Get Comfortable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tempest in a Teapot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mid-life Crisis in Hair

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ants Go Marching One by One . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more poison for me. 

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

But hey, a girl can try, can't she? 

My Garden Prayer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birds on the Brain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gearing Up For Goats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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