as a story.  In reading the history of humanity and redemption, we find ourselves. 

Much of what gets recorded on this blog is drivel.  Perhaps most!  But one day my kids will have the opportunity to read these thoughts, only lightly edited for public consumption.  I hope that when they come to this one, they have a moment of thankfulness that their mom didn't keep her secrets secret, that they don't have to guess at what was inside her . . . they know.  And I hope it blesses them. 

And I hope it blesses you, dear Reader.  And maybe it will encourage you to leave a few words for the ones coming behind you.  Your life is precious, rich, and remarkable.  You are precious, rich, and remarkable.  What secrets are you keeping that maybe should see the light of day?  Don't be afraid . . .let the Light shine in!

Love and Hate

We all have things in our lives we love to hate.  But what about those things we love AND hate at the same time?  I was thinking of some today, and here they are, in no particular order. 

Love: Eating chocolate chips at night.
Hate: Stepping on the scale the following morning.

Love: Having the kids happily and eagerly pick up their toys.
Hate: The hour of fighting, cajoling, and putting toys in garbage bags in the basement before that happens.

Love: The kids playing happily together.
Hate: Walking into their room to observe them playing only to be met by a scene of destruction rivaling the bombing of London.

Love: A well-kept lawn and gardens.
Hate: The fact that I will have to relocate over a dozen trees and woody ornamentals to make that dream a reality.

Love: Bedtime (for the kids!).
Hate: The hour (sometimes 2 or 3!) leading up to bedtime.

Love: Bedtime (for me!).
Hate: That it doesn't come sooner.

Love: Big hairy dogs.
Hate: Trying to control the result of two big, hairy dogs perpetually shedding.

Love: Going on vacation.
Hate: Preparing to go on vacation (READ: laundry, dishes, packing, cleaning, lining up fish-sitter, mail-collector . . . ).

Love: Having a job that enables me to write off a significant portion of my vacation.
Hate:  I guess I could say it stinks to have to work on vacation, but since I'm hoping to visit a farm that does team penning, a vineyard that makes 100% pumpkin wine, and a farm named after the Lion of Judah, I can't really put my heart into it!  Who wouldn't want to go to those places???

Love:  Blogging.
Hate: That there aren't more hours in my day for that kind of writing.

Love: My blogging audience.
Hate: That I don't know who many of you are.  You can help me with that . . . who is reading in South Korea, for example?  And Russia?  And Poland?  And there are far more US readers than I can figure. 

I salute you all! 

A Writing About Writing

Do you really enjoy your job?  I do.  Do you know why you enjoy (or not, as the case may be) said job?  I got to thinking about that today, and I've come up with a list of my favorite parts of writing.

• Diversity.  When blogging I get to write about . . . anything.  That's a pretty exciting thing for someone with the varied interests I have.  
• People.  I know, that sounds a little odd.  Writing, after all, is a pretty solitary endeavor.  HOWEVER, much of my writing is based on personal interviews, so I get to spend an hour or so with a new person every week (at least) and learn about them and their business.  The fact that most of my interviewees are farmers is even better, because farmers are generally some of the most interesting and "salt-of-the-earth" types you could hope to meet.  
• Creativity.  This again may sound strange as most of my writing is non-fiction.  What I have discovered as a profile writer, however, is that the story really isn't the story.  My perception of the story is the story.  I most noticed this doing a profile on my family's farm.  (Tougher than it might sound!)  I tried to approach both the interviewing and the writing like a stranger, and I found that there were angles to the story I wouldn't conceive of as a family member but I definitely did as an ignorant third person.  Fascinating.  Frightening.  Makes me wonder how many of my profiles are as accurate in spirit as they are in fact . . . !
• Accolades.  Let's face it: there is no Pulitzer Prize in my future.  No Nobel Prize for Literature.  Who am I kidding . . . even my local library didn't know where to file my first children's book.  (Juvenile nonfiction, by the way . . . a book about saws and what they do???  That was my vote, anyway!)  But there are times when I get a pat on the back from one of my article subjects, and that means a lot to me.  I do strive for accuracy and truthfulness, but it's nice when people like it as well.  
• Challenges.  I'm discovering that I'm a person who enjoys successfully tackling challenges.  I can whine a bit along the way, but I really do get a charge out of doing something new and doing it well.  Grant writing, profiles, technical writing/editing, children's lit, poetry . . . each one has it's own unique flavor, and I enjoy learning what each tastes like.  
• Therapy.  Some people process in pictures, some in color, some in movement . . . I process in words.  I do not understand something--a new idea, a feeling, an experience--until I have put it into words.  That can be dangerous when speaking, which is why those close to me are used to me saying dumb things, stopping, and then retracting it saying, "I don't think I really meant that.  I think I meant . . . "  Writing gives me a way to go through that process and then EDIT the final version, making me sound at least a little more intelligent than I do when talking!  
• Order.  I love the rules of writing, even when I break them.  I like the rhythm of poetry, even when I write free verse.  I like the structure of punctuation . . . yeah, there's no "even" for that one.  Just plain love punctuation.  Use it freely . . . only wish I could find more uses for brackets . . . more elegant to look at than parentheses with those awesome curves and points, but they are wasted on algebraic equations.  Ah, me . . . 
• The End.  Isn't it nice to have a phrase you just can't argue with?  A conclusion firmly stated with no room for extension?  (Unless they write a sequel . . . !)

I'm sure there are many other things, like the fact that I sit down to write for 10 minutes and realize that an hour has passed, but it is late, and I am tired.

The End.

Father's Day Fun

At the risk of sounding whiny, I have to say I am tired of all these divorce firsts.  I thought the first Mother's Day without a dad in the picture was bad enough.  How come nobody thought to tell me the first Father's Day would be even worse?

I hadn't realized just how big a deal Father's Day was for our family.  It always falls on or around my dad's birthday, for one thing.  As a kid, it was the excuse for a four-generation family reunion and the all-American family baseball game in the hay field.  And there was food.  Boy, was there food. 

Over the years, the family kept getting bigger, so the party slowly got trimmed down.  We still have dozens of people, but now it's mostly my aunts, uncles, grandparents, siblings, and our kids.  (My kids see all their cousins instead of my dad seeing all his!) 

I like that big family stuff.  I always have.  Even when we're squabbling amongst ourselves, it feels good to get together and remember that blood really is thicker than water, and even though you can't pick your relatives, there will never be any place like home. 

So this year, as I drove my empty car seats to my sister's, I admit that I felt pretty darn sorry for myself.  My kids were with their dad.  And his parents.  In Boston.  Seeing the Constitution and the destroyer and making friends and memories . . . and I was missing it. 

I HATE all the fun memories they are going to make without me.  For just a moment I want to be three and scream, "IT'S NOT FAIR!!!!"  And frankly, it's NOT fair.  And I don't like it.  And I never will.  So there. 

But I also felt a little bad for my kids as well.  Their cousins were all there, whom they ADORE.  They were swimming in Auntie's pool.  (My kids love to swim.  We haven't set up our pool yet; I'm waiting til we come back from Maine in a couple weeks.  Last year I never quite conquered the green after leaving for a week in the summer.  I'm just not up to that this year!) 

I think I also felt worse knowing that my kids were having a great time and, as long as I didn't say anything, they would not miss missing the party.  (Very selfish.  I know.  Can't help it.)

I also felt bad for my dad and my grandfather for not getting to see them.  (Although Pop did, so that's something positive.) 

I won't try to admit there isn't something relaxing about being at a party without kids, but I also have to admit that I looked around in a panic more than once because I didn't know where my kids were.  I'd scan the pool, the swing set, the woods, and the porch in a flash . . . just before I remembered they were somewhere else having fun without me. 

And though it was very nice of their dad to text me a picture of them looking adorable, I couldn't help but feel like he was pouring salt in a deep, gaping wound. 

I guess the one good thing is I no longer have to try to come up with a great Father's Day gift for their dad.  Every year I would try to think of something special and feel like I had failed miserably.  Now I can let the kids decide.  I don't necessarily feel we've increased the quality of gifts any, but at least I'm no longer responsible for it! 

This year, Ranita picked out a shovel.  Chinchita selected a pink Barbie birthday card with a paper doll Barbie (in her skivvies) and paper dress-up clothes.  (I really did try talking her out of that one . . . but how can you argue with a two-year old when she keeps yelling, "I want to get Barbie for Father's Day!")  I didn't even know she knew who Barbie was. 

So, all that to say:  today is a little over six months from the day I found out my marriage was finished.  In ten days I will no longer be married.  I have already passed the first Christmas, New Year's, wedding anniversary, Ranita's birthday, Valentine's Day, Memorial Day, Mother's Day, his birthday, and Father's Day of our broken home.  All I have left is my personal "D" Day, Independence Day, Chinchita's birthday, and my birthday.  The year of the "Big 'D'" will be over. 

I can't wait. 

You are His Hands and Feet

Many years ago at Honey Rock Camp in WI, I was part of a foot-washing service.  Each of us took turns both washing the feet of someone and having our own feet washed.  To my surprise, the washing was easy.  Being washed?  Not so much.

I say it was not easy, but it was incredibly humbling and beautiful.  I was reminded of that occasion because this week I have had my feet washed many times by many people, and I am again humbled. 

Last week my sister-in-law's brother cut down four enormous trees in my backyard for a shockingly small amount of money.  My neighbors, who share a boundary line, paid half the tree removal, despite having had some unexpected bills from another source.  I expected to pay the rest.  My kids' dad did instead. 

The lovely thing about dropping trees is, of course, the cleanup.  I wish I could put a number on the volume of trash and wood in those trees.  I can't.  I can estimate that it would have taken my neighbor and me roughly 1 year, 2 hernias, and 3 trips to the psychiatric ward to clean it ourselves.  Today, apart from a trailer or two of rake-able debris, it is done.

How?  Well, my dad, brother, and their pastor's son (who works for them and presumably got paid...not by me) spent a day with chainsaws, a pickup truck, and my other neighbor's lawn tractor and trailer cutting, dragging, hauling, driving, dumping, ad nauseum.  I helped some, but with 2 little kids to keep track of, my contribution was minimal.  

Despite putting in a full day, they didn't get it done.  Two days later, my father-in-law came down with his dump truck, chainsaw, and servant's heart and we cleared up the rest.  (Aside from the aforementioned leavings.)  

Pop did more than that, however.  He patiently watched my sleeping babes while my neighbor (the one who shares the border with the former pine wall), brought me to get Cebu the Subaru, complete with a new set of (soundless!) brake pads.  

(Alack!  The radio cannot be repaired without sending it out to a specialist.  I haven't decided what to do about that . . . I told you God broke it in the first place!)  

This same lovely neighbor also picked me up at the shop in the morning after dropping her own two grandsons at day care.  

This week my Pastor, he of the soon-to-be-arriving goats, popped in, listened to me blab, and helped me determine what kind of hardware is required for changing the locks.  (I never have had the keys to two doors on the property, so this seems like a good time to rectify that little oversight!)  

Last night my mother stayed with my kids until around 10:30pm while I went to visit a family counselor (who was another blessing from above!) about the kids.  (I was happy to hear that with a little work on my part, and a lot of divine grace, the kids will most likely handle this as well as can be expected.  What a relief!)  

Today, my in-laws came down, ostensibly to help set up the pool.  I got us derailed by buying a little grill to replace the one that belonged to my kids' dad.  So instead, Pop watched the kids (mostly!) while Grammy and I set up the grill.  That's right, we two gals did it on our own.  

Might I just add that Char-Broil has lovely grills and the absolute WORST directions ever?!?  Would it kill them to add a few words like "front of grill," "right side of grill," etc.?  I'm also a bit annoyed that one piece was missing a hole and while I own a cute little drill, I apparently no longer have the driver attachment . . . or a set of drill bits.  Looks like Mommy is taking herself to Ace for Father's Day!  

Pop also took the time to drag out our giant, self-propelled, walk-behind Lesco mower and give me a crash course on operating it so I would be able to use it without cutting my leg off and bleeding out in the middle of my pasture on Father's Day weekend!  After they left, I put it to use.  Between the Beast and the Toy (which is what my other mower now feels like!)  I finished the entire yard, pasture and all, in under 3 hours.  Not bad for beginner learning curve, huh?  Thanks, Pop!  

Thanks also have to go to the kids' dad for leaving it behind for a while.  

Then there's my sister, who is my REAL counselor, the one I call every morning at 8am and text throughout the day . . . my "oxygen mask" as my counselor puts it.  She is also hosting the Father's Day bash tomorrow, which I will blog about on Monday, I suspect.  She is my best friend, most honest critic, and all-around greatest sister ever.  

Add to that, I have friends around the world--and around the corner--texting and emailing their encouragement and support . . . and praying for me.  Some of you are reading this right now.  

So it is with honesty that I say I feel very fortunate.  Suffering is part of life.  ("Life is pain, Highness . . . and anyone who tells you differently is selling something." Wesley, The Princess Bride!)  We all do it in different ways and to different extents.  And whatever struggles we face, to us it sometimes seems insurmountable.  

But I am not sure that everyone who suffers has been surrounded by such an amazing support system.  I certainly do not deserve this kind of love.  I can only bathe in it, as it truly is a healing balm, and pray that one day I will be able to do the same for someone else, hopefully these someone elses. 

To Forgive is Divine

For the past week, I have traded in the Lord's Prayer for Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep as the capstone prayer with my kids each night.  The reason for that can be found in one line: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."  I do not want God to apply my standard of forgiveness to myself at this particular juncture.  Right now, I have one person I don't want to forgive. 

This is, I freely admit, not a very Christ-like mindset.  As he hung gasping for breath, ravaged by pain, suffering from shock due to physical abuse and blood loss, moments away from being separated from his Father for the first time in eternity, he somehow found the love to utter, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." 

I could argue that some of that mercy came as a result of that last phrase: "they know not what they do."  Ignorance is generally a mediating factor, to my way of thinking.  But in this situation, ignorance can't be used as an excuse . . . what my almost-ex is doing he is doing with eyes wide open and without any visible sign of remorse.  (My counselors keep reminding me I cannot know what he is thinking, and I grudgingly admit they are right . . . hence the word "visible.") 

Tonight, however, as God will, He gave me a shake and is beginning to work on my heart. 

I was covering the Farm Credit East 100th Anniversary and Customer Appreciation event this evening, a 45-minute drive from home.  I kept moving to turn on the radio and escape from my thoughts and kept being reminded that my radio was already on and simply refused to transmit sound. 

Then God began to speak.  (Don't try to tell me He didn't break my radio . . . I'm sure He did!  I only hope my mechanic can fix it tomorrow!) 

I heard God say, "Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you."  I answered, I don't love him.  I don't want to love him.  I almost added, "and you can't make me," but I knew enough to stop before that!  (Remember the radio . . . !)

So I began to truly ponder the nature of forgiveness, I think for the first time in my life.  What is forgiveness, really?  How do you forgive someone and maintain healthy boundaries?  What kind of feelings, if any, are connected with forgiveness, and how do you manage them appropriately?  And how does love play into forgiveness when the violation is so intensely elemental?

1.  What is forgiveness?  

Not too tough.  It's willingly letting go of a debt owed to you.  My ex is in debt to me.  I deserve retribution.  Can I choose not to try exacting revenge and leave that to God?

The first step for me will have to be changing some nomenclature.  I've been a bit Homeric lately, granting my soon-to-be ex a descriptive epithet.  (Not so much "Faithful Penelope" as, say, "My cheating, 2-timing skunk of an ex.") 

While in the short term that definitely provides a sense of satisfaction, I already feel the rancor eating away at my soul.  As I reminded my son yesterday, "Holding onto anger doesn't hurt the person you're angry with; it only hurts you."  From now on I bestow upon him a new epithet: "my kids' dad."  Not quite as dramatic, but far less detrimental to all involved.   

2. How do I forgive and maintain healthy boundaries? 

This is challenging, as I am still learning what those healthy boundaries look like.  In short, they are supposed to keep out the bad and let in the good.  Okay.  So . . . ?

So.  If I let go of the pursuit of retribution, I am showing forgiveness.  If I then open myself up to being hurt and betrayed again, I'm being stupid.  ("Fool me once . . . ")  So while I do not try to create pain and suffering for him, I also must prevent him from creating any more pain and suffering for me. 

Right now, that means that unless it has a direct bearing on the kids, it's none of his concern.  And (swallow hard) the same is true for him.  How am I feeling?  None of his concern.  How is my work going?  None of his concern.  Where or with whom is he spending his time?  None of my concern. How is he feeling?  None of my concern.  As long as the kids aren't involved, it's none of my concern. 

As someone who has spent most of her life trying to make people happy, ease their discomfort, or take the blame for their failings, this is a tough one.  As a person who was literally joined together in the sight of God and man until the two became one flesh, this is incredibly tough.  But it is necessary.

3.  As for feelings? 

Blah on feelings!  The truth is that every possible human emotion is flying around within my person at any given time, crashing into each other like atoms and releasing the most unexpected explosions of joy, anger, relief, and so much more.  I think I will let the feelings be.  Let them come.  I will name  them, accept them, and pray over them.  That's all I can do right now! 

4.  What about that pesky "love"?  

What, the love that defines God?  Yeah.  That love.  I Corinthians 13 says it all: Love is patient, kind, not self-seeking, not easily angered, keeps no record of wrongs, does not rejoice in evil but delights in the truth, always protects, always hopes, always perseveres, never fails. 

Nothing in there about feelings.  All about action and motive.  It goes back to those boundaries.  Should I maintain those emotional walls?  ABSOLUTELY.  Should I be snotty about it as I kinda was when he came to get the kids today?  Absolutely NOT.  One can be cordial without being close.  Cordiality is the goal. 

My anger remains.  That is okay.  (Refer back to #3.)  What is not okay is sinning with that anger.  I admit I have sinned by failing to love my kids' dad this week.  I ask God's forgiveness.  And in this digital confessional, I ask the forgiveness of those I've hurt with that anger, both intentionally and unintentionally. 

Starting tonight, I am choosing to forgive him . . . and his girlfriend as well.  I trust that in time my feelings will match my intentions.  I will fail in living this out . . . probably many times! . . . but one thing I know for certain:  tonight before I fall asleep I will again be able to pray the Lord's Prayer . . . every line. 

Bettah Buy a Bettah Betta

We held a funeral today.  Ranita's Betta, Sharky, died.  I have now watched two fish pass away, and I have to say it is a painful experience.  Unlike my dog and horse, both of whom were euthanized with me holding them, fish deaths are long, drawn-out sufferings.

The timing could also have been better.  Need I say more?

But, like the practical farm stock we are, we all faced it head-on.  We found the box for my Mother's Day present of earrings (from my mom!), lined it with a "blanket" cut from one of my heel-less white socks, and wrapped him up in style.  (How many Bettas are buried in a box with a "crystal" on it?!)

Then we went outside.  My red Kalmia is in bloom, so I picked a couple flowers (one for each child), and we proceeded to the burial site.  My son--it was his fish, after all--chose the walkway beside the pasture where "I can walk on him and say hello when we're fixing fence."  I dug the hole.  He helped.

We laid the box in the bottom, the kids put their flowers on top, I recited "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, from dust we were made, to dust we will return," and we prayed, thanking God for our time together.  The kids brushed the dirt over him, I replaced the sod, and Sharky was no more.

Of course, the next step was to get in the car and--what else?--buy another Betta.  I was a little nervous at this proposition.  What if we bought a dud?  What if my son had to grieve ANOTHER loss?  But I do not come from a line of faint hearts, so off we went.

My problem was that I wasn't really sure what had killed Sharky.  When he went off his feed last week, I immediately Googled "how long can a Betta fish go without eating."  There I read someone who said they could hang around 1-3 weeks, though it wasn't recommended.  "Don't panic."

I should have panicked.

This morning, about an hour before he expired, I saw white splotches on his face.  I went back to Google.  Ahh, fungus!  I wished I had read that a week ago!  The only problem is that they equated fungus with dirty tanks, extreme stress, etc.  That didn't really make sense because Sharky and PT got the exact same treatment.  One is dead.  The other most definitely is not. 

PT is happy, hungry, active, and clean.  (And so pretty with his blue base and red highlights!)  Sharky used to be all of those things except clean.  From the very beginning his water looked like it needed changing as soon as I finished changing it.  (And I do a partial water change at least 2-3 times a week with a "clean the tank" cleaning once a week.)  I know it sounds crazy, but I really was trying to avoid this very scenario!

So when we got to Critter Hut, I decided to talk to the expert.  I explained the situation and wanted to know how to avoid it.  He asked about the container.  Oh, yeah, my vase.  The tank we bought to house them got dropped and cracked and leaked as soon as we filled it the first time, so to give them a home I pulled out 2 vases and hot water rinsed them a half dozen times.  He proclaimed the problem soap residue.

Again, I washed them both the same . . . but the vases aren't the same.  One is long and virtually straight inside.  The other has a crevice at the bottom that is really hard to rinse out.  The diagnosis made sense.  I felt guilty.  But less guilty than I would have if it had been I who dropped the original tank . . .

There was nothing for it but to buy a new tank, a round, gallon-sized, never-been-soaped one that looks like Figaro's in Pinocchio.  And more water conditioner . . . you can't overdose on it, you know!

Then we had to pick the fish.  My kids were more interested in the big goldfish, so I picked a blue one with less red than Sharky, but a little splash if you look carefully.  The salesman pronounced him a fine specimen, and we were out the door.

As I write this, PT is languidly cruising, as he always does, and Sharky II is zipping around like a maniac . . . which apparently is what he does!  I have some plants around the tank to give him the illusion of shelter because, naturally, it wasn't until I got home that I seriously considered the tank's decor.  Was I honestly going to risk the health of the new fish by introducing a sunken ship that may have been contaminated with soap residue?!?

Not on your life.

Tomorrow I will go out and find something pristine to go in the tank.  Sharky II will have a place to hide when the frenetic pace of our house gets to be too much, and my African violet, blooming beautifully, will come back to my desk.

Whatever else the day has in store only God knows . . . and I am perfectly content to leave it that way!

Good Day, Y'all

Have you ever asked yourself what constitutes a "good day"?  Like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, I've always just rather assumed "I know it when I see it."  Today tested that theory and found it lacking.

It was a pretty run-of-the-mill kind of day.  The kids were in and out of "time-out" all day for everything from knocking each other down to hitting Mommy to fighting over who gets to hold the PawSox tickets from Sunday's game. 

After a ridiculous amount of fussing, I finally got the kids dressed and outside for our daily fence-fixing expedition.  (This morning I had to cut the new fence I installed last week at the back end of the property to create a gateway so we can dispose of all the tree-trash we created taking down 4 giant white pines dying near our house.) 


By the time the daily fatigue meltdowns came, it was lunchtime.  We read "The Sword in the Stone," and the kids took insanely long naps.  Both of them.  Fabulous!

My neighbor came over for tea.  I called my sister.  I did some dishes and laundry. 

The kids woke up.  We watched a Signing Time episode.  I made supper.  We did baths.  I pulled a tick off Chinchita.  (If I'm not pulling at least one tick off one of us each day, we just have not lived!) 

It was 6:30pm.  The kids were clean.  The bedroom was clean.  I was vacuuming their room when I thought, "This was a good day." 

Then I stopped.  Why? 

Nothing really special happened.  I can't honestly say the kids were "easy."  At that moment, however, the kids were playing wildly and happily in the living room.  ("We're late for Mass!" they yell, jumping into my empty laundry basket.  This is my proof that Grammy takes them to church during Pajama Party Sleepovers . . . to the kids our church is "our church"; hers is "going to mass"!  Very cute!) 

My day had been productive.  My new gate required no new purchases, just some scavenging from other unnecessary areas of fence.  My neighbor lent me his trailer, so a pile of brush was ready to head to the back pasture through said gate.  I am almost ready for goats.  I even had time to do some extra clean-up before bed. 

I spent real grown-up time with my friends.  I decided not to spend 11 hours writing a $100-200 article tomorrow and to stay home with my munchkins instead. 

I neither cried nor felt the urge to once. 

And maybe that was it.  The end of the day had arrived, and I simply felt at peace.  I wasn't turning cartwheels, but I wasn't drinking tears with my coffee either.  I had worked well and, while there was more to do, I was satisfied with the progress we had made.  I was receiving help I felt uncomfortable taking, but I swallowed my pride and took it.  (I probably could have been more gracious, but the reasons for my tension will make a post for another day!) 


As I finish this blog, it is 10pm.  Not midnight, like I've done too frequently lately!  I'm ready for bed, but I'm not dragging from exhaustion.  It feels good. 

One of my dear college roommates texted me this today:  "Ah that is the magic of middle age, I am discovering.  We are better able to separate dream from reality.  More peace with reality and better enjoyment of dreams. ;)" 

When I first read it, I felt a little depressed.  I don't like giving up those hazy, cirrus-cloud dreams of romance and excitement and passion.  But now, I think I am understanding more of what she meant . . . and I am coming around to her way of thinking. 

There is a beauty in acceptance.  There is a peace in taking what is before you for what it is, without comparing it to the past, the future, someone else's present, or the unreal ideal of youth.  Today I experienced some moments of quiet contentment, and I cherished them. 

It truly was a good day. 

When the Children Cry

How does one help a 4-year-old and a 2-year-old grieve?  Especially how does one do it when handling one's own grief (and a lot of other emotions I won't get into tonight!)? 

This week has been a hard one on my children.  My in-laws had to put their dog down last Monday, and my kids considered him theirs.  He was very playful with them; our dogs are more protective/maternal towards them than playful.  They LOVED Cosmo. 

Saturday my husband of only 3 more weeks moved off the property.  I have been gently talking about the eventuality with them, but an enlightening and misdirected text forced "eventually" to become "right this second, if not sooner." 

And if you can believe it, I think Sharky the Betta is dying.  He hasn't eaten in a week and spends way too much time resting on the bottom of his vase before spasmodically swimming like a maniac and then resting on the bottom again.  Did it have to be HIS fish????

The worst of it came Sunday night after my in-laws (who are amazing, by the way), the ex-to-be, my kids, and I attended a PawSox game.  (The Sox won, we ate Cracker Jacks and hot dogs, and Grammy managed to grab a game ball for Ranita . . . who could ask for anything more???)

Then it was time to go.  The kids knew the turtle was staying with Grammy and Pop.  They knew the fishing gear was staying with Grammy and Pop.  With Grammy, Pop, Daddy, and Chinchita right there, Ranita asks, "Is Daddy going home with us?"

My stomach clenches.  "No, honey.  Daddy doesn't live with us anymore," I answer.

"But where's he going to stay?"

Bigger stomach clench.  A bit of teeth clench as well.  "I don't know where Daddy is staying."

"But I'll never see him again!" he wails.  

Poor Grammy is crying.  Poor Ranita is crying.  I want to throw up on someone very specific.  I am trying to sound calm, matter-of-fact, and reassuring. 

I get down on my knees and hold him by the shoulders.  "Oh, no, Honey.  You'll still see him on Daddy days." 

"He doesn't love me.  He doesn't want to live with me!"

By now I am ready to claw someone's eyes out.  "No, no.  Daddy loves you and wants you.  Daddy just doesn't want to live with Mommy anymore." 

I bustle them into the car.  Daddy says he loves them and will see them on Daddy Day.  We drive away. 

My son sits in the back half-sobbing.  I say something to the effect of, "I know change can be hard.  It's okay to be sad.  I love you.  I am always here for you.  Daddy loves you.  God loves you."  Not helping. 

Incidentally, my radio spontaneously died earlier that day, so we're driving in silence broken only by my devastated child's heartache.  So I do the only thing I've ever known to do when my babies are inconsolable.  "Do you want me to sing to you?"

He nods.  "Sing the lullaby with the cradle."  (I HATE Rock-a-bye-baby!  Who tells their kids they're going to fall out of a tree???? I NEVER sang it to them--they learned it from Pandora's Christian Toddler station--but I sang it last night.)

For the next 45 minutes I go through all the lullabies I used to sing when they were wee little things.  I sang the songs I wrote myself for each of them in Spanish.  I sang the Cradle Song in German.  I sang the Lullabies and Night Songs set in English.  And then I made some up spur of the moment, prayers for them, for peace, and love, and rest, and joy. 

And my heart broke.  And for a moment I knew agony and hatred like I had never known before. 

Tonight the hatred has subsided some.  But the agony remains.  Today was a day of temper tantrums and angry outbursts and "but where is Daddy going to buy coffee??" in the grocery store when I tell him we don't need to buy Bustelo anymore.  And I realized that all my love is not enough to make up for this devastation.  I don't have the tools to help them process this. 

So I swallowed my pride and my guilt and my shame and my fear and looked online for help.  And God pointed me to a woman I used to go to church with who is now a counselor, who had two children a little older than mine when she went through her own journey of divorce and betrayal. 

And I was thankful.  I again remember that God loves my little family so much more even than I do.  And He is never at a loss, never confused, never bewildered.  And He does not want that for me, either.  He says, "If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you." 

I have struggled with guilt for where we are.  I said yes, after all.  I worked hard to have my babies, whom I wanted so badly.  (Whom I love so dearly now as well!)  But God's forgiveness doesn't find fault.  And he will give me the wisdom I need.  

And I pray that as time goes on, he will enable me to direct that same forgiveness to others.  

He is faithful.  He will do it. 

Lament Upon His Leaving

All of a sudden there is space. 
Empty space.
Soon-to-be-filled space.
Never-to-be filled space. 

Space without turtles.
Without charcoal grills.
Without shaving accoutrements:
Strop, lather cup, brush, razor. 

There is space to grieve. 
Space to sorrow.
Space to weep.
Space to mourn.

Perhaps also there will be space to leap,
To sing,
To laugh,
To praise.

There is space to grow.
For the little cactus on the windowsill,
For the spider plants in the skylight,
For the mother and the son and the daughter in their new normal.

And yet this is not free space,
The space of fields,
Of the ocean,
Of the desert. 

Somehow the very expansiveness has weight,
Making the air unbreathable,
Crushing the chest,
Smothering the spirit. 

It will not last, this heaviness. 
This darkness.
This pain.  
It cannot last. 

When comes the dawn,
This present will be a shadow. 
The sun will stream through unfettered windows,
And there will be dancing

In this space. 

My Lover is Mine, and I am His

I love fire.  I love the color of it: red, orange, yellow, blue, green.  I love the warmth of it, burning off the deepest cold. 

But I also have a fear of fire.  Not the panicky, oh-my-gosh-there's-a-fire-where's-the-water fear . . . although I guess I have done that once or twice!--but mostly a cautious respect, a respect born out of the knowledge of the danger fire poses. 

So with all this in mind, I am reflecting on the image of the Refiner's Fire and finding it apt indeed.  For that is where I believe I am right now.  Right smack-dab in the middle of God's blaze. 

It is the most excruciating pain I have ever experienced.  My soul is blackened, scorched, completely covered with third degree burns.  As if that isn't enough, every day God brings something--or someone--into my life to debride the damaged flesh, to further rip apart the nerve endings so desperately trying to reconnect and renew themselves. 

As the wounding-healing hands approach me, I shake uncontrollably.  I scream.  I rage.  I rail.  I ask them and myself and my God when it will be enough.  Why isn't it already enough? 

The answer is simple.  The work is not yet done.  I have more to learn . . . about others . . . about myself . . . about God.  I have more to lose . . . more pride . . . more wrath . . . more bitterness. 

Most of all, I have so much more to gain.   More compassion.  More mercy.  More forgiveness.  More honesty.  More purity.  More holiness.  More joy.  More Jesus. 

Just as Isaiah could not be used until the angel purified his lips with the burning coal, so I cannot be used--really used--until all my dross has been burned away.  But when that day finally comes, when I am shining like the purest gold, what a sight I will be! 

Sometimes I would like to to sit down with God and suggest that he hurry this process just a smidge.  I've spent 4 decades pursuing godliness . . . isn't it time I get to see a little more of that in my life? 

And in that moment, when the raw, exposed soul of me is crying out for relief, I hear it.  It is Jesus speaking to the storm: "Peace, be still!"  Only this time, it is not a sharp command, impossible to resist. 

No. 

It is a whisper.  A breath.  A kiss.  A caress.  It is the voice of the Lover to his Beloved, the voice of a Lover who will never--could never--be untrue, untrustworthy, unkind.  It is the Balm of Gilead oh so gently being poured on the livid wounds.  It is coolness and relief. 

And it is good. 

Becoming Penny Tweedy

I was planning on writing this inspiring blog about how I want to be like Penny Tweedy, the owner of arguably the greatest racehorse in history, Secretariat.  In the movie named after the horse, Penny is this wife and mom who overcomes nearly insurmountable odds to keep her family farm, her horse, and her personhood.  She does it with grace and dignity . . . and in the movie she's even book-ended the story with one of my favorite passages from Job. 

Then I made the mistake of doing an internet search and found out she'd had an affair with her trainer while they were both married to other people and she and her husband got divorced.  Not quite the rosy ending portrayed in the movie.

And yet, perhaps I still want to be like her.  Not in having an affair, for sure, but the fact remains that she took on society, her husband, and even her own fears . . . and she emerged victorious.  She made some mistakes along the way, but who of us doesn't?

And at 91 years old, with the world seeing her as the archetypal "angel in the house," she has the courage to set the story straight, to be honest about her story.  There is much to be said for that as well.
 
So what is it that started me on this train of thought?  Mowing my lawn.  Naturally.

Tonight was Daddy Day, so the kids went to the beach with their dad for supper.  I took the opportunity to mow the lawn, which didn't get done last Sunday due to rain and won't get done this Sunday due to a PawSox game.  (Go, Sox!)

As I was mowing, I was looking at my almost-finished fence, straight and proud and looking like a fence should look.  And I was proud.  Not that there's anything very remarkable about repairing fence . . . I've been doing it for years . . . but now I'm truly doing it on my own for the first time.  No backup.  No support.  (Except for my ex's explanation of how the ground wire attaches . . . he did that the last time!) 

I also realized that I was not angry at my ex while I mowed the lawn this week.  And that was new.  And refreshing. 

My neighbor stopped to chat and said, "You've got a lot ahead of you," looking around at the barn with the broken window (still . . . after 7 years!) and the pasture with the long grass and the pine trees that need to come down because they're being killed by some mysterious pathogen. 

I agreed with him, but I realized I want to do this.  I want to be able to keep this property, and keep it looking ship-shape.  I want to keep writing, finding my own path with my own unique set of skills.  I want my kids to grow up and be proud of what their mom has done, of who their mom is.  And perhaps one day it would be nice to have my ex say that there was more grit and determination and success . . . more value . . . in me than he thought. 

But most importantly, I want to be able to first of all make it to 91--some days that seems like a very daunting proposition!--and second of all, be able to look back on it all, the good, the bad, and the ugly, and be content.  Not to make excuses, or to place blame, or focus on the things I wish I could have done differently, but to accept it.  To be able to see how God took it all, in His own time and in His own way, and made something beautiful out of it.  To be thankful for it all.  To rejoice, every day. 

So here's to the Penny Tweedy within us all.  Here's to the streak of almost pig-headed determination that refuses to back down in the face of opposition.  Here's to the fallen and broken parts of us that get transformed by God's power, grace, love, and mercy.  And here's to the opposition itself, without which we would stay weak and untried . . . and unremarkable.  Here's to the journey. 

Get Comfortable

I have a guilty pleasure.  (Well, lots actually, but I'm only talking about one tonight.)  Every night after the kids go to bed, I take one of their bowls, grab a handful of chocolate chips from the freezer, and munch. 

As I got my snack tonight, I started thinking about comfort foods.  I'm sure there are tons of scientific reasons why we run to certain foods in times of stress and/or emotional disturbance.  I, however, don't know any of them.  And I don't need to. 

What I do know is that there are some go-to foods guaranteed to ease my heart when needed...and here they are:

Chocolate.  Any kind.  Any time.  The darker the better.  (As an aside, I don't know what white "chocolate" is, but it sure isn't chocolate!)

Tuna casserole.  Hot or cold, it is amazing...especially with a side of Ocean Spray jellied cranberry sauce.

Beef stroganoff.  My mom always made a "poor man's" version--hamburg, cream of mushroom soup, sour cream--quick, easy, and addictively satisfying.  (I also like it made with stew beef, a little red wine and Wostershire sauce...mm mm mm!)

Tuna patties and box macaroni and cheese.  (Thank you, Marsha!)

Fast food value meals.  I shouldn't admit this one, growing up on a farm and making my living consulting for and writing about farmers, but there it is. 

Mocha lattes.  Or those seasonal Praline Pecan Lattes from Starbucks.  Oh so delicious!  I feel happy just thinking about them!

Egg rolls.  The first Chinese food I fell in love with.  Still my favorite.

My sister-in-law's world-famous bean dip.  Amazing!

Maybe this post topic was a bad idea...I think I need a snack!

The Tempest in a Teapot

I sometimes feel my life is ruled by temper tantrums.  Mine, my son's, my daughter's, my dogs' . . . I am surrounded by angst!  Today's tantrums went something like this:

6:30am--Mom makes son stay at table to finish yummy Almond Coco Loco Flip from Chobani that he HAD to have, even though it was the last one and Mommy wanted it, only he really only wanted the almonds and chocolate chunks and refused to touch the coconut yogurt that he usually devours.  (Are you kidding me?) 

7:00am--Angry that Mom wants him to eat 1/2 the yogurt, son flails around and knocks milk all over table.  Mom sends him to bed. 

8:00am--Son pitches fit because Mom won't let him watch TV.  Gets put in bed while Mommy takes shower. 

9:00am--Son has spat with Mom because she has to show the insurance man around the rental to take pictures and he doesn't want her to. 

9:30am--Trying to get out the door to go to Auntie's house so she can babysit while Mommy conducts a story interview, daughter pitches fit because she doesn't want to wear sneakers.  Ends up in flips flops with back straps. 

9:45am--Blind, deaf dog decides to camp by the barn instead of coming in the house as always (probably due to the fact that the children keep trying to go out of the house before Mommy's ready and she thinks we're going outside to play).  Mommy goes to get dog.  Returns to house with dog following.  Five minutes later, dog is back at the barn.  Mommy goes out and leads her in by the collar. 

10:00am--Children want to hang out in the walkway looking at plants and insects rather than getting in the car.  Finally all get in car. 

10:15am--At bank drive-thru, only receive one lollipop.  Son says, "You'll get one next time, Chinchita!"  Mommy sends the empty container back in and asks for another lollipop before daughter realizes she's getting swindled.  Crisis averted.  Points for Mom. 

11:00am--Arrive at Auntie's.  Everyone momentarily happy. 

11:30am--Son complains that the stuffed pork chops Mommy brought for lunch are not to his liking.  Doesn't want to eat them.  Auntie and cousin convince him otherwise.  Mommy leaves for interview . . . prays for her sister!

12:00pm--Mommy arrives to find interviewees had forgotten she was coming, zipped through the world's shortest interview before the farmer had to leave for another appointment, got some photos, and went back to Auntie's. 

1:30pm--Auntie and Mommy have sister time.  Kids watch TV.  Kids are actually ok when we decide enough TV and turn it off. 

2:45pm--Mommy leaves for hairdresser.  Gets new cut.  Hopes she did the right thing.  Thinks she did.  Will know for certain in the morning. 

4:00pm--Mommy tells kids it's time to go home.  Son begins crying, "I didn't even get to play on the swings!"  As his swing set is in pieces awaiting assembly, Auntie suggests we stay 10 minutes.  We stay 30. 

4:30pm--Auntie offers us supper.  Mommy agrees.  Tells kids to come in the house to help get ready.  Daughter stiffens, falls on the ground, and screams, "I DON'T WANT TO!!!"  Mommy picks her up and carries her.  She continues screaming, "I WANNA WALK!!!"  Mommy puts her down.  She refuses to walk.  Mommy carries her to the deck and says, "Go in the house."  She refuses. 

Mommy hits the end of her tolerance for whining, screaming, hitting, and general mayhem.  "If you don't go in the house by the count of 3, we're going home.  Do you want to eat here?"  "Yes."  "Then go in the house.  1.  2.  3." 

Mommy has to grudgingly respect her daughter's steadfast refusal to give in.  She does not have to reward it.  "Ok.  We're going home."  Daughter and son BOTH  begin crying and screaming that they don't want to leave as Mommy pulls together stuff and hustles them out the door.  Auntie whispers, "God bless you!"  He'd better. 

4:45pm--Kids are tired and hungry.  (Naturally . . . that's why we'd agreed to eat at Auntie's, but who can reason with a temper tantrum?!)  Mommy goes to Dunkin' Donuts for cinnamon raisin bagels.  Orders first for kids, then for herself.  Son again begins screaming, "I'm hungry!!  You didn't order anything for us!!!"  "What are you talking about?  I ordered for you first.  Bagels."  "Oh."  Yeah.  Oh.  Kids eat and fall asleep. 

5:30pm--Mommy wakes up sleeping babies.  Nobody is happy.  Mommy hauls in all the stuff from Auntie's.  Kids stand in the driveway screaming.  Refuse to walk to the house.  Mommy practices Lamaze breathing to remain cool.  Drops stuff in house.  Goes back for kids.  Carries daughter; leads son by hand. 

5:45pm--Mommy begins baths.  Son screams, hits, calls names, and again tries to convince Mommy she doesn't love him . . . because she's giving him a bath . . . and picking off the world's tiniest tick  . . . if that's not love, what is?  Son gets taken out of bath because he's flailing and throwing water at Mommy in anger at taking a bath.  Son complains he's cold while sister gets bath. 

(Of course you're cold . . . you're covered in shampoo, you were a danger to your sister in the tub, you're treating your mother like an 18th-Century scullery maid . . . and you have to wait your turn for the tub . . . life is full of consequences, dear heart!) 

6:30pm--Daughter stages a sit-in because she doesn't want to pick up blocks in the living room.  Mommy sweeps up the tiny shells and foam pieces that made up their Sunday School art project and throws them out . . . since the kids had already destroyed the containers they were supposed to stay in. 

6:40pm--Mommy succumbs to the pressure of remaining mostly calm all day and decides it is bedtime.  Children throw fits--they're thirsty. 

7:30pm--Screaming from the bedroom cuts through the sounds of jumping, laughing, and talking.  (I thought these kids were tired?????  Don't they want to sleep???  I do!)  Son has thrown a little person at sister (an act that is always verboten, most especially when she is in her crib) and left her with a cut, a welt, and a bruise on her head. 

7:45pm--Mommy throws a little temper tantrum of her own, ices the cut, disciplines the son, comforts the daughter, discards the little person, puts everyone back to bed . . . naturally with another drink because who wouldn't be thirsty after spending an hour jumping, laughing, talking, and committing acts of physical violence? . . . and sits down to watch old reruns of NCIS Los Angeles. 

There's something to be said for a little dose of escapism!  

Mid-life Crisis in Hair

I have never been accused of being a fashionista.  I am about as plain Jane as you get.  I rarely wear makeup, have never dyed my hair, and have no idea how to use a straightener.  For decades my approach to my appearance has been to let my hair grow as long as possible then cut it to my shoulders and donate the remnants. 

The advent of my divorce has thrown all that into chaos.  In the last six months, I have had almost as many haircuts.  I didn't even know you could cut your hair that frequently without becoming bald!  I've learned to straighten it with my blow dryer and a round brush.  I've purchased an actual diffuser to add more curl.  Sometimes I just blow the snot out of it, get it as wild as possible, and top it off with some spray wax. 

As an aside, may I just say that my Paul Mitchell spray wax is my absolute FAVORITE hair product?  I've never before met a product that worked in every situation, but this one has for me.  Going straight?  Tame and define with spray wax.  Going curly?  Scrunch and lift with spray wax.  Don't have time for a shower?  A little spray wax will save the day. 

Great product.  Love it.  Use it EVERY DAY!  Except today.  I was hanging home fixing fence . . . without a shower . . . and my ridiculous hair looked amazing . . . because I used spray wax yesterday! 

To get back to the hairstyle issue, I have to admit I've actually liked most of my recent cuts.  Including the current one.  So why did I just squander 30 minutes pinning an entire board of short hair cuts in preparation for tomorrow's visit to the salon?  Why can't I just keep it the same and be content? 

I am choosing to blame it on my divorce-inspired mid-life crisis.  (Would I have undergone a mid-life crisis apart from a divorce?  Possibly.  But why waste a perfectly good, perfectly unassailable excuse?!)

Maybe I'm searching for the "ideal me."  (It's a good thing my counselors are going on vacation, because the combination of those two words would drive them to the brink!)  They keep emphasizing that I am not, never will be, and never was expected to be perfect.  In any way.  My mind assents.  My soul . . . not so much.  But I'm trying. 

Maybe I'm just tired of being plain Jane.  On the inside, I am--or used to be, anyway--vivacious and effervescent and a little off the wall.  On the outside, I'm a middle-aged, cast-off mother of two lining up to join the First Wives' Club.  Ugh!  No wonder I need a change!  Who wants to be that?!

I think I'd like to look in the mirror, and see reflected back that girl who used to ride horseback at midnight in a dark wood at a canter, oblivious to the fact that she couldn't see a thing and was trusting her life to a 1,000-pound animal.  The girl who could laugh herself hoarse.  The girl who smiled at strangers.  The girl who smiled. 

A haircut doesn't really change anything.  I know that.  But perhaps I like the illusion that I can successfully transform something . . . if only the length of my locks.  And who knows?  Maybe the illusion is enough to start me on the road to actualization. 

The Ants Go Marching One by One . . .

I love summer.  The colors.  The heat.  The beach.  The ants. 

Ahh, yes.  Every summer like clockwork my house suddenly becomes infested with tiny little sugar ants.  On the counters.  On the table.  Scrambling out from under my keyboard.  (I know, disgusting, right?) 

Let me just say this about "critters":  I aim to coexist peacefully with almost all of God's creatures . . . until they enter my home.  There I draw the line.  Snakes in the garden?  Wonderful.  They keep the mice out of my house.  Squirrels scampering up and down the trees in my yard?  Delightful.  Just keep your bushy little tails out of my attic.

When you get into my house, however, all bets are off.  Then it is war.  I have killed mice in all sorts of gruesome ways because I frankly don't want their disease-carrying little selves wandering around while I'm asleep.

My flyswatter comes out the second I see a fly, wasp, or other winged pest in my home.  Outside, that's a different story.  Live and let live, I say.  (Except for mosquitoes.  I can't think of a single positive attribute for those little monsters . . . death to them all!)

The only things I really don't mind in the house are spiders.  Every once in a while one gives me a turn, especially if it's especially large and hairy, but I like the fact that they prey on my winged nemeses, so they are welcome. 

I am happy to say that my children have adopted this attitude.  The other day we were in the garden admiring the blooming rhododendron when my daughter reached out to pat the bumblebees.  I fortunately prevented that act of boldness saying, "Honey, they'll sting you."  My priceless child looks at me and says, "They won't sting me, Mommy.  They like me."  Sure they do.  The thing is, I'm not entirely convinced she isn't correct! 

Where many of my kids' playmates start screaming at the sight of bugs, my kids come to me carrying gypsy moth caterpillars, beetles, spiders . . . anything they come across.  I take pride in their fearless curiosity.  I keep telling myself they're entomologists in the making. 

I have tainted their perception of the aforementioned sugar ants, though.  I find them a blight, and my kids are mimicking me.  They smack them with their hands and call them foul names.  (You know, "Stupid sugar ants!") 

It's funny that they bother me so much.  Aside from crawling all over the place and popping up in the most unexpected places, they don't really harm anything.  They don't carry diseases . . . do they?  They don't sting . . . that I know of.  They don't leave feces . . . at least none that I can see.  So why my abhorrence? 

I think it stems from the first summer the ants came marching in.  I figured it meant I was the world's worst housekeeper.  Bleach became my best friend.  I practically lived with a spray bottle in my hand. 

When I finally overcame my humiliation enough to tell my sister--what are ants between sisters?!--she exclaimed, "Oh, I HATE them!  They're all over my house, too!" 

Really?  I know it isn't the level of cleanliness in her house.  My sister keeps an amazing house.  With three kids and a luthier shop in the basement, nonetheless. 

Then she informed me that the little buggers were coming in for water, which is why they generally congregate around sinks, tubs, potted plants, fish bowls.  They are in heaven in my house! 

I have tried many different tricks with these guys, but I always come down to one difficulty: if it's toxic to the ants, it's probably not too good for the kids and the dogs.  When the kids were smaller, I could secret bait stations behind the couch and far back on the counter.  Now that they are stronger, taller, and adept at using stools I'm afraid they will be able to get into them. 

No more poison for me. 

So I am back to my futile attempt at uber-cleanliness.  Every surface gets a Clorox wipe several times a day.  Sugary foods/drinks are at an all-time low, and post-snack cleaning is a must.  The irritating thing is that I KNOW I am not hindering them enough to say so. 

But hey, a girl can try, can't she? 

My Garden Prayer

Give me rest.
Give me peace.
Give me freedom from grief.

Give me joy.
Give me hope.
Give me faith in what's ahead.

Give me grace.
Give me mercy.
Give me forgiveness for myself. 

Give me sunshine.
Give me rain.
Give me room to bloom and grow. 

Give me children who love You.
Give me work that sustains us. 
Give me creativity and passion and strength for the journey.

Give me a heart that is whole.
Give me a soul that is clean.
Give me a self that reaches out and ministers to others. 

Give me Yourself, and I will have everything else besides. 

Birds on the Brain

I like birds.  All kinds of birds. I have a battered copy of Peterson's A Field Guide to the Birds that my kids and I use all the time to identify what kind of sparrow is pecking in our yard and what kind of hawk is perching on our barn. 

It is with surprise and delight, therefore, that I have discovered what a fabulous spot my new "office" is.  My office is a cast-off drop-leaf table from college days that houses a laptop, a printer, and an African violet.  I try to clean everything else off it every night because I once read that people who clean their desks off before going home were viewed as more successful and therefore were promoted more frequently than their counterparts.  (If only I had read that article when I was teaching all those years ago . . . !)

My office is located in front of a double sliding window overlooking my gardens.  Prior to this, the window was 1/3-covered by a turtle cage.  

I had no idea what I was missing in that 1/3 view. 

Suddenly I have an unobstructed view of one of our many Aesculus (buckeye) trees.  Right now it is laden with gorgeous red flowers.  Behind it, my enormous Harry Lauder's Walking Stick curls its way into view. 

As a result, I am daily treated to the most enjoyable avian displays.  My neighbor on one side claims he hasn't seen a hummingbird in years.  I feel deprived if I go an hour without seeing one.  A male and female take turns slurping nectar from the tubular blossoms.  They're fascinating to watch, because they seem to be able to tell which ones have been tapped recently.  Those they poke into and leave with disgust.  At others they linger, and you can almost see their throats pulsing as they drink. 

The combination of plants has offered me sights I've never seen before.  The female (they have the whitish throats; males have the ruby red--in our region, anyway) likes to perch on a branch of the Walking Stick for a rest.  The other day while it was raining, I saw her sit in her favorite spot and stick her beak straight up in the air for about thirty seconds.  I swear she was catching the rainwater! 

Today, I got to see a pair of cardinals in the Aesculus, feet away from me, as if they were showing off their colors.  Yesterday a female Oriole fluttered around in there.  The male was flashing around, but he didn't settle. 

These are pretty common birds, so maybe I'm making a big deal about not too much.  But this open stretch of glass allows me to be a part of nature--which I love--while working--which I also love.  It is the best of both worlds.  It is SO much better than writing with my laptop balanced on my lap as I sprawl on the couch and crane my neck up at our projector screen. 

I am pretty sure these birds were here last year.  I've seen all of them occasionally before.  Never have I seen them so frequently and so clearly.  Just goes to show that sometimes you just need to sweep away the obstructions to see the beauty that already exists right in front of you. 

Gearing Up For Goats

For about a month now I've been mowing our lawn, and it has proven to be more of a challenge than I suspected.  If it rains on Sunday, I don't get the lawn mowed.  If I have other commitments--like my aunt's 60th birthday party--on Sunday, I don't get the lawn mowed.  It has to be Sunday.  Sunday is Daddy Day--no additional babysitter required!

(Those of you who have been following along may recall my last blog on this topic.  For those of you who missed it, here it is: https://kcastrataro.blogspot.com/2016/05/mowing-lawn-cutting-grass-its-all-pain.html)

You should have seen me this Sunday: go to church, pack kids off with Daddy, mow the lawn, attend the pastor's daughter's amazing voice recital, have the audacity to chat afterwards, go home to find kids and ex home, mow the lawn, get called in for bedtime routine, go back out to finish the lawn, come in hating life! 

That was the last straw.  I decided that I, like everyone else in creation, deserved a day of rest.  Mowing the lawn wasn't it.  Ergo, we're getting goats. 

This may have been a big leap for some people, but it was a pretty small hop for me.  After Ranita was born, my ancient, fabulous Belgian draught horse died, leaving me with a Standardbred I had adopted as a "pasture buddy" . . . who then needed a "pasture buddy" of his own.  Another horse was NOT in the cards at that time. 

Enter Jack-Jack.  My wonderful Pastor and his wife had an extra goat kicking around and were more than happy to let us "borrow" him indefinitely.  He was really a great buddy.  Kid Cobra had never really gotten along with my horse Dave, but he LOVED Jack-Jack.  Everyone was happy. 

Until I got pregnant the second time.  For many reasons--my pregnancy health and our finances being just a couple--it seemed best to empty the barn.  So we did.  Kid Cobra went back to the Retirement Foundation (which was one of the hardest things I'd ever done) and Pastor sent Jack-Jack somewhere else. 

All this to say, replacing my lawn mower with a couple goats actually makes sense for me.  I have experience thanks to Jack-Jack (not to mention the one we briefly had when I was a kid who broke his leg jumping in a wheelbarrow . . . ). 

Goats are cheap: you can feed them for MONTHS off one bag of grain, a decent pasture (which I have!), and a few bales of hay (which I don't . . . yet).  They are small, so my little ones can be with me while I do chores (as opposed to mowing the lawn, which they can't). 

These goats will also help fulfill a longing I've always had for my children: they will get a taste of what it's like to grow up on a farm.  My ex considers himself a farmer (he's a nurseryman), and that is true in a sense.  But there's a special something that happens when you grow up with livestock. 

Animals need you every day, twice a day.  You have to be responsible to them.  You have to put them first, in some senses.  And they can be so darned cute!  In short, you learn the mixed blessings of having something depend on you and only you.  It's a good thing.  (Should I again remind myself we already have 2 dogs and 2 fish?  And the fish get fed 3 times a day?) 

So today my children and I started fixing fence.  If goats were horses, I'd be done already.  One or two strands of electric fence, and most horses will stay in forever.  Not so with goats.  To keep Jack-Jack in the pasture and away from our assortment of attractive--and toxic--landscape plants required a 5-strand electric fence starting a couple inches off the ground. 

Our fence has not been maintained in over 2 years, so I have a bit of a project ahead of me.  Again, this is a project my children can participate in . . . as long as I don't mind picking ticks off them each night!  The first section was in much better shape than I anticipated. 

The rest, however, is pretty abominable.  You can probably look forward to hearing about me cutting through bittersweet, chopping up pine and Russian olives that have fallen on the fence, and navigating a literal ocean of poison ivy that my Dave-horse once had completely cleared up. 

The funny thing is that I still believe this will end up being easier and more beneficial than mowing the lawn.  (No wonder my husband left me!)