Good Grief

Most of us are familiar with the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  We expect grief when a loved one dies.  Perhaps we are wise enough to anticipate it in a divorce, which is after all the death of a relationship.  Do we also expect it in other traumas: abuse, a job termination, a serious illness?

I think we should. 

Over the past 10 months I have becoming well-acquainted with grief, sometimes without even realizing it was grief sitting beside me.  One thing I am unhappily discovering is that each event owns its own grief.  You cannot shorten the process, no matter how you may want to.  Neither can you dictate how to grieve....the process drives you, not the other way around. 

Some people may experience mostly anger, some mostly depression.  You may handle one situation in a completely different manner than another.  My recent experiences with grief include my divorce and another family trauma I am not at liberty to discuss at this time.  

(This second is also the reason for my suddenly-sparse blog entries.  Please be patient with me as we work through this!  I look ahead to a time when I can again blog meaningfully and prolifically!)  

With these events I experienced a short bout of denial, a poignant attempt at bargaining (mostly of the "why didn't I do X, Y, or Z to avoid this situation?!' variety), an intense period of anger, a significant depression (primarily marked by unrelenting fatigue and irritability), and finally peaceful acceptance.  

At least, I had come pretty close to the acceptance stage as far as my divorce was concerned.  I wasn't angry.  I had stopped playing the "what if" game.  I was feeling happier, working more efficiently and joyfully, and looking forward to my new single mom life.  I had even grown thankful for the unexpected "benefits" of divorce: a few hours a week to rest, work, and do home maintenance while the little ones enjoyed Daddy Days.  

Then the boom got lowered.  

Had I pondered the issue before, I might have concluded that a person undergoing separate heartaches simultaneously could somehow morph both griefs together, suffering "once for all," so to speak.

No such luck.  

Suddenly I find myself back in the grieving process, this time mourning not only some long-held expectations and dreams but also some of my newly-acquired ones.  

For the past few weeks, I've been berating myself for my sudden fatigue, wondering why I was dealing with the emotions I had felt at the beginning of my divorce.  Why was I not past this already?  

It was just yesterday that I realized my emotions are to be expected in light of a new trauma.  The fact that it is occurring at the tail end of one grieving process does not suggest that it could--or should--be folded into the other and easily dismissed.  Nor does it mean I am backsliding in my post-divorce healing. 

No.  

Just as my divorce claimed its own time, so does this new event. And it makes sense.  Would I want my lawyer, for example, to put less time or energy into my divorce because she was also concluding another?  Not hardly.  So it is with grief.  Each trauma deserves to be recognized, acknowledged, named, and grieved on its own merits, not shortchanged because the timing is inconvenient.

I am finding this to be both comforting and a little disappointing.  

On the comforting side, it's nice to know I am demonstrating the normal responses to abnormal situations.  I don't like it, however.  I am normally a high-energy, up-beat person.  I was starting to see glimmers of her returning, and to feel as if she has retreated into the shadows again is most annoying.  

I have the tools to handle this second blow, though.  My counselors, my family, my friends, and most of all my God are loving on me and my children in amazing ways.  And I am letting them.  I am taking the offers of childcare so I can temporarily work at jobs that require less mental flexibility than writing.  I am taking rest when I can.  I am snuggling with my little ones and working in my gardens.  (Look ahead for a post on that!)  

My fellow grievers, follow my lead.  "Be gentle with yourself," as my counselors say.  Listen to your body, your spirit, your mind . . . and obey their commands.  Give yourself license to grieve.  Do not burden yourself with recrimination.  

And when God occasionally blows you a kiss--a funny comment from your kids, a pumpkin pie from your neighbor, a caring email from a distant friend--grab hold of it.  Breathe it in.  Rest in it.  Even if you must do so with tears. 

Driving 101

I've been doing quite a bit of traveling lately and, quite frankly, I think it is time many of my fellow drivers take a look at the old driver's manual again.  Now, I should preface by saying everyone has an off day now and again.  We can all recall, usually with a wince, a near-miss or two that would have fallen squarely on our own shoulders in the guilt column. 

Having said that, there are a few matters of driving etiquette I'd like to discuss.

1. Red Lights.  Folks, these are NOT suggestions.  Nor are STOP signs.  Do I really need to tell you why barrelling through a light after it has turned red is a bad idea?  We all have the occasional "it was yellow when I started under it" moment, but that really should be a rare occurrence if you're actually paying attention.
2. Blinkers.  I don't get the general aversion to using blinkers.  Perhaps people just don't like feeling as if they are required to communicate with perfect strangers?  I don't know.  I can only say that there are few driving peccadilloes that annoy me like people suddenly jamming on their breaks in the middle of traffic to take a left turn I didn't know they were about to execute.  For those of you who really have an issue with your blinkers, I have a suggestion: use your middle finger to tap it up or down and tell yourself you're flipping me off on the sly.  You'll feel like you told me off; I'll know what you're doing on the road; and we'll both be happy!
3. Tailgating.  Riding the bumper of my Subaru will NOT make me drive faster.  It will, however, make me stubborn.  As for flashing your highs while riding my butt . . . I am more likely to get beside some big tractor trailer truck and park there than to speed up . . . especially if my kids aren't in the car.  (I don't risk road rage with my kids for anything.)  Just be patient.  I'll move over when I get the chance.  I promise!
4. Driving over 80 mph.  Unless your wife is in labor and about to start pushing or you wear a badge, plus 80 is just plain ridiculous.  Out in Nevada where there's nothing for miles, maybe.  In Rhode Island?  Give me a break.  And in a Honda nonetheless? 
5. Motorcycles.  I like motorcycles.  I grew up riding my dad's old Honda Trail 70, and I never felt cooler than zipping around the farm as fast as I could without spilling.  (Or faster than I could without spilling, as the case may be!)  It behooves all drivers to be aware that motorcycles can easily get lost in a blind spot and to keep an eye peeled for them at all times.  HOWEVER, a motorcyclist riding up the breakdown lane and weaving in and out of traffic at speeds in excess of 80 mph (see number 4 above) while wearing cutoff shorts, sandals, and a tank top (without a helmet!) CANNOT blame the poor driver who hits him.  Respect goes both ways.  (No, I have NEVER hit a motorcyclist!  I pray to God I never do!  Biggest driving fear next to hitting a child on a bike or a skateboard.)  
6. The Horn.  I like my horn.  A lot.  I use it to say goodbye to my kids when I leave them with a sitter.  I use it to say hello to my friends when I drive by their houses.  I have even used it on a flock of arrogant geese who refused to let me out of a farmyard.  I do NOT use it to tell someone to drive when they are stuck at a red light (see number 1 above) . . . or behind a person turning left on a busy road . . . or because I've had a bad day and feel the need to take it out on someone I don't know.  We're all doing our best out there.  Unless someone is in danger of crashing into you or someone else, take it easy on that thing in the steering wheel.  
7. Blue lights.  I admit they look cool, but they KILL my eyes!  Unless you're a police officer, I just don't get the need for them.  
8. Waving people through.  This is a tough one, because I admit to appreciating a wave-on when trying to get out of Dunkin' Donuts at coffee hour.  However, I have also been tail-ended when someone in front of me waved someone out and the person behind me didn't notice.  In addition, I've had well-meaning Samaritans try waving me into oncoming traffic and then blare their horn at me (see number 6 above) when I neglected to take the bait and become responsible for being broadsided.  In most cases, just keep driving.  I'll get out eventually. 

So there you have it, the big things that make me crazy when driving.  I won't swear at you.  I won't flip you the middle finger, even when using my blinker.  I may toss you a business card with my blog address and this post highlighted on it! 

Drive Safely! 

When Come The Locusts

Joel 2:25 reads: “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten—the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm—my great army that I sent among you."

While thinking about this passage--and the past 9 months--I wrote this poem: 

 When Come the Locusts

They blow in on the west wind

A couple weeks before the harvest. 

In ones or twos they appear,

Few enough to dispose of underfoot,

Satisfyingly,

With a

Crunch.

Pop. 

Negligible. 

All at once the air is black with them:

The sight of their winged bodies swarming,

The sound of their winged bodies buzzing,

The feel of their winged bodies assaulting,

Relentlessly,

Man.

Beast.

Crops. 

Inescapable. 

They do not remain long.

Like bombers on an evening run

They race in from the darkness

To ravage everything in their wake.

Ravenously

Chomping.

Tearing.

Ripping.

Inexorable. 

In an instant they are gone. 

Behind them lie despoiled

Acres of wheat and rye

And hollow-eyed peasants

Incredulously

Staring.

Praying.

Weeping. 

Inconceivable. 

So begins a season of want,

A season of penury,

In which there is no cash for luxuries,

In which all things become luxuries

Seemingly:

Food.

Clothing.

Heat. 

Pitiable. 

This is not the end, however.  

Among them are those who persevere,

Who scrape together enough

To start over once again.

Heroically

Sowing, 

Growing,

Reaping. 

Invincible. 

"Good-Enough-to-Wake-Up-For" Stir Fry

I know I promised not to turn this blog into a food blog, and I won't, but tonight I made possibly the best stir fry I've ever made and thought I'd share it.  (Mind you, stir fry was one of the few things I cooked that my ex actually complimented!)  And tonight my daughter woke up from a late nap just long enough to eat supper before going right back to bed.  I think that's a commendation . . . !

I don't really use recipes for stir fry, but I generally start with a few basics.  (I used to julienne everything, but once the kids came along I found bite-size pieces to be preferable.)  They are:

• Kielbasa (You simply CANNOT go wrong with ANYTHING made with kielbasa!)
• One onion 
• One red pepper (or any color but green . . . I almost NEVER use green peppers)
• One clove garlic
• Mushrooms (I usually use canned mushrooms because I can have them at-hand without wasting them.  Tonight I used Maitakes I had frozen courtesy of the guys at RI Mushroom Co.  SO AMAZING!!!)
• One can of beans (The kids requested black beans . . . good choice!) 
• One stalk celery
• Olive oil for sautéing (I've been known to use almost any kind of oil except vegetable . . . go figure.)
• A heavy splash of Worcestershire sauce (Again, I generally throw in soy sauce as well, but tonight I went bare.  The mushrooms spread through everything and were flavor enough.)

I have been known to throw in frozen string beans, corn, and/or carrots, but not tonight.  My ex liked stir fry over rice, but I'm not a huge rice fan, so I don't make it.  As long as I toss the beans in I figure it's a complete one-skillet meal.  And who's going to complain over less clean-up?!

I also tend to leave the veggies a bit al dente.  I like there to be just enough crunch to feel like you're eating FOOD . . . and I appreciate each element retaining some of it's own texture, making each bite a little different. 

I eat my stir fry with a fork.  (I also use chop sticks, but I don't bring them out with the kids because I hate seeing my food dropped on the floor!)

My son is a different story.  At first he was leery of the Maitakes.  (I think it's the texture . . . my kids are big on texture.)  I told him the idea was to eat a bunch of different things in the same bite.  True to form, he decided to eat stir fry as a sandwich. 

He started with a celery piece, layered it with Maitake, and topped it off with a black bean.  The part of me that is trying to inculcate good table manners wanted to remonstrate.  The part of me that wants my kids to eat healthy food was glad he was eating.  The latter part won. 

Naturally, Ranita's approach takes longer than using utensils, so I was finished while he still had quite a ways to go.  I wanted seconds.  Seeing as I have now practiced yoga two consecutive days and am already feeling results, overeating didn't seem like a good idea. 

So I had dessert instead! 

Oh, yeah.  One kiwi, cubed, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with rich, chocolaty Ovaltine.  Can I just say that fresh fruit and whipped cream (and ANYTHING with chocolate!) is the best treat ever?!  Are we surprised that my son asked for a second kiwi? 

This supper probably won't find its way into a cooking magazine, but it's awesome comfort food . . . without the comfort food guilt.  (Some may think kielbasa "unhealthy," but I say all meat is good.  Besides, the beans help counteract the cholesterol, so it evens out!) 

Happy supper!

The Gift of Yoga

The past year for me has been a journey filled with griefs endured--overcome?--and lessons learned.  One of those lessons is that before a person can give to others, he must first have something to give.  In other words, I have to take care of myself in order to have an abundance for those around me.

I was reminded of this in a powerful way this morning.  For a while I've been telling myself it is time to get back to working out and "dieting."  Today I determined to start.  I ate oatmeal with raisins with the kids and announced, "Mommy's doing yoga." 

My love affair with yoga is a blog in itself.  Suffice it to say, several years ago my sister gave me a DVD entitled "The Gift of Yoga" featuring Gena Kenny.  It was the first time in my life exercise felt like worship.  I was hooked. 

I used to practice yoga six days a week.  Then I injured my shoulder.  Then my wrist.  Then my ex asked for a divorce.  I suddenly found myself too tired and overwhelmed to "exercise." 

So today, I felt like a woman attending her 10 year reunion and coming face-to-face with her old flame again.  Will I still enjoy yoga like I did?  Will my body stand up to it?  Will my kids stay entertained long enough for me to actually complete my practice? 

Yes.  Yes.  Yes. 

I really noticed two things this morning.  One, my very being felt like it was coming home.  I was stiffer and weaker than a year ago, but my body remembered where it had been and was happy to be on its way back. 

Two, yoga is a way I minister to me.  When the practice was over, I felt different.  I felt happier.  I felt freer.  I suddenly had more of me to share with my kids. 

Notice I am not really reflecting on the "exercise" aspect of yoga.  There is no doubt that yoga, even a "light" practice like this one, is an amazing workout.  But for me right now, that is the icing on the cake.  The real benefits for me are spiritual and emotional.  Yoga is the most holistic activity I have ever experienced. 

It truly is a gift. 

My Go-To Summer Salad

I am not the world's greatest cook, so have no fear that this is going to wind up being a foody blog.  I do like to eat, however.  Even better than that is watching my kids enjoying food I've made them.  Tonight was one of those nights. 

After a week or so of lovely fall weather in which I dug out the bluejeans (a little snug . . . gotta get to that diet!) and long-sleeves, today hit the mid-90's.  Beautiful for summer.  Not so beautiful for autumn.  (The diversity of the seasons is one of my favorite things about New England; I feel a little betrayed when they boundary-violate each other.)

My kids were not feeling up to par today . . . coming down with their cousins' colds . . . and the heat made us all lethargic and mopey.  Come supper time, I wanted something cool to eat. 

Out came my go-to summer salad. 

The recipe differs every time depending on what is in the house, but here was today's variation:

1/2 box whole-grain penne, cooked and cooled
1/2 summer squash, coarsely chopped
1/2 cucumber, coarsely chopped
1 celery stalk, coarsely chopped
1 cooked chicken leg (and thigh), coarsely chopped (This one was grilled with balsamic dressing!)
(I usually add 1/2 a red pepper, coarsely chopped . . . but I was out!) 
Relish and mayonnaise to taste
(I like to use Italian salad dressing because it feels healthier, but Chinchita requested mayonnaise . . . and it is pretty yummy that way!)

Ranita ate one serving and opted for white mint chocolate chip ice cream for dessert.  Not my little lady.  Four helpings.  Dessert?  Nope.  She just wanted more pasta salad. 

Gotta tell ya, no gourmet winning their third Michelin star could feel prouder than I did at that moment. 

The Pre-School Diet

My kids have always been good eaters.  Today, however, my son must have set some kind of record.  I don't know if it was "I'm settling into school, gotta have brain fuel" or what, but my four-year-old ate like someone 10 years older.  At least.  Check out what this child ate:

Breakfast

• Glass of milk
• Two Chobani flips (Coco Loco is our family favorite!)

Lunch

• Glass of milk
• Stroganoff
• Four helpings of salad (He is a big fan of Marzetti's Roasted Garlic Italian Vinaigrette!)  

Snack (at school)

• Cheese stick (in a Spider Man wrapper, of course!)
• Morning Glory Muffin (that he helped me make, chock full of fruits and veggies)
• One banana

Snack (after school)

• A second Morning Glory Muffin (His sister was having one, after all . . . )

Supper

• Glass of milk
• Grilled cheese sandwich
• 1/2 of a cucumber
• A strawberry Oikos yogurt (He asked for a second one . . . I told him to eat more cukes . . . and he did!)   

I'm glad my kids have good appetites.  I'm even happier that they eat healthy foods and enjoy doing it.  But if he eats like this now . . . what in the world am I going to do when he's a teenager???

Fall Clean-Up

Back in the spring, I recall blogging about my yard and thinking that an hour or so a week would keep my perennial gardens under control.  That may have been true.  Unfortunately, as spring faded into summer, things like a divorce, a vacation in Maine, tree removal, pool set-up and use, and a couple other highly-unforeseen events ate up my gardening time.

Yesterday I looked at my front yard and realized afresh that it could no longer honestly be termed a garden.  It was officially a jungle.  One hydrangea bush spread across the walkway so that it was nearly impossible to get past it.  (Awkward when visitors come . . . )

My ex's "nursery," his repository for all plants too small to survive in the landscape and therefore completely un-designed, was so overgrown with grasses that at least 3 plants were invisible.  The ornamental grasses had exploded beyond their borders and had claimed a foot of my driveway.

It was time to take action.

I cheerfully informed my kids that we would be doing yard work.

(They wanted to swim.  I told them that I had run out of chlorine two days ago and had no intention of battling the green slime proliferating in the pool.  It was time to shut it down.  They started whining until they realized that yard work meant dirt, dirt could be converted into mud, and mud made excellent arsenal!)

First I set to work with my new set of clippers, reclaiming my walkway from the spreading hydrangea.  Then I ripped the grasses out of my stone driveway.  Finally, I turned to the weeds.

I was happy to see that one of the sedums I had planted in the spring somehow survived being over-shadowed and under-watered.  I located a little Franklinia that I had forgotten all about as well as a prickly striated holly-looking thing that bites me if I look at it cross-eyed.

After a couple of hours, I was well-pleased.  My yard is no Better Homes and Gardens showplace, but it is beginning to look less abandoned!  I am discovering which things I like and which I would be happier without.  A plan is forming.

In addition, my kids had a lovely time "riding" their bikes, staging mud fights,  yanking weeds from beneath the banana tree, and watching the police respond to a fender bender across the street. 

Gotta love fall clean-ups!  

d-Con Built a Better Mousetrap!

I am a connoisseur of mouse traps.

Not many people would admit to such a thing, but mice and I have had an all-out war going since I was a college junior in my first apartment (with 3 of the greatest roomies ever!).  We had invited the college president, President Litfin, and his wife over for supper.  I was going to make a cake with braised coconut topping.  I pulled out the coconut only to find it had been violated by mice.

I have been at war ever since.

I confess that I have killed mice in a variety of ways, some purposeful, some accidental.  I have stepped on a nest of little ones in work boots.  I have caught them with glue traps (a truly horrible thing . . . I won't use them again!) and had to put the thing out of it's misery with a hammer.

I had one commit suicide in a milk bottle with water in it in my kitchen sink.  Another one lost his tail (I know . . . just like the nursery rhyme) when he somehow got it stuck in a snap trap and tried escaping through his hole.  (Again . . . pretty darn gory.)  A couple weeks ago I even had to kill one in my bathtub with a stick.

My ex had a trap he was especially proud of: a tub of water with a rolling bar smeared with peanut butter.  It caught mice, alright, but it was so horrible to empty.  Dead rodents floating in water . . . not my thing.

The thing with mice is that if they'd just stay out of my circle, I'd leave them alone.  I don't like killing things if it can be avoided.  The problem is that mice NEVER stay out of my circle.

First, they leave droppings everywhere.  I'm not a big germaphobe, but rodent poop is just plain disgusting.  It's bad enough under the kitchen sink with the cleaning supplies, but when it's on the shelves where I store the food I feed my family . . . NOT okay.

I've been ignoring the mouse droppings under the sink for a couple weeks.  Last week, however, they crossed the line.  I had put some chocolate-dipped ice cream cones on my kitchen shelves, "safely" ensconced in a plastic bag.

One day I say to the kids, "Hey, I have a treat!  I bought some frozen yogurt . . . let's have it in cones!"

I take out the bag only to find it COMPLETELY EMPTY with a tell-tale chew hole in the corner of the bag. Out comes the bleach.  Mommy's going to war.

Next trip to the grocery store, I stop by the pest control aisle.  Glue traps I have sworn off, as previously mentioned.  Traditional snap traps are effective, but so horrible to empty.  And after a few kills, they get a little warped and stop working so well.  Live traps . . . really, what is the point?  My sister mentioned getting a cat, but I tried that once and she ran away.

Suddenly I saw a nifty new trap: the d-CON^® Ultra Set^® covered snap trap.  It's a snap trap, so it kills.  It's covered, so you don't have to see the yuckiness.  It's got a cool release lever, so the dead pest drops cleanly out without you having to get your fingers anywhere near the disease-infested carcass.

I've seen mousetraps claiming to be "the best on the market" before, so I was doubtful and only bought one.  I will be buying more!

In three days my house has been freed from FIVE mice.  That's right, I can catch two a night!  Now, that doesn't say good things about how rodent-friendly my house is.  It does, however, say GREAT things about this trap.

Try it.  You'll love it.  I do. 

School Days

I don't recall my first day of school, but my parents do.  Numerous times my mother has recounted that the four-year-old version of myself trotted onto the big yellow school bus ready to take on the world . . . or at least kindergarten . . . and never looked back.

My father, on the other hand, hopped in the car and followed the bus the mile up the road to my elementary school and peeked into my classroom to assure himself I was really okay.

(I try to imagine that now, when you have to pass a gauntlet of locked doors, buzzers, cameras, and vigilant administrative assistants checking photo ID's just to pick your kid up from preschool.  Both beautiful and terrifying, those innocent days of yore.)

This is not the story I will recount to Ranita 20 years hence.  Our day was not quite so sepia-colored.

The kids slept in late, which was fine because he has afternoon pre-K . . . and only 2 days a week due to his doting mama's conviction that 4 is too young to hand him over to someone else 5 days a week. 

Ranita woke up grumpy.  Mama woke up grouchy.  Chinchita woke up unwillingly as her brother had jumped on her in bed while she was still sound asleep.

The Castrataros need their sleep.  This was not an auspicious beginning.

The rest of the morning was a head-spinning vacillation between war and peace.

War: Children disagree--at the top of their lungs--on what to have for breakfast, pancakes or cereal.  (Really?!)

Peace: Children color ("do schoolwork," my son calls it) while I clean up the kitchen.

War: Children move from coloring to glittering, dumping vast amounts of glimmering gorgeousness on the table, the floor, their half-naked bodies, and our two furry beast-dogs.  (Mommy cancels the remainder of art class and again cleans the kitchen.)

War: Both kids have poop accidents.  No more words necessary.

Peace: The kids watch a Signing Time video.  (They're having a sale, by the way . . . worth every penny!)

War:  Lunch is not to my son's liking, so he heads off to school with a delicious snack in his lunchbox and half an orange in his stomach.  (Does the child not realize that food is necessary for a successful day of learning?!  Has his mother taught him NOTHING in four years???)

It is as my son refuses to get out of his bunk bed and get dressed that I realize what all this chaos is about: the poor thing is scared of his first day of school.

It makes sense: the need for "schoolwork," the angry outbursts at sister and me, the inability to eat, the refusal to get dressed.  If I were four and afraid, that's what I'd be doing: trying my best to be so poorly-behaved that my mom put me in time-out for a full year and deprived me of a first-rate education. 

Nice try.

I sit down with him and do some cuddling.  I tell him it's okay to be scared . . . everyone is afraid starting something new . . . but I promise he will have a blast and make a ton of friends.

He's not buying it.

Eventually I have the kid dressed, shod, and ready to go.  I pull his cold food out of the fridge and pack it in his Thomas lunchbox.

Poof!

Something happens in his brain.  Don't ask me what.  I have no idea.  He slips into his Star Wars backpack, grabs his lunch, and heads out the door calling, "Come on, Mom!  We're going to be late!"

Are you kidding me????

And from that point on, my son didn't look back.  He waltzed off with his teacher as if she were Cleopatra and I were the scullery maid.  I managed to steal a hug and a kiss, and off he went.  I was proud . . . and sad . . . and all the crazy emotions Moms experience at a landmark event such as this.

Until my daughter started to cry, "I want Ranita!"

Good grief.

I gave up my hopes for a couple hours of her napping and me writing.  We stopped at Lickety Splits and had ice cream deliciousness.  I finally got her home for a nap only to have to wake her up to go pick up her brother.

He walked out with a happy grin, a homework page he couldn't wait to complete, and a bunch of nameless friends he was excited about.

So began my son's foray into the world of organized education.  Good luck, my son . . . enjoy!