The Party That Wasn't

Last night we had Chinchita's third birthday party at our home.  Or, to be more accurate, we tried to have her birthday party.  We had all the things you should have: a homemade princess cake, a homemade princess piñata, princess paper goods, and 28 friends and family (11 of whom were under the age of 13). 

October birthdays are a bit unfortunate in my family to begin with.  My parents, aunt and uncle, and sister all work in plant-related industries that generate a great deal of the year's income in the fall.  Most notably Columbus Day weekend, where Chinchita's birthday falls. 

To accommodate family as much as possible, we pushed the party back a week.  And made it on a Friday night.  Not perfect, but the best we could arrange.  Starting a party at 6pm for a girl who goes to bed at 7pm is a bit sketchy to start, but I figured my girl could handle it. 

Yesterday also happened to be her three-year exam . . . complete with flu shot.  No problem!  We did the doctor thing in the morning, both kids were wiped out and took long naps while I decorated the cake, and I let them watch Hatari! while I finished cleaning the house.  (The movie is almost as long as my cleaning endeavors, so it was a good choice!  It's also one of my all-time favorites!)

I was just finishing up washing floors when my ex's parents arrived.  Chinchita, excited to show off her princess paper goods, slipped on the wet floor and fell on her back.  A little crying, and she was off to explore the bike that came in with Grammy and Pop.  I put the dogs in my bedroom--my sister-in-law and niece are highly allergic--and the barking commenced. 

By the time my neighbors arrived, the dogs were getting on my nerves with their incessant barking, so I banished them to the barn.  It was well past start-the-party time and over half the guests were missing, mostly due to an expected freeze that necessitated extra covering of plants and produce at the farm.  We corralled the four kids who were present for supper--sort of--and then set them loose again. 

The house quickly turned into mayhem.  I pulled out Twister.  (Have you ever played Twister with four kids under the age of five?!  Pretty funny . . . especially since they are not physically large enough to simultaneously manage "right hand: red; left foot green."  They were quiet while trying, though!) 

Finally the rest of the kids arrived, and we pulled out the piñata.  I had located one of the kids' plastic baseball bats, which is perfect for piñata-pummelling.  Unfortunately, between the time my ex's parents arrived and the kids arrived, I had lost it.  Couldn't find it anywhere.  That's okay.  I found a stick Ranita had left on the patio, and we used that. 

Kids had a blast. 

It was getting late, so I decided to move things along.  I called, "Where's Chinchita?  Let's do presents." 

Just then I saw her standing next to the couch wearing a distressed expression.  I dropped on my knees and asked, "Honey, are you okay?  What's the matter?"

She put a hand on her stomach, and in the smallest possible voice said, "My stomach hurts."  Then she explosively vomited all over me.  I am so not exaggerating!  From my shoulder to my feet: covered in grossness. 

Naturally, I swept her into my arms and brought her into the bathroom.  I set her in the tub and started stripping her for a shower, as she also was rather gross.  She says, "I so sorry, Mommy, for throwing up on you!" 

What a sweetie!  I assured her that it was okay . . . you can't really call yourself a Mom until you've been puked on by your kids.  After cleaning her, my sister whisked her out so I could clean myself.  I stood in the shower yelling, "Sis, can you grab me some clothes from my room?" 

I forgot until getting into bed later that night just what a tall order that was.  In addition to my bedroom set, my little bedroom was also housing a box of "I Support RI Agriculture" license plate covers, our punching bag, a basket of clean laundry, and my Dyson.  And no light switch . . . just two lamps you must first navigate said mine field to utilize.  And she still got me clothes that fit.  What a gal!

By the time I emerged clean and nice-smelling, my mom and my neighbor had cleaned up the vomit, the kids were outside playing with adult supervision, and my daughter looked ready to puke again.  I called the doctor and took my little one to her bedroom.  While I lay comforting her, somebody played hostess and distributed cake.  (No one was in the mood to handle ice cream, so I have LOTS of ice cream in my freezer!) 

My daughter fell asleep in time for me to crawl out of her bunk and wave good-bye to my guests.  Except my parents, who stayed to help clean up a little longer.  The doctor finally got back to me and confirmed it sounded like a reaction to the flu shot.  At least we weren't headed to the ER for CT scans! 

As my brother-in-law was leaving, I gave him a hug and said, "Well, at least you can say a Castrataro party is never forgettable!" 

He replied, "Oh yeah.  I sure won't be forgetting this one!"

Yeah.  Me neither!

Get Planting

During my marriage, our side yard was converted into a nursery for young plants too small to survive in the "landscape."  (Read: Doomed to certain death by lawnmowers, deer, rabbits, mice, and woodchucks.)  Over the past seven years, the nursery has become, by any estimation you care to use, crowded.

Some of these plants are now nearly 6 feet tall.  Many are 3-4 feet wide.  We're talking somewhere between 20-30 plants in a VERY small space.  Lots of digging, my friends.

The sheer magnitude of the project is compounded by my relative ignorance of woody ornamentals.  I don't know what half of these things are, how big they are expected to grow, when they prefer to move, whether or not they have tap roots, or how to wrap a root ball.  For a while, my fear of doing the wrong thing paralyzed me and I did . . . absolutely nothing.

Finally I realized the plants were so constrained that if I didn't move them now they would all be garbage come spring anyway.  I might as well try moving them to more suitable locations and save some rather than lose them all.

I started with the area housing my little beech tree, three smallish bushes, a magnolia that should have been moved last year, a very established rhododendron, and my garage.  Out came the bushes.  Out came the beech, which promptly turned brown and made me think I'd killed it.  As it's been a couple weeks, the buds are still firmly attached, and the trunk is still green, I think it might actually survive.  Yay!

I have plugged away, moving 1-2 plants a day nearly every day.  In the past few weeks I have moved five small trees, around ten small shrubs/dwarf varieties, two giant clumps of grasses (one with the help of my burly--and very generous!--neighbor), and ten ground-cover types (sweet William and phlox mostly).

I also planted a butterfly bush my dad reluctantly gave me.  "Do you honestly think you need any more plants?" he asked.

"Of course I don't need any more plants!" I responded brightly.  "But I've always wanted a butterfly bush!"

It's going to look fabulous in the front yard near the Heptacodium: lots of gorgeous fall color!

To be brutally honest, no real plantsman would think I should be attempting this project.  It's not my thing.  I don't have the training or even the physical skills to do it successfully.  Sometimes I doubt the wisdom of  the undertaking.

What I lack in skill, however, I make up for with sheer grit and determination.  And darn it, the plants so far seem to be doing pretty well!  Aside from the beech, none of them are showing any signs of transplant stress.  Pretty impressive considering the vast majority of them were bare-rooted.  (I mentioned my inability to wrap a root ball, right?!)  I'm staking the trees with three well-placed stakes, and they all look straight . . . or as straight as they can look when they've been crunched so tightly that most of them have at least one flat side!

And if my design works as planned, each plant will have just enough room to reach maturity without feeling trapped while simultaneously enabling me to reduce my mowing significantly.  (Anybody have some wood chips they want to unload?!)

So here's the point.  (There really is one!)  Sometimes we can become paralyzed by fear: of failure, of embarrassment, of ridicule, of insufficiency.  Our perceived inability to "do it right" keeps us from doing anything at all.

My friends, I pray better things for us!

Let us not sit idly by, watching our precious gifts being overrun by weeds and brush, becoming so crowded that they become misshapen and useless.  NO!

Let us, rather, stop worrying about doing it "perfectly" and get to the business of doing.  Get the shovel, put on your gloves, take a deep breath, and dig.  Put your gifts out there for all to see.  If you find there isn't quite enough sunshine--or too much!--move them.  If they look like they're too small--or too large!--to thrive where they are, move them again.

And if, after a year or two, you find that the plant you thought would be so gorgeous has turned into a gangly scarecrow of a thing, RIP IT OUT!  Start over.  Put something else in its place.

There is no such thing as a failed garden: they are all works in progress.  The only failure is in not planting the garden in the first place. 

The Pink Princess Piñata

I am big on "tradition."  At Christmas we string popcorn and cranberries just like my mom taught us when we were little.  We eat lamb at Easter.  Thanksgiving is all about turkey, root vegetables, and pies, pies, pies. 

While I love my old traditions, I am also making some new ones with my family.  As Chinchita's third birthday quickly approaches, we are in the midst of one of my "new" traditions: the birthday piñata. 

The Castrataro piñatas started as a whim.  I was looking for something fun and kid-centered to make our family birthday parties extra-special for the little ones.  Who doesn't love a piñata?  I found some easy directions at WikiHow and thought, "I'll bet I can do this."  (Remember: this is the girl who found art class more threatening than a term paper!) 

My first attempt was a year ago, for Chinchita's second birthday.  I asked her what she wanted for her piñata: a butterfly.  No problem!  With a great deal of trepidation, the butterfly took wing. 

I was feeling pretty good about my piñata skills until a few months later when Ranita announced that he wanted a T-Rex for his piñata.  WHAT?!?  How in the world was I going to pull that off?  After scrounging around in the basement burn box, I found a couple fiber berry boxes and thought, "Hey, that would make a great head!"  So the T-Rex was born.

Note that the kids help with design decisions such as COLOR!  I was thinking green . . . my son thought that was boring.  Since I already had all the crepe paper from Sister's butterfly, I wasn't complaining too much! 

The problem with having early successes at such projects is that people (read: kids!) expect you to keep surpassing yourself.  My daughter is no exception.  This year she requested, of all things, a PRINCESS piñata.  Really.  In pink, of course. 

I received advice to make just the head of a princess, but I personally felt that was cheating.  At this moment, I have a stuffed (over-stuffed, I think!) pink princess drying on my (unlit) wood stove.  I am including a picture here, but don't judge her yet.  She has yet to have her flowing dress, pink hair (I mentioned the kids help with the color scheme, right?!), and gold crown.  She's going to be stunning.  I hope. 

At least I have a PLAN for her.  As for the princess birthday cake . . . that is actually haunting my dreams.  (No kidding . . . I have literally dreamed about it for the past 3 nights!)  Good luck, Mama!

It's Potty Time!!

Potty training can be a nightmare.  With my son, it has been a 2 year process.  It is also an area where he expresses stress . . . notably by regressing.  We've had a lot of regression lately. 

When Ranita started potty training, I thought it would be a breeze.  He was eager, interested, successful.  We bought him his own seat and made a big deal about everything.  I read books on the potty.  We watched "Elmo's Potty Time" more times than I care to count.  We were on our way. 

Then one day he quit.  Cajoling, bribing, arguing, begging . . . nothing worked.  The kid refused to use the toilet . . . any toilet . . . for a YEAR. 

My pediatrician finally told me it was time, so I followed my sister's advice and tried the 3-day potty training technique.  It's pretty simple.  You clear 3 consecutive days in your schedule, put the kid in "big kid underpants," and clean up urine and feces for 2 1/2 days.  By day three, the child is trained. 

It worked.  Mostly.  Aside from aforementioned regressions. 

Enter Chinchita.  This one is a whole different ball game, and I could not be happier!  (As regards potty training ONLY!  They are both fabulous in their own ways, and I wouldn't change their uniqueness for anything!) 

My daughter, you see, potty trained herself.  Really.  She had watched Ranita's potty escapades and, like the go-getter she is, refused to be left behind.  She used the potty when she--or more rarely, I!--thought of it. 

I was not thinking about it much.  I frankly have had too much on my plate over the past 10 months to concern myself over my 2-year-old's potty habits.  My son had taught me not to rush things . . . they all potty train in their own time. 

Her time has come. 

One day she refused to wear anything but big girl pants.  We have had accidents: in the church nursery, at auntie's house, at the Sunday School teacher's house.  But dealing with the embarrassment of an accident was less of a hassle than trying to get her into a Pull-up, so deal we did. 

It seems like a surprisingly short period of time--2 weeks, maybe?-- but perhaps it's been longer.  I've been noticing this week that her accident-free days are becoming more frequent . . . and require less attention on my part. It wasn't until this morning that I knew I could declare her potty-trained. 

The three of us were working in the yard moving plants around.  (I'll write more about that another day!)  The kids were wandering from me to the sandbox and back again.  Suddenly she came running up: "I just peed on the potty!" 

"You just peed?" I replied.  "Did you have an accident?"

"No!  I peed on the potty."

"What?"

Oh yeah.  Six days shy of 3, the child stops playing, goes into the house, uses the bathroom, and comes back out to inform me.  All in about 4 minutes. 

THAT, my friends, is potty training success! Glorious day!! 

Good Grief

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

I think we should. 

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

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

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

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

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

Then the boom got lowered.  

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

No such luck.  

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

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

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

No.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Driving 101

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

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

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

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

Drive Safely! 

When Come The Locusts

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

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

 When Come the Locusts

They blow in on the west wind

A couple weeks before the harvest. 

In ones or twos they appear,

Few enough to dispose of underfoot,

Satisfyingly,

With a

Crunch.

Pop. 

Negligible. 

All at once the air is black with them:

The sight of their winged bodies swarming,

The sound of their winged bodies buzzing,

The feel of their winged bodies assaulting,

Relentlessly,

Man.

Beast.

Crops. 

Inescapable. 

They do not remain long.

Like bombers on an evening run

They race in from the darkness

To ravage everything in their wake.

Ravenously

Chomping.

Tearing.

Ripping.

Inexorable. 

In an instant they are gone. 

Behind them lie despoiled

Acres of wheat and rye

And hollow-eyed peasants

Incredulously

Staring.

Praying.

Weeping. 

Inconceivable. 

So begins a season of want,

A season of penury,

In which there is no cash for luxuries,

In which all things become luxuries

Seemingly:

Food.

Clothing.

Heat. 

Pitiable. 

This is not the end, however.  

Among them are those who persevere,

Who scrape together enough

To start over once again.

Heroically

Sowing, 

Growing,

Reaping. 

Invincible.