For the Love of Murphy!

When you bring your newborn home and lay him in the bassinet that once cradled your father, you know your nights of uninterrupted sleep are over.  What you don't know is that they are over forever. 

My children are 6 and 4, and they have been "sleeping through the night" for years.  Sort of.  Take last night for example. 

The Castrataro household is hosting a nameless virus that inspires unproductive coughing, fevers, and general grumpiness.  My children put themselves to bed at 6 pm last night out of sheer fatigue. 

At 8:30 pm, I gave up pretending to be awake, pulled my twin-sized Murphy bed down from the living room closet (another blog post altogether!), and crawled under my cozy afghans "to sleep, perchance to dream." 

(Insert fiendish laugh here.) 

At 9:30 pm my daughter had a coughing fit and came into the living room.  I got her some cough medicine.  It wasn't grape-flavored, however, so she spit it up in her hair and on the couch.  I admit to being annoyed.  I grabbed the Carbona 2-in-1, cleaned the couch, and put Chinchita to bed, knowing her hair would be stuck solid come daylight. 

I stirred the fire and went back to Murphy. 

At 10:30 pm, my son called out from his room.  He was having growing pains.  (These growing pains are really gruesome, by the way.  He has had them for years and the only solution is Motrin and time...and Mommy's bed.)  I gave him the Motrin.  He was in agony.  I asked if he wanted to sleep with Mommy.  But of course. 

So Ranita and I squeezed into the twin-sized Murphy bed.  My son tossed and turned and eventually slept.  By 1:30 am, I was ready to have my bed to myself again.  He agreed. 

I put my son back in his bed, stirred the fire again, and returned to Murphy. 

At 3:30 am, my daughter awoke to another coughing fit.  I got her some cough medicine (yes, the grape-flavored this time).  She was still coughing. 

I sighed.

Did she want to sleep with Mommy?  Naturally. 

So Chinchita and I squeezed into my twin-sized Murphy bed, with the addition of her pillow.  She periodically had a coughing spasm, I rubbed her back, and she went back to sleep. 

At 6 am my alarm went off, reminding me it was time to get up and spend time with God.  I asked Him for grace and went back to bed.  A half hour later, I awoke with a coughing fit, made a cup of coffee, and sat down with my Bible and my journal. 

I try to tell myself I will sleep when the kids are older, but I realize that is a fantasy.  In their teen years I will be kept awake by nightmares of drunken orgies and unsavory girl/boyfriends.  When they leave for college, I will stay up praying they are not running amok with their newfound independence.  Jobs, spouses, grandchildren . . . all the things I once worried about for myself I will then worry about for them. 

And I somehow suspect that once I have my Murphy bed all to myself again, I will miss the days when one--or both--of my little munchkins were curled up beside me, getting comfort from their mommy. 

Going to the Dogs

Before my kids were born, I had dogs.  I grew up with German Shepherds . . . and one little dopey beagle.  When I moved out on my own, I adopted a Sheltie who became my constant companion and best bud.  Six months into my marriage, we adopted an Australian Shepherd puppy.  A year later we adopted a Newfoundland cross. 

When my marriage ended, I kept the kids and the dogs. 

As much as I love my dogs, I have to admit there are times when they are an awful lot of work.  Today was such a day. 

I was helping Ranita "excavate" a Tyrannosaurus head on our kitchen table when I suspected he had had an accident.  Nope.  It was our Aussie.  Disgustingness all over my kitchen floor. 

I wondered what was going on, but didn't wonder too hard.  I mopped the floor.  I cleaned her.  I went on playing paleontologist. 

Several more times throughout the day, the scene was repeated, including the moments immediately before the new President took his oath of office. 

By 4pm, I was getting worried.  She was looking lethargic and was obviously feeling punk.  In the back of my mind was the fear that she had eaten parts of the dinosaur dig and was being poisoned.  (The comment on the label regarding "formaldehyde Phase 2" didn't alleviate my concerns any.) 

My vet was closed for the day.  I called the expensive emergency animal hospital, hoping they'd tell me to wait it out.  They told me to call Poison Control. 

For a fee of $65 Poison Control told me I should immediately get my dog to a vet. 

Ugh.  With all the upheaval of the past year, there isn't a lot of extra cash for discretionary vet bills. 

In fact, last month we were stringing popcorn and cranberries for the Christmas tree when we found one of the strands missing . . . with the needle still attached!  That call to the expensive animal hospital gave me a minimum quote of $1,500 by the time they got through with x-rays, exams, and scoping.  Add another grand if they had to do surgery. 

In another lifetime, I would have spent the money.  This time I asked the vet for home remedies.  He said to feed them bread.  Each dog got an English muffin.  We prayed . . . hard.  I watched them like a hawk for signs of sepsis.  They were fine.  Praise God!

I asked for home remedies today.  No such luck.  If it was poisoning, home remedies wouldn't do it. 

Our dogs don't get separated often, so the Newfie was frantic at being left behind.  I crated her, knowing my house would not be the same if I didn't.  The kids and I went to another neighborhood vet we had been to once before. 

Aussie messed on the floor the second we walked in the door.  In the exam room, she threw up . . . on my son's sneaker.  The personnel were amazing, though.  My kids watched the dog get a mini-bath in the back room, patted the feline mascot Arlo, and checked out a Dachshund curled up in a crate.  They also left with fish-shaped face cloths.  Good day for the kids!

It ended up being a pretty good day for Mommy, too.  The dog was suffering from something she ate, but it was nothing some probiotics and antibiotics wouldn't cure.  The bill was significantly less than the animal hospital would have been.  The vet even gave me a prescription for amoxicillin and a discount coupon to boot. 

That did lead to me having to set up a CVS account for my DOG, which was very weird. 

Pharmacist: "Is there a chance your dog is pregnant?"
Me:  "Really?  Nobody ever asks me if I'm pregnant before filling a prescription!" 

It really is a dog's life, Charlie Brown!

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!  

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!)

Here, Fishy, Fishy, Fishy

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

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

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

Good grief. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess that's something. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahhh!  That will be heavenly!

DNS error: Do Not Scream!

I am afraid I'm becoming a technoblogger.  Never have I aspired to such a thing, but as one who is making my living at the mercy of technology, I'm finding it to be a fertile topic for blog posts.  (Actually, that's pretty appropriate since blogging is an inherently technological phenomenon!)

My goal for tonight was to get to bed before 11:00pm.  Preferably before 10pm, but I figured that might be tough.  Surely 11 was doable.  My kids were exhausted, so they went to bed at 6:40pm.  (Who wants to lay bets that my son will be up at 5am??) 

I had only two work-related tasks: one article to write on Ann Stamp, Monsanto's 2016 Farm Mom of the Northeast, and this blog.  Not too tough.  Three and a half hours tops. 

Right. 

I started writing my article and wanted to fact check something.  No big deal.  Google will solve that for me in 5 seconds.  Except, Google didn't like me anymore.  When I clicked open my trusty Firefox, nothing happened.  No home page.  Just a disturbing little blue line running round and round in circles in my browser.  Oh no. 

I'd had problems with my wireless router not working with my laptop this weekend, so I turned to my trusty Samsung smartphone.  Dumb phone.  No internet action there, either.  This is not good.  This article needs to be in by tomorrow to make the next issue.  (My life is carefully scheduled these days . . . there is no room for error . . . or temperamental internet service!) 

So I unplugged my router and my modem.  I waited 30 seconds.  I plugged them back in.  I waited for them to reboot, or cycle, or whatever you call it when they try to decide to work again.  Still nothing. 

I almost called the internet company then and there, but I didn't have time.  I figured I'd write the article and hope the internet magically resolved itself so I could fact check later.  So I did.  Only it didn't.  This also is a problem, as I could not email a proof to the subject as I'd been asked to do.  I also could not email my editor letting her know the story was in the mail, so to speak. 

So I began to do something very strange.  I searched online for a solution. 

What??

Oh yes, I could do that.  The internet would call up the search engine results, it just wouldn't load most of the pages.  It would load my country radio station, but not the Monsanto award site.  (Please don't ask me why.  Again, if I knew these things, I'd be making a million dollars fixing other people's technological nightmares.) 

I was able to find a page (and load it!) that informed me I was experiencing a DNS error.  The URL I entered in the browser was apparently not getting converted to an identifiable IP address.  In short, my computer was putting a request for a website, but the internet was unable to translate the request properly.  (At least, I think that's what it means.  Close enough for an English major, anyway!) 

So I did the recommendations and got . . . nowhere.  Blah. 

That's okay.  I still had to select photos from my camera, download them to a disk (because I save them all for posterity and have a zillion rewritable disks in my house), and write captions.  I can do that. 

No I can't.  My computer and my camera don't want to talk, either.  I could see the photos, but they wouldn't copy.  (And I lost two in the process, which made me very unhappy because one I really liked!  At least it wasn't the cover shot I liked . . . !) 

Then I get them to copy, only my disk didn't have enough space for the photos.  Grrrrr.  I get a new disk, wait for it to format, and try again.  Eventually I have success. 

I select photos.  I write captions.  I check the internet once more out of plain old desperate stubbornness . . . and it worked!  Phone, laptop, all have access!  The test email I tried to send my sister 4 hours ago goes through.  My phone starts be-bopping as backed-up emails flow in. 

I am amazed.  I am too tired to rejoice.  I work fast, fearing the miracle will be like Cinderella's night at the ball, over at quickly-approaching midnight.  (I, for one, can keep track of the time!)  I send Ann an email, not expecting to hear back until tomorrow. 

Ahh, but this was also not as easy as one would expect.  My Dell has a miserable little pop-up telling me it is updated.  I can't get it to go away.  It is perched over my email.  I can't move the email around.  I can't see what I'm typing.  I think I got the message right . . . ! 

(I don't understand why Dell thinks I need to have constant awareness of the fact that my system is up to date, the last scan was on 5/8/16 and the next scan is scheduled for 5/11/16.  Who cares?  The bloody internet hasn't worked for nearly 4 hours . . . what good is your little update doing me, anyway?!?  Fortunately, "Aziz" had the same issue and wrote a very detailed fix.  I did that.  However, it needs a restart to activate the changes, and let me tell you I am NOT turning this beast off until I am finished for the night!  Knowing my luck, it will never start again!) 

I write an email to my editor explaining that the article will arrive tomorrow when . . . ding! 

It's Ann!  (Are there any mothers out there who actually sleep???  How are we ruling the world on fewer hours of sleep than I have fingers on one hand?)

I delete my unsent email to my editor, thank Ann for being so prompt, send a new email to my editor telling her everything's in Dropbox, and sigh with relief. 

Another job completed, both with and in spite of this mysterious, cursed-gift of technology.  

A Day in the Life . . .

Here is a glimpse into a typical day in the life of the Castrataros. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed living it.  (Really . . . I laughed a lot today . . . I was SuperMom today!) 

6:30 am 

The kids awaken me.  (Note: This constitutes "sleeping in.")  I stumble into the bathroom only to find that one of the dogs had messed in the bathroom.  A lot.  Blackness.  At least it didn't smell.  I throw the dogs out and clean up the bathroom. 

6:45 am

I get my daughter out of her crib.  Before letting the dogs in, I notice Nyssa was the one who left her gift in the bathroom and she has some on her feathery legs and tail.  I grab the scissors and give her a haircut at the front step.  I wash the scissors and my hands.  

7:00 am

I'm trying to make coffee and determine what the kids want for breakfast.  My son rejects my 18 options in favor of the one thing I don't have.  I finally sell them both on egg sandwiches on English muffins (with cheese and bacon....yum!!!)  

7:15 am

The ex comes in from the barn and greets the kids.  Daughter runs around screaming like a banshee in delight.  He says something to the effect of "crazy morning," and I respond, "Every morning's crazy."  I find aphids on my new Angel vine--THAT explains the dead ends and general malaise of a plant that has been more carefully monitored than any I've ever owned.  I spray her with soap, trim her up, and feed her (per my ex's instructions).  She already looks happier.  I think.  I hope. 

 7:30 am

Ex leaves.  Kids eat, sort of.  They eat their muffins and pick the cheese off the eggs.  Leave the eggs on the plate.  (Query: Why is it that my daughter devours omelets and won't eat fried egg sandwiches which are the exact same thing with the added plus of carbs?)

7:45 am

Cleaning up breakfast, I notice disgusting wetness in my son's booster seat.  Yup.  Peed in it.  He's potty trained.  I swear.  He was also still wearing a Pull Up from overnight.  You try to figure it out.  I bleach the seat.  The kids do some artwork.  My daughter gets glitter everywhere.  I clean it up. 

8:15 am

Time to dress the kids.  Well, my son.  My daughter (the 2-year old) comes out wearing a striped shirt and a plaid skirt that somehow manage to look coordinated in an edgy non-traditional sort of way.  Without a Pull Up.  It takes five minutes of scuffling to make her understand that yes, she can wear the skirt and yes, she must also wear the Pull Up.  

I go in the bedroom to help the 4-year old and step in wetness on the bedroom carpet.  Yup.  The dog.  My son informs me he watched her do it earlier this morning.  Didn't think telling Mommy was necessary.  Out comes the Carbona 2-in-1 with the nifty applicator (an AMAZING invention, by the way).   I finally get my son dressed. 

8:45 am

Today was supposed to have been a pajama day, as it was the only day this week with nowhere to go.  But since we were all dressed anyway, I decide we should do some singing and dancing . . . while working.  So I put on the motion videos for the VBS I'm directing, and we all sing along with Yancy.  (My son is SO into these songs!  I'm so excited!)  It was very fun! 

9:15 am

My pastor's wife--dear woman!--stops by with goat's milk, eggs, and dinner.  (I feel a little guilty taking the generosity, but I have to say the pampering is like a balm on a deep and painful place inside . . . and I am so grateful to her.)  I do dishes and laundry. 

10:00 am

The incredible Secretary/Treasurer of the RI Ag Council stops by with items for Ag Day at the State House next Tuesday.  My son runs in wearing only a shirt and his Pull Up.  I no longer care where his pants are. 

10:30 am

My children are so tired and cranky that it defies description.  I put them to bed for a morning nap knowing my daughter will sleep, my son will not, and I will miss out on the afternoon collapse I had been looking forward to.  

I email my editor with story ideas, email a couple farmers about interviews, book one, call my mom to try to figure out childcare for next week which already requires three days of "working" on my part.  (I'd like to know what exactly I'm doing all day every day if not "working," but that's another blog altogether!)  

11:30 am

My son, who didn't nap, gets out of bed and wants lunch.  I make him and me roast beef wraps.  We drink goat's milk . . . with a little Ovaltine for kicks.  I clean up lunch. 

12:15 pm

I am in the kitchen.  I hear a crash in the living room.  Wailing.  This is not good.  My son is on the floor holding his face.  His brand-new glasses, 26.5 hours old, are on the floor with one arm broken off.  I hold him and examine his cut eye, swollen nose . . .all else seems fine. 

What happened?  I didn't even have to ask.  He'd been doing headstands and flips on the couch all day.  I had been scolding all day saying, "Stop doing that!  You're going to get hurt!"  Mother knows best.  I text the ex and tell him about the glasses.  NO EPOXY this time.  (Dr. Waterman cautioned me against doing that ever again!)  Fortunately, I had wisely kept the formerly-Epoxied pair as a spare . . . I didn't expect to need them quite so soon.  

1:00 pm

My daughter wakes up and wants lunch.  I make her a roast beef wrap . . . and goat's milk with Ovaltine.  She eats the lettuce, 1/4 of the wrap, and some roast beef . . . she says.  I continue doing laundry. 

1:30 pm

There's a break in the never-ending rain--are we living in England or Oregon or something?  What is this gloomy, cold, wet miserableness????  I pack up the kids and we go next door to give our neighbor their mail that had been left in our mailbox 2 days ago.  Our "we can't stay long" lasts about 2 hours.  The kids are happy, though; they get to watch Curious George and The Cat in the Hat.  

3:30 pm

There's another short break in the weather.  The kids run around while I pull Norway maple seedlings out of my garden.  My other neighbor, who I have not seen in days due to my crazy schedule, comes to the fence.  We chat. 

4:30 pm

The rain begins again.  Wet kids, wet dogs, and wet Mommy get into the house.  I heat up delicious supper from wonderful wife of the pastor.  We eat.  The kids clean up their toys.  I help them into pj's.  They brush their teeth and feed the dogs.  I do more laundry.

6:00 pm

We three snuggle on the couch and watch New Friends for Thomas.  

7:00 pm

I read the kids their Bible story, we pray, and sing, and I tuck them in.  I put off "working" to write this blog.  

8:00 pm

I finish my blog and begin working on the display for Ag Day that needs to get printed before next Tuesday.  Oh yeah, and the brochures, too.  Oh, and posting my post on social media, and ...

Attitude is Everything

It started out as one of those days.  You know the kind.  You get to bed late, you're exhausted, you're in the middle of a deep, delicious dream, and you are awakened far too early by your son crying out in terror.  At least that's how it was for me this morning. 

My poor kids have been fighting off a stubborn cold for a week now, and they're both wiped out from the hectic schedule we've been keeping as Mama tries to figure out how to simultaneously pay the bills, improve her mental health, protect the kids' mental health, spend time with her extended family, and manage her own housework. 

The result is there have been too many days in a row of eating junk food on the way to or from one event or another, too many hours with an aunt or a grandmother, and far too few hours hanging at home with a calm, relaxed, fun mom. 

So when I go in to my son and all he wants is to lay his head in my lap saying stuffily, "I can't breathe, Mommy," my heart crumbles.  All I want is to give him a nice, leisurely day at home, but I know that isn't possible.  We had miles to go before we would get to sleep again. 

Our first appointment of the day is with our wonderful optometrist, Dr. Waterman.  My son's new glasses had arrived (to replace his old ones which are held together with Epoxy after having both arms ripped off and the frame broken while "boxing" with our neighbor) and it is time to fit them.  Dr. Waterman is his congenial self.  My children are delighted with his antics.  I am grumpy from too little sleep and too much to do. 

After the visit, the kids are hungry, and I want caffeine, so we stop at Starbucks for a venti mocha latte, a cheese danish (why can't I lose weight???), and a banana nut bread (for the kids). 

It's decision time.  Which of my tasks do we do before heading to my mother's house?  Groceries?  That seems silly.  I had come north to the optometrist.  If I go shopping, I'd head back south to put them away only to turn right around and head north past the optometrist to my parents'. 

Too much gas. 

Too much backtracking.  (I don't like backtracking.  Ever.  For anything.) 

I decide to drive around central Rhode Island leaving Scavenger Hunt brochures at libraries that I hadn't reached earlier in the week.  Then I had been alone.  Now I have two kids with me, and we'll be exceeding my personal 3-stop limit. 

Deep breath. 

Inspiration strikes.  In my best "Boy, kids, have I got something fun and exciting for you!" voice I say, "Guess what? We're going on a library scavenger hunt!"

My kids have no idea what a scavenger hunt is.  They are very fond of our library, however, and even fonder of meeting new people, so this sounds good to them.  I pour over my map (yes, the paper kind . . . I don't want to waste my precious data allotment on automated directions!), decide where we're going, and head out. 

Along the way I tell the kids, neither of whom can read yet, what streets we're looking for, what direction we'll be going, and all sorts of intriguing navigational information.  After successfully finding the first stop, my kids decide they need brochures.  The brochures open up and contain, of all things, a map! 

Then my four-year old son starts back seat driving.  Literally.  "Mom," he tells me pointing at his map, "here's where we need to go.  Ten.  Right here.  There's a church on the corner." 

For those of you who don't know Rhode Island, we certainly do have a Route 10.  It does indeed feature prominently on the RI Farm Scavenger Hunt map.  It is, however, nowhere near the junction of Route 2 and Cowesett Avenue, which we are in search of. 

Just then, however, I see Cowesett Avenue.  As we're on top of it.  We pass it.  I say, "Oh, dear!  We passed Cowesett.  No problem, we'll turn around."  I not only sound cheerful; I feel cheerful. 

Now from the back I hear hysterical laughter and, "Mom, good thing you didn't lose Cowesett!"  I have no idea why the thought of losing Cowesett is so funny, but suddenly all three of us are giggling like goons and yelling about Cowesett being lost. 

By the time our jaunt is over, we have stopped at four different libraries.  Counting the optometrist, that was five in the car, out of the cars . . . unprecedented for me.  I am happy.  The kids are happy.  It was one of the best times we've had in a while. 

There are many times in my life when I feel like the dog being wagged by the tail of my emotions, as if I'm being driven by things I should have control over but don't.  Today was almost such a day.  It all changed with one moment of determination . . . and a bit of pretense. 

That and two lovely children who were just as in need of a good day as their mom . . . and whose exuberance transformed pretense into reality. 

Technology Shmechnology

I have this sort of love/hate relationship with technology.  On the one hand, it fascinates me.  There is something in my personality that enjoys the challenge of conquering a new skill, and nowhere is that more evident that in the realm of technology. 

A perfect example of this was the year I served as Registration Chair for the New England Vegetable and Fruit Conference.  (This conference, by the way is well worth attending and meets every other year, so keep an eye out for the 2017 edition!)  Prior to my (short!) tenure, a dear colleague had spent many years running an incredibly organized conference with very little technology.  Unless you count a good secretary as technology . . .

Not me.  I just knew there was some sweet program out there that would let people register and pay online without me touching one single check.  I'd be able to print badges in multiple colors and sort by state and run analytics forwards, backwards, and upside-down.  Forget registration; we could put the whole thing online from speaker information to room requests to what kind of mint they liked at their lecterns.  Oh yeah . . . I was on a mission. 

So I found the event-hosting company of a lifetime.  And it was great.  I attended the how-to webinars, put my personal guru on speed dial, and generally blundered my way through the design and functionality process.  And I enjoyed every second of it.

There were just a few problems.  For one, the speakers didn't want to put their stuff online.  Emailing it to their session moderator was easier and more familiar.  For another, many of our farmers are a little less tech-savvy even than I . . . they wanted to register by mail or, even better, by phone. 

The biggest problem, however, came when we went to run name badges.  Wouldn't you know, the silly program wouldn't let us print the information we wanted where we wanted on the badges!  Good grief.  All this and we're stuck in badge limbo!  (Unless you've run one of these conferences, by the way, you really have no idea just how important those badges are!) 

Fortunately, I had an Excel genius residing in the office adjoining mine.  She also loves technology . . . and she's way more proficient!  So she spent I don't know how many hours creating an Excel masterpiece: primary source spreadsheets that linked to secondary source spreadsheets that created data for the conditional formatting in the name badge spreadsheet.  It was a miracle!  The original data did come from "my" program--most of it--but her know-how made it happen. 

Again, I loved the process because I learned so much about Excel that I have become the world's most dangerous novice.  When a problem arises, I know there's a way to solve it using Excel--but I don't know how to do it--and I waste an inordinate amount of time trying! 

And this leads me to the "hate" side of my technology life.  I hate the fact that I am always about 5 years behind any innovation.  And I hate the learning curve that takes my oh-so-precious time in return for not so much.  AND I hate the fact that I usually botch something rather heinously on my path to . . . not mastery . . . competency? 

Current example, and impetus for this diatribe, is my new cell phone so recently discussed on this blog.  I love it.  Really.  I get Skype messages and text messages and email messages all within seconds.  I can become a "gold" person at Starbucks . . . as soon as I download the app. 

I can lose 2 years of contacts in one fell swoop. 

Oh yeah.  You read that right.  TWO YEARS!  How do you even DO that???  I have no idea.  But I did.  "How can you date the event so accurately," you ask.  Very easily . . . my tenant, who moved in two years ago . . . disappeared from my contacts.  As did my eye doctor.  (I'll let you know why I was looking him up another day.)  As did two women from church I'm supposed to be trying to get together with. 

Yikes. 

I think I've figured it out, though.  I put my old contacts in the cloud when I got my old phone . . . back before my son was born, I think.  However, I somewhere along the line stopped syncing it manually.  I don't know why, but I just assumed they kind of do that themselves these days.  (Yes, sweetie, the new ones do . . . the old flip phones from the time of Methuselah do NOT!)  I think. 

Bummer. 

Fortunately, however, I was able to use my phone to Google my eye doctor and touch base with my playdate pal via email and track down my dinner date pal on Facebook . . . and call my sister-in-law's house on my cool wireless headset to get her correct cell phone number.  What an amazing network of digital magic! 

I just love technology!

A Phone, A Phone; My Kingdom for a Phone!

I bought a Smartphone today.  I didn't want a Smartphone.  I liked my old faithful LG flip phone, especially since I switched to the new Verizon plan, threw away minutes, and got free texting!  Whoo hoo!

This week, however, I found myself caught between the proverbial "rock and a hard place."  My freelancing career has me on the road covering stories a lot, but other freelancing opportunities are trying to develop across several continents and require rapid response.  A little hard to do if you can only access email once or twice a day, can't get Skype messages, and don't have an international calling plan.

Hence my foray into technology.

Now, while I am a bit of a troglodyte, I usually do my homework.  So last week I went to an unnamed Verizon store where I was told I could have an iPhone SE for $40 upfront and $10 additional dollars a month.  (I had upgrades available, etc. etc.)  I perhaps should have purchased then, but I am a cheapskate.  I didn't.

I went today.  I figured this would be a quick trip to BJ's and home again.   Ha!

When I walked in, there was a line at the kiosk.  Mind you, my 4-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter were in tow, sucking on the lollipop bribes I got at the bank on the way.  (I was prepared!)  I waited a few minutes and thought, "I can do this faster somewhere else."

So we left.  I bundled the two kids into the car seats.  Drove 50 feet.  Gave each kid a granola bar.  (I told you I was prepared!)  Dragged the two kids out of the car seats.  Walked into another unnamed Verizon store.

I told the gentleman about my research and what I wanted.  "We can't give you that price.  You must have talked to someone at Corporate.  They get different deals.  You'll have to go there on Bald Hill Road."

Ugh.  I was starting to get annoyed.  Different deals?  What??  And the store I had gone to for the original quote was definitely NOT the Corporate on Bald Hill.  Whatever. 

We left.  I bundled the two kids back into the car seats.  We got on the highway and drove to Route 2.  We cruised down Route 2 looking for "Corporate."  We found a Verizon store.  We pulled in.

Hmmmm.  I didn't want to give them more granola bars yet.  "If you two are really good in the store, we'll go out to eat when we're done."  (Pretty good job, Mama!)  I dragged them out of their car seats, and in we went.

(This was NOT "Corporate," by the way.)

A very nice man with tats and piercings informed me that, "No, that price is impossible.  Oh, and by the way, we don't have what you want in stock.  I can 'lend' you a phone . . . you can try it out, see if you like it, if you don't you can return it."

Now, that was a pretty reasonable offer.  But by now I was being pig-headed.  I knew what I wanted, by gosh, and I was going to have it.  Besides, borrow a phone?  Oh yeah.  I'm the girl who dropped her first LG flip phone in a toilet.  Not a chance.

So I stalked out.  By this time I wasn't sure who was more disgusted with this endeavor, me or my kids.  I would lay money it was I.  I buckled the kids into their car seats again.  "Not the highway again, Mommy!" I heard in the back seat.

"Not the highway," I snapped (with a few muttered curses, I must admit), "It's Bald Hill Road."

We drove a couple more miles, made a little U-turn past the picketers.  I again dragged the kids out of their car seats.  Again I bribed them with the promise of Smokey Bones or Chick-fil-A or some other gastric delight.  This time there was just, "We don't have any iPhones.  It's Apple's fault.  Maybe you can order from them."

I wanted to pitch a temper tantrum and scream, "I DON'T HAVE TIME TO ORDER ONE!!!  I NEED IT TOMORROW!!!"

Instead, I pulled my kids back to the car, strapped them back in their car seats for the eighty-fifth time, put my head down on the steering wheel and sobbed.  Boy, could I empathize with King Richard.  Sometimes your whole existence seems to hinge on something so banal: a horse, a phone.

My son in the back chose that moment to pipe up, "Get it together, Mom."  Gee, thanks.

So I did.  I knew what to do.  I'd go back to the original store with the oh-so-attractive quote.  (Are you wondering why I didn't go there in the first place?  Yeah, so am I.  But you'll see . . . God had a plan!)

On the way, we had to pass BJ's again, so I decided to stop back in and see if the line was down.  I dragged the kids out of the car seats.  By now, the bribes were sounding hollow, so I contained them in a cart.  And then a miracle happened.

I met James Paul. 

James was taking care of another customer but said, "I'm almost done here.  You've probably got some discounts that were giving you that price, we don't have iPhone SE's, but we can get you taken care of for what you want to spend."

Relief.  Joy.  Exhaustion.

It took a while, I won't deceive you, but that was mostly because penny-pinching K couldn't decide whether to get just the Samsung phone (for $8 extra a month!) or the phone and a tablet for $18.  I don't know if it was James's salesmanship, my exhaustion, or the realization that these devices really will make my life easier, but I went hog wild.  Phone.  Tablet.  Cases for both.  Car charger.  Headset. 

While he set everything up, I made good on my lunch promise and got BJ's hotdogs for the kids (and one for me!), and a yummy cinnamony sugary twist thing.  And I decided that Verizon wasn't so bad after all . . . they do have the fastest 4G network, you know!

So I am now as connected as any writer-mom can be.  I still only have one problem . . . can anyone tell me why my phone is only accessing one of my Dropbox folders????

Wait a minute.  Where's that card?  He said I could call . . . and post it on the blog: 401-330-6809.

JAMES!!!!

The Bank Brouhaha

It was supposed to be a quick trip to the bank.  My new banking guru at Washington Trust had called to tell me:
1.  The hold is off my new accounts (YAY!)
2.  The accounts for my kids were all established (Double YAY!)
3.  I could come in any time to sign signature cards and fund the accounts.  Oh.

(Let me take a second to pause in this story and reiterate that my banker called me.  Personally.  On my cell phone.  Twice, actually.  The first was to get my kids' SS#'s because I had forgotten them when I went to open the account the first time.  "Don't come down again," she said, "I'll call you tomorrow morning and you can tell me then.  What time would work for you?"  I am REALLY liking my bank right now!)

But back to the task at hand.  This time I would have to physically take my two charming children into the bank and sign papers.  Have you ever banked with a four-year old and a two-year old?  I'm sure there are more exquisite forms of torture, but I personally have yet to encounter them.  

Today the fun begins before we even leave the house.  My sweet daughter, who generally likes to dress herself and show off what a big girl she is, for some reason decides she cannot stand her shoes and coat and will not be caught dead in them.

Splendid.

I manage to force her into her gear only to have her rip off her coat again.  She and I have already tussled a few times prior to this, so I do what every good Mom would do.  I check the thermostat, see it's in the upper 50's and say, "Fine.  Go without a coat."  (It's 8 minutes up the road . . . what can go wrong?)

By the time we get to the bank, it's starting to drizzle.  Great.  Now I'm taking a 2-yr. old into the rain without a coat.  Mother of the Year material right here.

Then we sit down with the banker.  As I'm signing papers, my son flips her desk calendar to a different date.  I scold him and tell him to apologize.  He won't.  He's embarrassed.  He's not the only one.  I put him in time out by my chair until he decides to apologize. 

By this time, my daughter wants to wander around the bank.  I hold her hand to keep her still.  She proceeds to throw herself on the floor and SCREAM non-stop for 5 minutes.  Oh yeah.  Right there in the middle of the bank.

Yippee.

The banker, who has probably quit her job and run as fast as she could to my old bank for a new job, keeps saying, "Just a couple minutes more," with a steady smile.
Finally, the papers are signed, my son has apologized, and my daughter stands up beaming a beautific grin.  The patrons who are just coming in comment on how delightful my children are.

And I stumble away feeling like Wesley after the Machine has sucked one year from his life.