I am a voracious reader. At least, I was once upon a time. I used to begin each day with an hour in the Bible and my journal.
Beautiful, precious time. Time of conviction, yes, but mercy and love
and peace as well. I can remember whole days lost in the pages of a book. All different kinds of books. Mark Twain, Robert Frost, William Goldman . . . I wasn't really choosy. I just loved to read.
Then the babies came. My son slept very well at night, even from the beginning, but we had nursing issues, and I spent 90 minutes of every two hours either nursing, bottle feeding, pumping, or cleaning up/preparing to do it all over again. The only book I read was What to Expect When You're Expecting, specifically the chapters on breastfeeding and breastfeeding nutrition.
Morning devotions were a thing of the past. I went to bed at 7pm with my son, woke up in the night and did my brutal nursing, bottle feeding, pumping, cleaning up routine, and crashed again. There was no way I was waking up one second before the little one did, I can tell you that!
And so I entered the world of the wordless. Even my thought life stultified a bit as I struggled to teach my son Spanish and ASL, two languages in which I am not fluent. (Though my Spanish has improved marvelously in the last 4 years!) Once my daughter came along, reading was so much a thing of the past that I almost didn't remember it.
Not to say I never read . . . I had bathroom reading: Our Daily Bread, Wheaton, Decision . . . highbrow stuff like that. And I read to the kids. Touch and Feel Farm. A Fly Went By. TRUCKS.
Then I started taking my kids to Story Hour at the library. Since we were there, I let them each pick out a couple books. Then one day, I picked out a book. And I couldn't put it down. And I stayed up until way too late reading because one more chapter was never enough. And it felt great!
Then my counselors started recommending books, and I became a junkie for all things psychological and relational. I devoured The Dance of Anger by Harriet Lerner (a book which EVERY woman . . . possible every PERSON . . . should read) in one day . . . and then re-read it about six times over the following month.
Then my husband asked for a divorce. My reading disappeared aside from Writer's Market 2016, which every writer-for-hire should invest in. My writing exploded. Children's stories. Farmer profiles. Event recaps. I began blogging. I put in hours I didn't know I could put in and poured out more words than I ever imagined I possessed.
For the past two months, any "free time" I have had has been spent at a keyboard, trying to generate as much word-based income as possible.
Until this weekend. This weekend I hit the wall. My kids were scheduled to go on a Pajama Party Sleepover with my in-laws. I woke up Saturday with a headache. The kids left. My headache persisted.
I went to the library's book/bake sale fundraiser to drop brownies off that my neighbor had made. I couldn't resist. I bought 2 books: a David Baldacci (my go-to, guilty-pleasure author) and a Tony Hillerman. I mowed the lawn for 4 hours. My headache persisted. I told myself I had to write. My headache persisted. I gave up. I streamed some TV and went to bed.
Sunday I awoke headache-free and was certain I would write after church. Instead I mowed the rest of the lawn for 2 hours. When I came in, tired and hot, I said, "Kristen . . . you need a break." So I picked up Tony Hillerman. And I read. I finished Skeleton Man.
Yesterday, my kids napped. Instead of working, I picked up Hell's Corner. Today I finished it.
I confess I felt a bit wanton, like I was playing hooky when I should be in school. There was a fatigue so deep in my soul, though, that I just needed a break. And I took it. And this afternoon, as my kids slept, I started to write again. And I was glad to be back to work. And I got my article done before supper, so tonight I can work on other things and still get to bed early.
The point of all this? Sometimes, when the pressures of life are beating at your door, and you're kicking the wall as hard as you can to get to the other side, the green, verdant side, the best thing you can do is take a stay-cation with a great book.
Maybe you don't like the crime novels like I do. Maybe you like a cheesy romance (I did, before romance kicked my butt!). Maybe you like recipe books or knitting books. Whatever it is, make the time to run away to a different world for a little while. (For me, it took a few days!) When you come back, I think you will find the world a brighter place.
I did.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Monday, May 16, 2016
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.
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.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Baseball Fever
Spring means different things to different people: rebirth, growth, change, shorts and tank tops. For me, it means baseball. I love baseball. The smell of old leather, the crack of a wooden bat (or the ting of aluminum), the white of the bases, the green of the outfield, the sliding, the running, the calling "I got it!!!," the blooper reels when overpaid, overgrown boys forget all their training and crash into each other because they didn't respect the other's "I got it!!!"
I grew up in a farm family where work was much more highly-valued than play. Baseball, however, was something different. Baseball was an acceptable past-time. During coffee break we kids would play catch or home-run derby, and for a couple minutes Dad and Grandpa would join in.
Father's Day parties and summer birthday parties weren't complete without the big baseball game. Age didn't matter. Everyone played. Old shingles marked the bases in the middle of the newly-shorn hayfield. Little kids swayed beneath the weight of the bat while the pitcher crept as close as he could to give them a chance to make contact. Dads fumbled while fielding little dribblers, eventually throwing to first just late enough for the runner to be safe.
Grandpa, his arms still burly from years of milking cows, would saunter up to the plate, limping slightly from an old broken hip. The outfield would move back. He always managed to hit the ball far enough that his gimp couldn't prevent him from getting a home run.
Baseball wasn't just relegated to playtime, though. Many were the nights we'd be grading apples in the barn, the pickup truck's doors wide open so we could hear the radio broadcasting a Red Sox game. Packing tomatoes, picking corn, and listening to baseball all seemed to go hand-in-hand.
To be honest, I still prefer listening to the games on the radio. The sound of Joe Castiglione describing the weather conditions and the uniforms--and where he had dinner the night before--always brings back that childlike innocence and delight.
The only thing that can surpass it is taking my own kids to McCoy on a Sunday afternoon. (Larry Lucchino--NO NEW PARK!) We all go in carrying our gloves; I've had mine nearly 3 decades now. My 2- and 4-year olds gape at the giant murals, not yet aware of their significance, but impressed all the same.
We settle into our seats, elbows touching the people beside us. John Fogarty and I do a duet of "Centerfield," and my kids roll their little eyes begging, "Mom, stop singing!" They scan the seats, hoping for a glimpse of Paws and Sox. It's a different story when "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" starts, though. My kids know all the words, and they belt them out at the top of their lungs, drawing smiles from the grown-ups around them.
There's a down-home camaraderie at the ballpark. Well, at McCoy, anyway. On my first trip to Fenway I was about 8, and some inebriated gentlemen in front of us kept yelling at my siblings and me because we were cheering too loudly. Really?? Too loudly??? At a ball game???? Give me a break.
But it's different at McCoy. One day, a man a few rows behind us caught a foul ball. He'd noticed my son in his Red Sox warm-up suit and his light curls spilling out from under his Red Sox cap. Suddenly he passed the ball down to my son. I'm not sure who was more excited: me or my son. That's a special ball. We don't play with that ball; we treasure it.
So when I went online this spring to sign up my son for T-Ball, I was disappointed. He was two weeks too young. He'd be really good at T-Ball. He throws hard and straight. He hits with authority and power. And boy, does the kid like running the bases.
Watching him in the backyard with his sister, however, I'm realizing that perhaps an extra year is not a bad idea. Like me, he loves baseball. But right now he's getting the chance to love it on his terms: hitting when he feels like it, pitching when he feels like it, running the bases when he feels like it, coaching his little sister when he feels like it.
I am reminded of three little kids growing up in the '80's, playing catch under the maple trees, inventing their own three-way versions of the game, and developing a love that has lasted. It was a precious time.
I wouldn't deprive him of that for anything.
Friday, May 13, 2016
I Love a Rainy Night . . .
I'm sitting at my lovely new "office," looking out my window that looks so much larger without a turtle tank in front of it, and watching the rain.
I love rain.
I love gentle, soaking rains that seep into thirsty fields. I love pounding, driving rains accompanied by ground-shaking thunder and blinding lightning. I love warm, misty rains you can walk in, your face upraised, knowing God is kissing you. I love icy cold rains that you run from, hunkered down, as fast as you can until you reach a cozy kitchen and a mug of hot chocolate.
I'm not sure why rain has such a hold over me. Perhaps it's from growing up on a farm where rain was life and the lack of it was, at worst, financial disaster and at best day upon day of lugging irrigation pipes 30-feet-long and six inches around, one on each shoulder across burning cornfields.
After that, the threat of "drought" never leaves you. And the relief from drought never fails to energize you. I can remember dancing in drought-breaking rains as a kid . . . with the grown-ups standing just inside the open barn doors, close enough to feel the spray, doing nothing but watching the drops and relishing the coolness in the air.
Maybe I also like the rain because, let's face it, too much sunshine can get to be just plain too much. Think desert. And when your soul is tired and grieving, it's nice to have the weather cooperate as if you were the heroine in a Charlotte Brontë novel.
For some reason, rain is romantic. (In the literary sense . . . although I guess it could be in the amorous sense as well. I rather missed out on the latter, but I have a good imagination!) Think of all the "rain" songs:
"Singing in the Rain" performed by Gene Kelly
"Who'll Stop the Rain" performed by Creedence Clearwater Revival
"Rockin' With the Rhythm of the Rain" performed by The Judds
"Rainy Days and Mondays" performed by The Carpenters
"Alabama Rain" written and performed by Jim Croce
"Kentucky Rain" performed by Elvis Presley
"I Love a Rainy Night" performed by Eddie Rabbitt
"Smoky Mountain Rain" performed by Ronnie Milsap
"Rain is a Good Thing" performed by Luke Bryan
"Rain, Rain, Go Away" performed by children everywhere
Yeah, I could keep going with this, but I am exposing far too much about my musical preferences and am afraid I will lose half of my audience if I keep it up! Have a good listen, and enjoy your next rainy night!
I love rain.
I love gentle, soaking rains that seep into thirsty fields. I love pounding, driving rains accompanied by ground-shaking thunder and blinding lightning. I love warm, misty rains you can walk in, your face upraised, knowing God is kissing you. I love icy cold rains that you run from, hunkered down, as fast as you can until you reach a cozy kitchen and a mug of hot chocolate.
I'm not sure why rain has such a hold over me. Perhaps it's from growing up on a farm where rain was life and the lack of it was, at worst, financial disaster and at best day upon day of lugging irrigation pipes 30-feet-long and six inches around, one on each shoulder across burning cornfields.
After that, the threat of "drought" never leaves you. And the relief from drought never fails to energize you. I can remember dancing in drought-breaking rains as a kid . . . with the grown-ups standing just inside the open barn doors, close enough to feel the spray, doing nothing but watching the drops and relishing the coolness in the air.
Maybe I also like the rain because, let's face it, too much sunshine can get to be just plain too much. Think desert. And when your soul is tired and grieving, it's nice to have the weather cooperate as if you were the heroine in a Charlotte Brontë novel.
For some reason, rain is romantic. (In the literary sense . . . although I guess it could be in the amorous sense as well. I rather missed out on the latter, but I have a good imagination!) Think of all the "rain" songs:
"Singing in the Rain" performed by Gene Kelly
"Who'll Stop the Rain" performed by Creedence Clearwater Revival
"Rockin' With the Rhythm of the Rain" performed by The Judds
"Rainy Days and Mondays" performed by The Carpenters
"Alabama Rain" written and performed by Jim Croce
"Kentucky Rain" performed by Elvis Presley
"I Love a Rainy Night" performed by Eddie Rabbitt
"Smoky Mountain Rain" performed by Ronnie Milsap
"Rain is a Good Thing" performed by Luke Bryan
"Rain, Rain, Go Away" performed by children everywhere
Yeah, I could keep going with this, but I am exposing far too much about my musical preferences and am afraid I will lose half of my audience if I keep it up! Have a good listen, and enjoy your next rainy night!
Thursday, May 12, 2016
One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish
Divorce is a time of transition, upheaval, distress, and just plain upside-down, inside-outness. It's hard on the grown-ups dealing with thwarted affections, broken promises, and shattered dreams. I think it's much worse on the innocents.
My kids have been accustomed to a pretty boring life at home with Mommy. Suddenly we're out all the time as I go from meeting to meeting to meeting. Last week the first day we got to stay at home was Friday. FRIDAY!!! My poor kids had somewhere to go 6 out of 7 days.
It's not just our schedule. They notice the absence of Daddy. They don't like it. It makes them anxious.
To top it all off, we had to get rid of their turtle. Teddy's buddy, PJ, died a few weeks ago leaving him the sole inhabitant of a 150-gallon fish tank. Ludicrous, really. The turtle had a greater percentage of personal space in our house than I did. Add to that the fact that I never maintained the tank. That was my ex's job. (We each brought baggage into our marriage: he came with a fish tank; I came with a horse . . . well, two horses!)
In seven years of marriage I hadn't learned to clean the tank. I wasn't about to now. Besides, that tank was expensive! It had a giant filter that ran 24/7 and lights that ran about 12/7. On my new shoestring budget, I couldn't justify throwing money at something I knew I was not going to be able to handle.
So Teddy had to go. My son was heartbroken. Over the past couple months, we've been talking about releasing him back in the wild where we found him and how excited he would be and how he would get the chance to have a family. I, being a little more jaded, had a sick feeling he'd be dead in a week, but since his buddy had died in our care, I reminded myself he was just as safe in the wild as in our house.
On Mother's Day, before church, Daddy joined us to release him. My son was very sad, but Teddy really did seem to know he was home and was happy to leave his captors behind. I was glad to think that if he did die, he'd die free . . . and there's something to be said for that.
To ease the pain of the separation, I did a very foolish thing. I promised the kids they could get a Betta fish. How hard could that be? It lives in a bowl. No filter. No heater. No lights. Easy.
Tonight Nick came with us, and we got the kids their fish. Make that two fish. Yeah. That was Daddy's idea. Rather than one cute glass bowl with a peace plant, we'd get the plastic divided one for $12. It came with a lid (no waking up to dead fish on the floor where HE jumped looking for freedom), and both kids could have a pet. (Mind you, we already have two hairy dogs each weighing over 50 pounds . . . don't they qualify as pets? I do not know what I was thinking.)
It's OK. After all, it's still only one tank. Technically.
Now, of course, there's no peace plant, and the tank only comes with one fake plant. We had to get something for the other side. My son picked out a tiny shipwreck. I should have known right then!
I knew we needed food. But what kind? Flakes? Pellets? Crunches? (What is this . . . the Stop & Shop cereal aisle?!) Then I spot fish saver . . . to heal the skin and fins of Betta fish. (What am I getting myself into?!!!) And last, but certainly not least, don't forget the water conditioner.
Good grief.
The girl at the counter realized I was stymied . . . it couldn't possibly have been the glazed expression in my eyes or the drool running down my chin, could it? She carefully walked us through the entire process. The kids picked out their two fish and named them on the spot. Sharky for him; PT for her. The counter girl dumped each into a plastic bag, and led us to the counter.
A young guy (but they all look young to me now!) carefully took out our plastic tank and inspected it for cracks, finally declaring it sound. We paid.
We had supper and a separate adventure that one day may figure into another blog, but not this one. We went home.
Per instructions, we rinsed all the gear off in very hot water (no detergent). Next we had to figure out how to get the fish into the bowl. Nick did some magic with the bags, gently scooted Sharky into one half and PT into the other half, and we were golden.
Almost.
I looked at the kitchen table, and it appeared that there was a puddle growing near the tank. At first I thought it was drippage from the rinsing. Oh no. There's a one-inch crack . . . and it's full-out leaking. Apparently my husband had dropped the tank at some point.
I suddenly wished I had kept my big mouth shut about a replacement pet in the first place. My parents never soothed my losses with presents. Good Yankee farm kids were taught to suck it up. Why, oh why, had I bought into the touchy-feely, support-your-kids'-emotional life message???
Too late now, Mom. Suck it up!
But Moms are brilliant. They also tend to hoard vases. I do, anyway. Down came two of my largest vases. (My poor ex is sitting with a sick expression on his face saying, "I can't win.") I rinsed them with very hot water (no detergent!). Here things got a little trickier. How do we get both fish into their new tanks without leaving one high and dry? Nick managed it with his very large hands. All was well.
Except for one thing. The lid. I know many people keep Betta fish for long periods of time in open bowls. I, however, know people who lost them to kamikaze leaps from an open bowl, and I do NOT want another emotional loss for my kids at this particular time.
No problem. I pulled out some cheese cloth and a couple elastics. Custom-made, vented, fitted lids. They look a little tacky and will probably be a hassle when I go to feed them in the morning, but such is life. Maybe in a few days I'll wash off some of my bamboo and stick them in the vases, trusting the foliage to keep my fish friends contained.
In the meantime, I have some lovely decorations for my kitchen table.
My kids have been accustomed to a pretty boring life at home with Mommy. Suddenly we're out all the time as I go from meeting to meeting to meeting. Last week the first day we got to stay at home was Friday. FRIDAY!!! My poor kids had somewhere to go 6 out of 7 days.
It's not just our schedule. They notice the absence of Daddy. They don't like it. It makes them anxious.
To top it all off, we had to get rid of their turtle. Teddy's buddy, PJ, died a few weeks ago leaving him the sole inhabitant of a 150-gallon fish tank. Ludicrous, really. The turtle had a greater percentage of personal space in our house than I did. Add to that the fact that I never maintained the tank. That was my ex's job. (We each brought baggage into our marriage: he came with a fish tank; I came with a horse . . . well, two horses!)
In seven years of marriage I hadn't learned to clean the tank. I wasn't about to now. Besides, that tank was expensive! It had a giant filter that ran 24/7 and lights that ran about 12/7. On my new shoestring budget, I couldn't justify throwing money at something I knew I was not going to be able to handle.
So Teddy had to go. My son was heartbroken. Over the past couple months, we've been talking about releasing him back in the wild where we found him and how excited he would be and how he would get the chance to have a family. I, being a little more jaded, had a sick feeling he'd be dead in a week, but since his buddy had died in our care, I reminded myself he was just as safe in the wild as in our house.
On Mother's Day, before church, Daddy joined us to release him. My son was very sad, but Teddy really did seem to know he was home and was happy to leave his captors behind. I was glad to think that if he did die, he'd die free . . . and there's something to be said for that.
To ease the pain of the separation, I did a very foolish thing. I promised the kids they could get a Betta fish. How hard could that be? It lives in a bowl. No filter. No heater. No lights. Easy.
Tonight Nick came with us, and we got the kids their fish. Make that two fish. Yeah. That was Daddy's idea. Rather than one cute glass bowl with a peace plant, we'd get the plastic divided one for $12. It came with a lid (no waking up to dead fish on the floor where HE jumped looking for freedom), and both kids could have a pet. (Mind you, we already have two hairy dogs each weighing over 50 pounds . . . don't they qualify as pets? I do not know what I was thinking.)
It's OK. After all, it's still only one tank. Technically.
Now, of course, there's no peace plant, and the tank only comes with one fake plant. We had to get something for the other side. My son picked out a tiny shipwreck. I should have known right then!
I knew we needed food. But what kind? Flakes? Pellets? Crunches? (What is this . . . the Stop & Shop cereal aisle?!) Then I spot fish saver . . . to heal the skin and fins of Betta fish. (What am I getting myself into?!!!) And last, but certainly not least, don't forget the water conditioner.
Good grief.
The girl at the counter realized I was stymied . . . it couldn't possibly have been the glazed expression in my eyes or the drool running down my chin, could it? She carefully walked us through the entire process. The kids picked out their two fish and named them on the spot. Sharky for him; PT for her. The counter girl dumped each into a plastic bag, and led us to the counter.
A young guy (but they all look young to me now!) carefully took out our plastic tank and inspected it for cracks, finally declaring it sound. We paid.
We had supper and a separate adventure that one day may figure into another blog, but not this one. We went home.
Per instructions, we rinsed all the gear off in very hot water (no detergent). Next we had to figure out how to get the fish into the bowl. Nick did some magic with the bags, gently scooted Sharky into one half and PT into the other half, and we were golden.
Almost.
I looked at the kitchen table, and it appeared that there was a puddle growing near the tank. At first I thought it was drippage from the rinsing. Oh no. There's a one-inch crack . . . and it's full-out leaking. Apparently my husband had dropped the tank at some point.
I suddenly wished I had kept my big mouth shut about a replacement pet in the first place. My parents never soothed my losses with presents. Good Yankee farm kids were taught to suck it up. Why, oh why, had I bought into the touchy-feely, support-your-kids'-emotional life message???
Too late now, Mom. Suck it up!
But Moms are brilliant. They also tend to hoard vases. I do, anyway. Down came two of my largest vases. (My poor ex is sitting with a sick expression on his face saying, "I can't win.") I rinsed them with very hot water (no detergent!). Here things got a little trickier. How do we get both fish into their new tanks without leaving one high and dry? Nick managed it with his very large hands. All was well.
Except for one thing. The lid. I know many people keep Betta fish for long periods of time in open bowls. I, however, know people who lost them to kamikaze leaps from an open bowl, and I do NOT want another emotional loss for my kids at this particular time.
No problem. I pulled out some cheese cloth and a couple elastics. Custom-made, vented, fitted lids. They look a little tacky and will probably be a hassle when I go to feed them in the morning, but such is life. Maybe in a few days I'll wash off some of my bamboo and stick them in the vases, trusting the foliage to keep my fish friends contained. In the meantime, I have some lovely decorations for my kitchen table.
Mowing the Lawn, Cutting the Grass, It's All a Pain in the . . .
My ex-husband is a "plantsman." As such, he was in charge of most of the outdoors stuff during our marriage. He brought home dozens of one-of-a-kind viburnums, rhododendrons, and maples. He designed the walkways and put up our pergola. He mowed the lawn. His goal was to one day have the "Carolina Arboretum."
I was more than happy to leave the yard work to him. I enjoy a gorgeous yard, but maintaining it is, well, work. In recent weeks I have been given that responsibility, and I'm finding it both fun and a pain in the . . . well, you know.
The fun part is that I get to make all the decisions. (I am realizing I can be a bit of a control freak, so having authority over unimportant parts of my life sometimes gives me great pleasure!) And I get to dig in the dirt. And add color to barren places. And find a babysitter to watch the kids while I mow the lawn for 2 hours and get flushed and winded and gain a blister on my middle finger and realize I have at least 2 hours more to go to actually make the whole property look good.
There are many reasons why the lawn takes so long. The first is just sheer size. We have three acres, two of which are mostly open. I say mostly because, well, did I mention my ex is a plantsman? Over the past 7 years he has probably brought in over a hundred different plants. Dozens of these are trees or large bushes.
Now I like trees. I like large bushes. What I don't like is mowing around trees and large bushes. Some people are smarter than I, and they mulch. (This gives a lovely large circle around which you can mow without damaging the bark of the trees and killing them.) I, however, do not like to mulch. So I don't. Maybe by the end of this year I will.
The other issue with our yard is that it is chock-full of nooks and crannies. Small, unevenly-shaped nooks and crannies, usually stuck behind a tree or large bush. I find myself going back and forth a million times . . . kind of like when I try to parallel park my Subaru Outback in the city.
While I have to say I appreciate the exercise I get while manhandling my push mower, I don't appreciate the mental agony I suffer as my perfectionist streak screams "Get closer . . . you missed a spot and it looks ragged!" and my plant preservationist side howls, "Don't skin the cute little tri-colored Japanese maple!" Neither side is ever satisfied.
To resolve this problem, I have come to a decision. No, I'm not hiring someone to do it for me. (Although, again, maybe by the end of this year I will!)
I'm planting ground cover. Lots of ground cover. The invasive, out-of-control kind that chokes out smaller, more attractive specimen. Oh yeah! No more mowing for me! (I'll leave the pasture to grass . . . I'll need it if I ever actually implement my sheep plan . . . ask me about it sometime!)
I've already begun, too. I have some gorgeous purple phlox--I love phlox!--growing by our walkway. Actually, they are now growing mostly in our walkway. So, to kill two proverbial birds with one stone, I have begun cutting sections out of the walkway and transplanting them to unsightly places that will need mowing or other forms of maintenance.
One day I accidentally broke a hen off my hen and chicks . . . yup, transplanted that.
Then I noticed that the fastest-moving ground cover of all--sedum (of which I have nearly a half dozen different varieties)--had jumped its bounds into another walkway. Bye-bye, sedum! Welcome to your new home.
I even indoctrinated my kids. Today the three of us were in the garden doing the following necessary tasks:
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!
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:
- Identifying rogue ground cover
- Carefully extracting said ground cover (which my 4-year old son does surprisingly well, I must say!)
- Transplanting and watering it in
- Pulling up Norway maple saplings (I will blog on that topic some other 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!
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
In the Crucible
I would never have chosen to be divorced. It's taken me a while to come to grips with the realities of my new identity. (Those I know, anyway! I'm sure there's a boatload of unknown ones that will crash upon my shore when I least expect it!)
The most difficult part really is the impact this has on my kids. It breaks my heart to watch them struggle with the weight of something they somehow know, yet are not old enough to understand. They have the knowledge that Daddy isn't here like he was combined with the fear of what that means and the innate sense that they want and need him here.
At this moment they are also struggling with the temporary (I hope!) craziness of life as Mommy works in overdrive to launch her career. I had thought I was the only one suffering from severe exhaustion, but it's hitting the little ones too. We have a few days at home scheduled this week; we all need them!
With all this yuckiness, it feels almost wrong to find something positive about this experience, but I shamefully admit it is true. I am discovering a me I didn't know existed . . . or maybe a me that I once knew (in a purer, more innocent form) and somehow forgot about. A me I like. A me I'm proud of.
Who is this woman?
Well, it's hard to pinpoint. I'm not really doing anything that remarkable. I'm writing. Okay, I've done that in one form or another for decades. I'm interfacing with Rhode Island's agricultural community. Okay, I've done that in one form or another for decades. I'm pursuing opportunities with abandon.
AAAAHHH! That's the difference. I have always joked that I am lazy by proclivity and industrious by training. And there is an element of truth in that. But now I am suddenly captivated by work. All kinds of work. Any kind of work. VBS Director. Agricultural Writer. Copy Editor. Grant Manager. Grant Writer. Ag Statistics Enumerator. Agricultural Technical Service Provider.
Part of it, I'm sure is necessity. My kids need me to succeed. But perhaps I also need me to succeed. Not just for financial stability, but as a form of therapy, a reminder that this situation will not destroy me. It will not destroy my kids. We are a bit battered and broken, but God is going to bring us out of this fire shining like pure gold.
And there is the biggest part: God. I am daily, sometimes moment-by-moment, amazed at the way God is providing for us. Just as I finish one job . . . often before I finish a job . . . God is giving me another. Sometimes more than I think I can handle! But He is providing the strength. More than that. He is providing delight in the very difficulty of it. (Not all the time, but tonight for sure!)
And I like that. I like that I'm working harder and longer than I've ever worked before . . . and finding pleasure in it. I love that God is throwing a mishmash of job opportunities at me, diverse work that keeps me learning and stretching and interested.
And I like that I realize I can't--and shouldn't--keep up this pace forever. (Not even for another week!) I am glad that I am able to look ahead and see my time more manageably budgeted . . . without leaving anything undone.
Most of all, I am grateful that this acknowledgement of my humanity does not leave me disappointed in myself, but grateful for the people who have helped me embrace my weaknesses and limitations without self-judgment . . . and thankful to the God who made me just the way I am.
The most difficult part really is the impact this has on my kids. It breaks my heart to watch them struggle with the weight of something they somehow know, yet are not old enough to understand. They have the knowledge that Daddy isn't here like he was combined with the fear of what that means and the innate sense that they want and need him here.
At this moment they are also struggling with the temporary (I hope!) craziness of life as Mommy works in overdrive to launch her career. I had thought I was the only one suffering from severe exhaustion, but it's hitting the little ones too. We have a few days at home scheduled this week; we all need them!
With all this yuckiness, it feels almost wrong to find something positive about this experience, but I shamefully admit it is true. I am discovering a me I didn't know existed . . . or maybe a me that I once knew (in a purer, more innocent form) and somehow forgot about. A me I like. A me I'm proud of.
Who is this woman?
Well, it's hard to pinpoint. I'm not really doing anything that remarkable. I'm writing. Okay, I've done that in one form or another for decades. I'm interfacing with Rhode Island's agricultural community. Okay, I've done that in one form or another for decades. I'm pursuing opportunities with abandon.
AAAAHHH! That's the difference. I have always joked that I am lazy by proclivity and industrious by training. And there is an element of truth in that. But now I am suddenly captivated by work. All kinds of work. Any kind of work. VBS Director. Agricultural Writer. Copy Editor. Grant Manager. Grant Writer. Ag Statistics Enumerator. Agricultural Technical Service Provider.
Part of it, I'm sure is necessity. My kids need me to succeed. But perhaps I also need me to succeed. Not just for financial stability, but as a form of therapy, a reminder that this situation will not destroy me. It will not destroy my kids. We are a bit battered and broken, but God is going to bring us out of this fire shining like pure gold.
And there is the biggest part: God. I am daily, sometimes moment-by-moment, amazed at the way God is providing for us. Just as I finish one job . . . often before I finish a job . . . God is giving me another. Sometimes more than I think I can handle! But He is providing the strength. More than that. He is providing delight in the very difficulty of it. (Not all the time, but tonight for sure!)
And I like that. I like that I'm working harder and longer than I've ever worked before . . . and finding pleasure in it. I love that God is throwing a mishmash of job opportunities at me, diverse work that keeps me learning and stretching and interested.
And I like that I realize I can't--and shouldn't--keep up this pace forever. (Not even for another week!) I am glad that I am able to look ahead and see my time more manageably budgeted . . . without leaving anything undone.
Most of all, I am grateful that this acknowledgement of my humanity does not leave me disappointed in myself, but grateful for the people who have helped me embrace my weaknesses and limitations without self-judgment . . . and thankful to the God who made me just the way I am.
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