Have you ever had the best part of your entire day happen before you've even turned on a light?
Cora was in our room at 5:45 a.m., wide awake, happy, ready to face the day. She's always so happy when she wakes up, and today is no exception. Jimi and I were tired, though - I'd personally been hoping she'd sleep in a little and let me sleep until at least 7. I tried to get her to lay down with us, hoping maybe she'd go back to sleep, but she was chatterboxing away - "Daddy LOVES his Batman shirt" and "Kitty Wibby scratched me yesterday" (he didn't, that was forever ago, but everything is "yesterday" right now). Jimi got up to start getting ready for work (overtime, yay!), and I tried again to get Cora to cuddle up with me and settle in.
From the other room, Geneva, sounding a little sleepy and confused, yelled out, "Cora?"
"What?" Cora hollered back.
"I love you."
Cora yelled back, "I love you too!"
Oh, be still my heart. Geneva continued, "If you want to come lay in my bed with me you can."
The only thing in the world better than mommy and daddy's bed is big sister's bed, so Cora bolted up and scrambled to cuddle with her sis before sis changed her mind. I could hear them talking as they got the covers situated, Geneva giving directions and peppering the conversation with little drops of "Good morning, little girl" and "I love you sweet girl".
Jimi called from the bathroom, "Well, that's the sweetest thing I've heard all week."
"Yep," I replied, "My heart is melted."
Happy Saturday!
Saturday, October 27, 2018
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
I blog to avoid the internet.
Fifteen minutes tonight filling out permission slips and volunteer forms and her reading log - I feel so grown up! There's never a moment I drop the responsibility, never a moment their care isn't a live current running underneath everything else happening in my brain, but sometimes, when I have a quiet moment to sit and really think, it blows my mind that I am a mother, responsible for the lives and well-being of two other entire humans. What they eat, what they wear, when they bathe, how they play - I have a say in all of it. Not just a say - I damn-near control it entirely. It's crazy to me that someone let me have this much responsibility without checking to make sure I'm qualified in any way for this much power. No Pressure.
G had her first parent/teacher conference today, and it lined up perfectly with C's follow-up pelvic ultrasound, so Jimi took the phone conference in the car with G in the backseat while C and I went inside for her appointment. They were done with her so quickly, we were back to the car in time for the last part of the conversation. Basically, she's awesome. She's reading and writing at nearly a first grade level, which is awesome. She's ahead of most of her class in math, but she needs to keep practicing on her counting (that jump from 29 to 30 fouls her up every time). She's a little ray of sunshine, a joy to have in class, friendly and helpful to all of her peers. I heard the part about how they had to move her to a new table because she was too social, and how they expect they'll have to move her again eventually when she gets social with this table too, and I grinned because, yep, that's my girl.
They told us not to expect C's results for a few days. The technician took the pics, the radiologist "reads" them and sends results to our doc, then we should hear from our doc in a few days. I want to hold a goshdang Kaizen event to get these people in line - can't we remove a step or two here and multitask to improve turnaround? For gosh sakes. Anytime you're in an ultrasound of any sort, you desperately just want to know, "Does everything look normal?" She didn't halt the test and go get a doc for a second opinion or anything, so there's that, but when she was done, she did say that she needed to check with her doc and asked us to wait for just a moment. I felt a small pit of dread drop itself into the center of my stomach, but she came back within a few minutes and said we were all set, good to go. That doesn't answer any questions, though. So we wait. And keep sending out into the universe good vibes for no big deal.
My head is a mess, guys. I'm so sad when I scroll through my social media pages - pictures of new babies and family gatherings sandwiched between horrid tales from sexual assault victims and memes joking about sexual assault survivors posted by men I previously believed to be Good Men. I want to stay informed, but I've realized my desire to be informed is not so much keeping me abreast of current events so much as depressing the fuck out of me. I can scroll for hours in twitter and facebook and Instagram, but I'm not gaining any new knowledge or enlightenment from it - I'm just following the crowd into the hole of chaos and awfulness. I tried to step back last night; I drew myself a warm bath, threw in a bath bomb, turned on a YouTube meditation video to help with stress and anxiety, and tried to let it all go. When my bath was over, I didn't feel any better, I felt lost and still so sad. I asked Jimi if he would hold me; I just needed to lie in bed with his arms around me and feel safe. He did, and I cried and cried until I couldn't breathe through my nose anymore. I sobbed the big shaking sobs you cry when you're heartbroken, because I am heartbroken.
"I want to live in a world where everything is fair, where everyone is treated equally, where everyone has to follow the same rules." Why is that too much to ask?
I am aghast at the state of our nation today. I am appalled. But I've been doing a little learning, and I'm learning that I shouldn't be all that shocked. To paraphrase a post I saw somewhere by someone on some social media something:
In-fucking-deed.
So yeah. I'm having a hard time over here, but I'm taking steps to get better. A social media hiatus between now and election night is on the agenda. I'm even avoiding some of my favorite podcasts, because they're political and informative and the facts they give stress me the fuck out.
Self care, right? That should be the word of 2018. It's the only way most of us will survive it.
G had her first parent/teacher conference today, and it lined up perfectly with C's follow-up pelvic ultrasound, so Jimi took the phone conference in the car with G in the backseat while C and I went inside for her appointment. They were done with her so quickly, we were back to the car in time for the last part of the conversation. Basically, she's awesome. She's reading and writing at nearly a first grade level, which is awesome. She's ahead of most of her class in math, but she needs to keep practicing on her counting (that jump from 29 to 30 fouls her up every time). She's a little ray of sunshine, a joy to have in class, friendly and helpful to all of her peers. I heard the part about how they had to move her to a new table because she was too social, and how they expect they'll have to move her again eventually when she gets social with this table too, and I grinned because, yep, that's my girl.
They told us not to expect C's results for a few days. The technician took the pics, the radiologist "reads" them and sends results to our doc, then we should hear from our doc in a few days. I want to hold a goshdang Kaizen event to get these people in line - can't we remove a step or two here and multitask to improve turnaround? For gosh sakes. Anytime you're in an ultrasound of any sort, you desperately just want to know, "Does everything look normal?" She didn't halt the test and go get a doc for a second opinion or anything, so there's that, but when she was done, she did say that she needed to check with her doc and asked us to wait for just a moment. I felt a small pit of dread drop itself into the center of my stomach, but she came back within a few minutes and said we were all set, good to go. That doesn't answer any questions, though. So we wait. And keep sending out into the universe good vibes for no big deal.
My head is a mess, guys. I'm so sad when I scroll through my social media pages - pictures of new babies and family gatherings sandwiched between horrid tales from sexual assault victims and memes joking about sexual assault survivors posted by men I previously believed to be Good Men. I want to stay informed, but I've realized my desire to be informed is not so much keeping me abreast of current events so much as depressing the fuck out of me. I can scroll for hours in twitter and facebook and Instagram, but I'm not gaining any new knowledge or enlightenment from it - I'm just following the crowd into the hole of chaos and awfulness. I tried to step back last night; I drew myself a warm bath, threw in a bath bomb, turned on a YouTube meditation video to help with stress and anxiety, and tried to let it all go. When my bath was over, I didn't feel any better, I felt lost and still so sad. I asked Jimi if he would hold me; I just needed to lie in bed with his arms around me and feel safe. He did, and I cried and cried until I couldn't breathe through my nose anymore. I sobbed the big shaking sobs you cry when you're heartbroken, because I am heartbroken.
"I want to live in a world where everything is fair, where everyone is treated equally, where everyone has to follow the same rules." Why is that too much to ask?
I am aghast at the state of our nation today. I am appalled. But I've been doing a little learning, and I'm learning that I shouldn't be all that shocked. To paraphrase a post I saw somewhere by someone on some social media something:
The United States
was formed by
wealthy white supremacists
to promote their interests and agenda.
The system is working
exactly as it was designed.
In-fucking-deed.
So yeah. I'm having a hard time over here, but I'm taking steps to get better. A social media hiatus between now and election night is on the agenda. I'm even avoiding some of my favorite podcasts, because they're political and informative and the facts they give stress me the fuck out.
Self care, right? That should be the word of 2018. It's the only way most of us will survive it.
Finnegan 2
G drew a picture of a cat and taped it to her wall a week or two ago - it was a white cat, and she wrote "Cat" above it. She likes to label things, now that she can. Today, I found her with a black crayon, making black spots on the cat. She'd marked out "Cat" and written "Dog", and underneath that, "Finn". She drew a black mark at the bottom of the page, "that's his fur that he leaves everywhere."
*Sigh*
We picked up his ashes yesterday; I had both girls in the car with me when I called to see if he was ready. I should've thought better of that - Cora piped up, "We're getting our puppy back?" The hopeful melody of her sweet voice broke my heart. I had to explain again that we're just picking up his ashes. That he's still dead, that he's not coming back. "Ashes?" G was curious. "They turned him into dust?" We talked a bit about that, what it would look like. I told them to imagine the ashes under the grill, the ones they like to play in. I sent out a silent thank you to the universe when we got through the conversation again without them asking how they turned him into ashes - I can't think how I would explain cremation technique without them being horrified. "Did they turn his fur to ashes too?" G asked. She had that sad, tentative voice that she uses when something is bothering her and she's trying to understand. "Yes, baby, his fur too." "Oh," she said, looking down. "I wanted to feel his fur again." Somehow I managed to not cry, but it took effort. I lost it last night when I shared that anecdote with Jimi - he did too. It's almost too much to bear, to think of his soft fur and what a good boy he was.
We got him picked up, though, got him home, on the mantle. They included a paw print pressed into some sort of soft dough that will firm up permanently in a few days. I don't know if that was great or terrible. I cried last night for a long time. It wasn't all for him, but a lot of it was. I have so much guilt - I was not the greatest dog mom over the last 5 years, and I don't know how I'll come to terms with that. I can't make it up to him. I can't tell him I'm sorry. I can't redo any of it. I keep replaying this night in my head, one of our walks in his last few weeks, before I realized he was hurting - we were walking our usual route and he was being so slow, and I was in such a hurry, like I always am, to get to the next thing, whatever it was. I lost my patience with him, I assumed he was just being pokey, taking his time, and I pulled on his lead and griped at him to "Come ON - hurry up!" I would love to not have that memory anymore. When he was slow the next night too, that's when I noticed something was not normal. Also, the weeks leading up to that, when he was so slow to get up and come to the door to go outside in the mornings; I assumed he was being lazy, or ignoring me - as if he ever did those things - and I would lose my temper and yell at him, "Finnegan, COME!" I didn't realize until later, when I put the entire sequence together in my head, that he obviously was aching and sore and having a hard time getting up to go out - I was just so engrossed in my own bullshit, worried over my own morning checklist and timetable, I didn't even notice my best boy was having a hard time. And if I go further back in this memory lane of self-hate - the days when we'd come home and he would be waiting there for us, and we'd blow into the house full of kids and to-do lists and walk right past him without much more than a "Hey Finn, you need to go out?" and we'd let him out, but then ignore him nearly completely until it was time to feed or walk him. I noticed when he wasn't greeting us at the door any more, but I figured he was napping. I didn't realize that those door-meet declines coincided with the slow mornings, or that our walks were gradually taking longer and longer, until it was just obvious, and then it was too late. He deserved better than that. I owed him more than that.
I want to defend myself, to tell how I was good to him, and to the other dogs in my life before him. But then I remember that night on that walk, when I hurried him along when he must've been in pain, and I just hate myself.
I had this ridiculous thought yesterday: "Dog is God spelled backwards."
Then, "If the way we treat our dogs determines if we get into Heaven, I don't know if I'll get to go."
Then, just now, "If Finn is the one who determines if I get in or not, he'd let me in. He was always so forgiving."
He used to love it when I'd squat down in front of him and hug him. He'd lay his head on my shoulder or in the crook of my arm as long as I'd stay there, my face buried in his neck, my hands rubbing along his flank and back, telling him what a good boy he is and how much we love him. I can almost smell his doggy smell, remembering it. How soft his fur was, the way he'd lean into me. I feel like if I get to meet him again, we'll do that, and I'll tell him all of this, and he'll understand, and he'll still love me like he always did. In the meantime, though, I get to live with the memories, of both the good times and of when I was not a good friend to my best friend.
*Sigh*
We picked up his ashes yesterday; I had both girls in the car with me when I called to see if he was ready. I should've thought better of that - Cora piped up, "We're getting our puppy back?" The hopeful melody of her sweet voice broke my heart. I had to explain again that we're just picking up his ashes. That he's still dead, that he's not coming back. "Ashes?" G was curious. "They turned him into dust?" We talked a bit about that, what it would look like. I told them to imagine the ashes under the grill, the ones they like to play in. I sent out a silent thank you to the universe when we got through the conversation again without them asking how they turned him into ashes - I can't think how I would explain cremation technique without them being horrified. "Did they turn his fur to ashes too?" G asked. She had that sad, tentative voice that she uses when something is bothering her and she's trying to understand. "Yes, baby, his fur too." "Oh," she said, looking down. "I wanted to feel his fur again." Somehow I managed to not cry, but it took effort. I lost it last night when I shared that anecdote with Jimi - he did too. It's almost too much to bear, to think of his soft fur and what a good boy he was.
We got him picked up, though, got him home, on the mantle. They included a paw print pressed into some sort of soft dough that will firm up permanently in a few days. I don't know if that was great or terrible. I cried last night for a long time. It wasn't all for him, but a lot of it was. I have so much guilt - I was not the greatest dog mom over the last 5 years, and I don't know how I'll come to terms with that. I can't make it up to him. I can't tell him I'm sorry. I can't redo any of it. I keep replaying this night in my head, one of our walks in his last few weeks, before I realized he was hurting - we were walking our usual route and he was being so slow, and I was in such a hurry, like I always am, to get to the next thing, whatever it was. I lost my patience with him, I assumed he was just being pokey, taking his time, and I pulled on his lead and griped at him to "Come ON - hurry up!" I would love to not have that memory anymore. When he was slow the next night too, that's when I noticed something was not normal. Also, the weeks leading up to that, when he was so slow to get up and come to the door to go outside in the mornings; I assumed he was being lazy, or ignoring me - as if he ever did those things - and I would lose my temper and yell at him, "Finnegan, COME!" I didn't realize until later, when I put the entire sequence together in my head, that he obviously was aching and sore and having a hard time getting up to go out - I was just so engrossed in my own bullshit, worried over my own morning checklist and timetable, I didn't even notice my best boy was having a hard time. And if I go further back in this memory lane of self-hate - the days when we'd come home and he would be waiting there for us, and we'd blow into the house full of kids and to-do lists and walk right past him without much more than a "Hey Finn, you need to go out?" and we'd let him out, but then ignore him nearly completely until it was time to feed or walk him. I noticed when he wasn't greeting us at the door any more, but I figured he was napping. I didn't realize that those door-meet declines coincided with the slow mornings, or that our walks were gradually taking longer and longer, until it was just obvious, and then it was too late. He deserved better than that. I owed him more than that.
I want to defend myself, to tell how I was good to him, and to the other dogs in my life before him. But then I remember that night on that walk, when I hurried him along when he must've been in pain, and I just hate myself.
I had this ridiculous thought yesterday: "Dog is God spelled backwards."
Then, "If the way we treat our dogs determines if we get into Heaven, I don't know if I'll get to go."
Then, just now, "If Finn is the one who determines if I get in or not, he'd let me in. He was always so forgiving."
He used to love it when I'd squat down in front of him and hug him. He'd lay his head on my shoulder or in the crook of my arm as long as I'd stay there, my face buried in his neck, my hands rubbing along his flank and back, telling him what a good boy he is and how much we love him. I can almost smell his doggy smell, remembering it. How soft his fur was, the way he'd lean into me. I feel like if I get to meet him again, we'll do that, and I'll tell him all of this, and he'll understand, and he'll still love me like he always did. In the meantime, though, I get to live with the memories, of both the good times and of when I was not a good friend to my best friend.
Friday, October 5, 2018
Scrapbooking
When I was a teenager, starting at 14, I kept a scrapbook. It wasn't full of cutesy stickers or pictures with scalloped edges, that wasn't a big thing until a few years later. This one was a photo album, the kind made from a 3-ring binder full of pages that are sticky on each side and covered with a sheet of clear plastic, crafted into a baby book - you know, those things moms-to-be get at their baby showers and then keep in the box it came in, shoved in the closet or basement ,until you find it long after those babies are no longer babies and you stick it in the yard sale or donate it to goodwill? This one was given to Momma when she was pregnant with Dylan. It had a gender-neutral mother goose fabric and was trimmed with alternating blue and pink lace. The fabric was quilted, and lightly stuffed, and had a picture-frame sleeve sewn into the front cover. But, as a 14 year old girl suddenly with a new life outside of my family, I felt a primal urge to document the important and awesome things that were happening in my life, and it was full of those pages that are sticky on both sides, and so when I found it in the back room downstairs and mom said I could have it, cover be damned, this would fit the bill. I called it "my book". As in, "Do you want to come over and hang out and look at my book? I made a new page last night." Or, "I have an entire page of my book devoted to him," or, "here, look at this page in my book, it'll explain how I feel better than out loud words can."
I spent hours physically formatting pages with high-school class schedules and picture-day wallet-sized photos of my friends, cutting out, with normal straight-edge scissors, from-film pictures taken at Kat's house, at Drill meets, at family events, so I could paste them into my book. I pasted in Valentines from classmates, comic strips, and handwritten poems. I poured over old copies of Readers Digest (from Granny & Pappaw's house) and cut out the best quotes that seemed so epiphanic, so important and new and big to my young 14 year old brain:
"We are born with our eyes closed and our mouths open, and spend our entire lives trying to correct that mistake of nature."
"The words penalty, restrict and violate appeared more times in President Clinton's health care bill than in his crime bill."
"When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us."
"An apology is the super glue of life; it can repair just about anything."
I drew pictures with pencil, practicing the shading skills I was learning in my freshman art class. I cut article titles from Cosmopolitan (mine) and Home & Gardens and Woman's Day and Ladies Home Journal (all mom's) to paste into collages to express my heartache when my boyfriend kissed another girl. I made pages filled with birthday cards from my aunts and grandparents and friends. And more Reader's Digest quotes:
"When one finds himself in a hole of his own making, it is a good time to examine the quality of workmanship."
"Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent."
Newspaper articles from my friend's rappelling accident, the one that nearly killed him.
There's a pretty definitive line where I find my dad's old Time Magazines. All of a sudden, there's a political spin on the pages - they're not just about my day to day life, my relationship drama - there's all of those things, then you turn a page, and there's a black and white cartoon of a man holding a gun on a doctor who's standing between the legs of a pregnant woman who's lying on a table, and the doc is holding the pointed edge of a knife over her belly. The caption says "Justifiable homicide?" The question mark is in the shape of a fetus. Other additions to this page include cut-outs of protest posters that read "choose life, abortion kils" and "why not kill the baby killers?" The next page has pics of flag code violations titled "Do you salute the dog?" and a "Powell '96" button. Turn the page - A cartoon from 2/15/93 that shows a line of people waiting in front of a sign that reads "white house tour" - the guide says "The Clintons ask that there be no smoking in the white house." one of the citizens in line asks, "What if we don't inhale?"
TIME didn't change my scrapbooking style, but it definitely gave me a new facet of my opinions to explore. The traditionally "women-focused" magazines I was drawing from didn't invite me to have a political opinion, and while I am appalled at much of what I apparently believed back in 1994, and while I know none of that was geared toward me, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for that first introduction into political conversation.
I said all that to say this: The girls who find their dad's old TIME magazines today are working with way better material than I ever had. I'm going to go find a few copies of this one tomorrow to keep on hand.
Saturday, September 29, 2018
Finnegan.
I just couldn't do it yesterday - it was too sudden, too soon, too much. And after the awful start to the morning, he seemed okay after we got home. Sort of. I felt rushed. The girls needed time to comprehend what was happening. I needed time to love on him just a little bit more.
The dog who had barely eaten in two days wolfed down the T-bone I grilled him, and gnawed on the bone off and on throughout the evening. Mostly he just lay on the pillows and blankets and yoga mats I'd laid out in the living room for him, breathing in a way that didn't quite sound right to me - too shallow, too raspy? - his body trembling the slightest bit with each rise and fall of his chest. We picked the girls up early and explained as best we could what was happening. I think they get it; we're reminding them to talk and ask questions and that it's okay to be happy and sad at the exact same time. When the sun came out, we all went out to the front yard and he meandered and sniffed and then went to lay under a tree. That was his favorite tree back in the day, back before we had a fence and he always went outside to the front yard on a tie-out - he liked to lay there and smell the air and watch the world go by. Friends came by to love on him one last time, to tell him what a good boy he's been - and to love on us, because they know how awful this is.
Eventually he decided he was ready for bed, I guess, and he went and lay in the middle of the floor in the girls' room. He would move from side to side, but was not interested in getting up for any reason for the rest of the night. We talked about how it would maybe be better if he just went to sleep and didn't wake up. Jimi and I stayed up listening to folk music that somehow was all about losing people you love and reminisced about our lives with him - all the crazy antics that drove us crazy and infuriated us back then - things we wish he could do again.
He had terrible separation anxiety in the beginning. He bent the bars of his kennel trying to escape it. He destroyed all of the blinds in our houses - the one we lived in when we got him, and the one we moved into the next year - trying to get to us when we'd leave for work. We took the best walks through the parks together, and he scared the kids because of his one blue eye and one brown eye. "Ghost eye," Jimi called it. He was always sweet and dopey, though. He was always the best boy.
He loved to explore, and I spent the first 4 years in this house chasing him through the neighborhood when he'd escape through a hole in the fence; once, there was a foot of snow on the ground and I was in slippers, until I lost a slipper. Then I was just in one slipper. Fucking dog. When we'd go to camp, I'd irritate the shit out of Karen because I was constantly yelling "FIIINN - AAAA - GAAANNN!", trying to find him after he'd wander off into the cornfield or around the corner to someone else's camp over and over again, coming back covered in something stinky and gross more often than not. Using a tie-out was a pain in the ass out there - he'd get wrapped around stuff or tangled up, and besides, what dog wants to be tied up out in the woods?
He loved to be with us. If we weren't here, he loved to be with our things. At first, when he was little, he'd love our things too much with his mouth - we lost a lot of shoes. Eventually, he just wanted to lay with our things. He'd make a pile, in the middle of our bed, of shoes and shirt that we'd worn most recently, and then he'd lay there. All day. Waiting for us to come home and scold him for making a pile of our things in the middle of our bed again. Nah, we never really scolded him for that - we'd scold him for the shoe he'd destroyed or the harness he'd cut through again with his scissor-like teeth or the bag of bread he'd shredded and eaten while laying on a pile of our things in the middle of our bed.
When G was born, we sent the little cap they first put on her head home with Stacy, who was keeping Finn for us. She gave it to him, and says he carried it around with him everywhere for the next few days, whimpering. When we came home, he watched over her constantly. When I'd sit in my spot on the couch and nurse her, he was there, right there next to us, with his head next to hers. He showed extraordinary patience with both of the girls, and was almost always exceedingly gentle with them. (He nipped at G one time, but she deserved it. We used it as a teaching moment to remind her to be kind to her puppy brother.)
He did an awesome job keeping our floors crumb-free, though he did contribute what I feel is probably more than his fair share of mess in the form of hairs shed.
He was the best boy.
I slept in the girls' room, so I could be close to him, in case he needed anything in the middle of the night. He didn't.
We got up late today, just before 7. G turned the light on and told him good morning and kissed his head - he thumped his tail a few times. I gave him a few minutes to wake up, then asked if he wanted to go outside. He got right up and headed for the door, more steady on his feet than he seemed yesterday. He went straight out the door, down the steps, into the yard. He peed, sniffed around a bit. Stood, sniffed the air. Then he came up the stairs and stopped, stood for a moment, then his back end started to wobble and he fell over on his side. I caught him and helped him down. He was panting, but not too heavily. He lay there for a few minutes before he was able to get up again, but he made it back inside on his own and lay down on his bed. He drank some water, seemed okay. Just okay. It was so obviously time.
We had to wait for the vet's office to open at 9. I cooked him another steak and he ate the parts I'd cut from the bone, but didn't have any interest in the bone itself. He drank some more water, rested his head.
I pulled the girls together and explained again what was going to happen. I told them to go tell him they love him, that he's been a great puppy brother. "Goodbye?" Geneva asked. "Yes, baby, goodbye," I answered.
We'd talked about taking the girls with us, about having someone keep them both, or just Cora, but in the end, I decided I wanted to do this on my own. The vet's office has tiny examining rooms, for one thing. And the chaos - I just wanted my boy to be able to go in peace, and when we come as a group we bring the chaos. Usually it's fine - this wasn't one of those situations, though. So Jimi said his goodbyes, the girls gave their last kisses and hugs and belly rubs, and I asked, "Hey Finn, wanna go for a ride?" He perked up, ears alert, and got up. He trotted across the living room, down the short hall, through the dining room and kitchen. He hesitated at the steps, but only for a moment, then he was down them, through the gate, sniffing in the yard. He didn't try to jump into the car, but he was waiting patiently for me to lift him into it. I opened all of the windows and we drove the short drive. There were lots of people in the small office already - I'd left him in the car to let them know we were here. After checking in, I went back out and let him down onto the ground to sniff - there are great smells for a dog in the parking lot of a vet's office, I imagine, and that's before you factor in the chicken place next door.
When they were ready for us, I carried him into the small room. They lifted him onto the table. I held his face and looked into his eyes and told him how much we loved him, how he's the best boy, how thankful we were that he was part of our family. It felt like he understood. He was not scared, he was not panicked, he was not stressed. As the medicine took effect, he lay down on the table, into my arms, and breathed a few last deep breaths, and then he was still. It was done. And it felt okay. Deeply sad, but okay.
That's how I feel. Deeply sad, but okay.
I'll miss that good boy. He was the sweetest boy.
The dog who had barely eaten in two days wolfed down the T-bone I grilled him, and gnawed on the bone off and on throughout the evening. Mostly he just lay on the pillows and blankets and yoga mats I'd laid out in the living room for him, breathing in a way that didn't quite sound right to me - too shallow, too raspy? - his body trembling the slightest bit with each rise and fall of his chest. We picked the girls up early and explained as best we could what was happening. I think they get it; we're reminding them to talk and ask questions and that it's okay to be happy and sad at the exact same time. When the sun came out, we all went out to the front yard and he meandered and sniffed and then went to lay under a tree. That was his favorite tree back in the day, back before we had a fence and he always went outside to the front yard on a tie-out - he liked to lay there and smell the air and watch the world go by. Friends came by to love on him one last time, to tell him what a good boy he's been - and to love on us, because they know how awful this is.
Eventually he decided he was ready for bed, I guess, and he went and lay in the middle of the floor in the girls' room. He would move from side to side, but was not interested in getting up for any reason for the rest of the night. We talked about how it would maybe be better if he just went to sleep and didn't wake up. Jimi and I stayed up listening to folk music that somehow was all about losing people you love and reminisced about our lives with him - all the crazy antics that drove us crazy and infuriated us back then - things we wish he could do again.
He had terrible separation anxiety in the beginning. He bent the bars of his kennel trying to escape it. He destroyed all of the blinds in our houses - the one we lived in when we got him, and the one we moved into the next year - trying to get to us when we'd leave for work. We took the best walks through the parks together, and he scared the kids because of his one blue eye and one brown eye. "Ghost eye," Jimi called it. He was always sweet and dopey, though. He was always the best boy.
He loved to explore, and I spent the first 4 years in this house chasing him through the neighborhood when he'd escape through a hole in the fence; once, there was a foot of snow on the ground and I was in slippers, until I lost a slipper. Then I was just in one slipper. Fucking dog. When we'd go to camp, I'd irritate the shit out of Karen because I was constantly yelling "FIIINN - AAAA - GAAANNN!", trying to find him after he'd wander off into the cornfield or around the corner to someone else's camp over and over again, coming back covered in something stinky and gross more often than not. Using a tie-out was a pain in the ass out there - he'd get wrapped around stuff or tangled up, and besides, what dog wants to be tied up out in the woods?
He loved to be with us. If we weren't here, he loved to be with our things. At first, when he was little, he'd love our things too much with his mouth - we lost a lot of shoes. Eventually, he just wanted to lay with our things. He'd make a pile, in the middle of our bed, of shoes and shirt that we'd worn most recently, and then he'd lay there. All day. Waiting for us to come home and scold him for making a pile of our things in the middle of our bed again. Nah, we never really scolded him for that - we'd scold him for the shoe he'd destroyed or the harness he'd cut through again with his scissor-like teeth or the bag of bread he'd shredded and eaten while laying on a pile of our things in the middle of our bed.
When G was born, we sent the little cap they first put on her head home with Stacy, who was keeping Finn for us. She gave it to him, and says he carried it around with him everywhere for the next few days, whimpering. When we came home, he watched over her constantly. When I'd sit in my spot on the couch and nurse her, he was there, right there next to us, with his head next to hers. He showed extraordinary patience with both of the girls, and was almost always exceedingly gentle with them. (He nipped at G one time, but she deserved it. We used it as a teaching moment to remind her to be kind to her puppy brother.)
He did an awesome job keeping our floors crumb-free, though he did contribute what I feel is probably more than his fair share of mess in the form of hairs shed.
He was the best boy.
I slept in the girls' room, so I could be close to him, in case he needed anything in the middle of the night. He didn't.
We got up late today, just before 7. G turned the light on and told him good morning and kissed his head - he thumped his tail a few times. I gave him a few minutes to wake up, then asked if he wanted to go outside. He got right up and headed for the door, more steady on his feet than he seemed yesterday. He went straight out the door, down the steps, into the yard. He peed, sniffed around a bit. Stood, sniffed the air. Then he came up the stairs and stopped, stood for a moment, then his back end started to wobble and he fell over on his side. I caught him and helped him down. He was panting, but not too heavily. He lay there for a few minutes before he was able to get up again, but he made it back inside on his own and lay down on his bed. He drank some water, seemed okay. Just okay. It was so obviously time.
We had to wait for the vet's office to open at 9. I cooked him another steak and he ate the parts I'd cut from the bone, but didn't have any interest in the bone itself. He drank some more water, rested his head.
I pulled the girls together and explained again what was going to happen. I told them to go tell him they love him, that he's been a great puppy brother. "Goodbye?" Geneva asked. "Yes, baby, goodbye," I answered.
We'd talked about taking the girls with us, about having someone keep them both, or just Cora, but in the end, I decided I wanted to do this on my own. The vet's office has tiny examining rooms, for one thing. And the chaos - I just wanted my boy to be able to go in peace, and when we come as a group we bring the chaos. Usually it's fine - this wasn't one of those situations, though. So Jimi said his goodbyes, the girls gave their last kisses and hugs and belly rubs, and I asked, "Hey Finn, wanna go for a ride?" He perked up, ears alert, and got up. He trotted across the living room, down the short hall, through the dining room and kitchen. He hesitated at the steps, but only for a moment, then he was down them, through the gate, sniffing in the yard. He didn't try to jump into the car, but he was waiting patiently for me to lift him into it. I opened all of the windows and we drove the short drive. There were lots of people in the small office already - I'd left him in the car to let them know we were here. After checking in, I went back out and let him down onto the ground to sniff - there are great smells for a dog in the parking lot of a vet's office, I imagine, and that's before you factor in the chicken place next door.
When they were ready for us, I carried him into the small room. They lifted him onto the table. I held his face and looked into his eyes and told him how much we loved him, how he's the best boy, how thankful we were that he was part of our family. It felt like he understood. He was not scared, he was not panicked, he was not stressed. As the medicine took effect, he lay down on the table, into my arms, and breathed a few last deep breaths, and then he was still. It was done. And it felt okay. Deeply sad, but okay.
That's how I feel. Deeply sad, but okay.
I'll miss that good boy. He was the sweetest boy.
Sunday, July 29, 2018
I'm going to do this regularly again one day i swear...
I saw friends last night I hadn't seen since before I was a mom. I met people with whom I've run in the same social circles for years, but had never had an opportunity to get to know. I watched as this group of intelligent, giving, wonderful people formed a circle of lawn chairs in my backyard and shared stories and laughter - and it made my heart grow three sizes and reminded me of how lucky I am to know such awesome people.
The occasion was a birthday gathering for a dear friend - she wanted the night to be full of her closest and most beloved, so I let her handle the inviting and Jimi and I took care of the rest. I made a chicken shawarma that was out of this world (thanks NYT!), and Jimi spent all day smoking a pork shoulder. The food was yummy. And somehow, we've ended up with way more alcohol than we began the night with - good or bad, that will be determined. The guest of honor cried happy tears and rapped to Biggie Smalls; I call that a fucking win.
I loved it so much I've decided I'm going to make it a weekly thing. Starting next week, I'm going to invite all of my friends to my house each Monday night - open house style - come and go as you please, bring something or have whatever we're having - bring the kids and let's throw them upstairs or in the back yard to play while the grownups talk and drink and whatever...fill our buckets, our cups, our mental health meters. It's so fucking hard these days to just exist. Last night, the conversations I had, remind me that IT'S NOT JUST ME. We are all fighting the same fight, struggling in the same ways. Well, we're not, but we are. You know? You know what I mean. And being with people who tell us it's okay, that we're not alone, that we have people in the world who love us and support us even when shit gets hard, well, that's super important. And despite the fact that we're living in a technologically advanced age of social media and oversaturation connection with every detail of each others lives at our fingertips - I think a lot of us are feeling really lonely and isolated. Talking to my friends in person, seeing them in person, hugging their necks in person - it makes ME feel better. and I'm guessing IT'S NOT JUST ME.
The girls stayed at Dot's last night, and since my house is "company clean" today, I decided I had time to take the girls somewhere fun after I picked them up. We got bathing suits on and headed up to Iroquois Park - we go there a lot, but it's a special treat for them to get to play in the spray pad water thingy. When we pulled up, I noticed two young black men getting out of a car two spots from us, and a family of white people getting out of a car across the parking lot. The older man of the white family met the older of the black men halfway between their cars in the middle of the lot and shook hands - somehow I gathered that the white family was looking to buy the car the black men were driving. I got the girls out of their car seats and set them free - as I was walking to catch up with them, I noticed the family walking around the car, as if inspecting it. I peripherally noticed when it drove off, as if someone was taking it for a test drive. I thought one of the black men stayed behind. I thought, "Yeah, that makes sense, if you're meeting someone in a park to buy a car, take a second with you, and leave someone behind to assure everyone everything is legit."
I walked around the playground as the girls played in the water - I was trying to get steps in. I was hung over and not hydrated enough to try to do any real cardio today, but I could get some steps in walking circles around my kids, like the helicopter mom that I am.
I don't know how long it had been since we showed up since someone drove off with the car for a test drive, but on one trip around the playground, I saw a woman coming up the sidewalk in front of the park, and she seemed to be yelling, and crying...I was confused, was I hearing what I thought I was hearing? My girls were squealing and yelling - I couldn't be sure, but it sure looked like this woman was crying and screaming...and then her people, the family, were running toward her, and I'd walked closer and could hear her saying "...told me to go around the circle one more time and that noise would stop...put a gun to my head....took my purse..." oh no oh no oh no...
She'd been robbed, at gunpoint, by the two black men who'd posed as people selling a car.
I fucking hate people.
The older white man, the one I'd assumed was the father, he looked to be in shock, stunned. The mother-lady, she was calling 911. The woman who'd been robbed, she looked to be in her 30s somewhere, she just stood there, sobbing, trying to hug herself and gasp out the story. No one hugged her. No one was hugging her. That still really bothers me. I just wanted to go and hug her, but G was suddenly by my side, asking why that woman was crying, asking what was wrong, and I led her away trying to explain in 5 year old terms what had happened and that everything is fine and she shouldn't be scared even though I was shaking with adrenaline and rage and fear and the urge to scoop my babies up and run even though the rational part of my brain said "they've gotten what they were after, the police will be here in a moment, they're not coming back, the girls are safe." The feeling of violation, the audacity, was so strong, despite that this was a situation that didn't happen to me, that didn't harm mine. With the family, there was a 13ish year old girl, and a 9ish year old boy - the girl was so sad and scared - her pale face was red from crying. The boy seemed to be in shock. Ugh.
I'm so angry. That poor woman, who probably just needed a good reliable cheap car to get her to work, she's been traumatized for life. Her family has been traumatized. Those kids... And now they all have a story to help endorse and perpetuate the tale of evil black men in our society.
And those black men. What were they thinking in those moments when they first met that family? I'm so glad she brought her family with her. What situation made them so desperate for a little cash that this was the best plan they had? The forethought and premeditation and trickery that went into it - it makes me sick. What made them so desperate? Part of me hopes they have some dire circumstance that lead to this, because alternately... well, I like to try to not think about the part of the world where people do this sort of shit just because.
I started wrangling the girls to go home shortly after the first police car showed up. I generally don't like to hang where there are police anyhow, but I was so skeeved out, so uncomfortable, so uneasy, I just wanted to get my kids home to where I knew we were all safe.
This all happened hours ago. I'm still struggling with it mentally a bit. It's a fucked up thing to witness, the immediate aftermath of a trauma like that. I'm so sad for that woman, that family. I'm so sad for those men, and angry with them too. Goddammit. And I'm angry with our society, with our reality, that makes it easier for people to make money doing horrible things than to make money doing noble things.
I discovered this morning that blogger I'd loved forever, who stopped blogging a while ago, stopped blogging basically because her life went to shit. All of the things in her world that looked really awesome from the outside were crap on the inside and exploded in a bad way. It made me really sad for her. I think a lot of the time people only ever want to tell the good part of the story, the happy ending, the silver lining. I keep finding, over and over again, that the best part of the story is the part that makes you cringe when you tell it, the part that you think makes you look the worst, the part that hurts the most. Those words, they're the ones that heal, the ones that resonate, because they're the ones spoken with the most truth.
The occasion was a birthday gathering for a dear friend - she wanted the night to be full of her closest and most beloved, so I let her handle the inviting and Jimi and I took care of the rest. I made a chicken shawarma that was out of this world (thanks NYT!), and Jimi spent all day smoking a pork shoulder. The food was yummy. And somehow, we've ended up with way more alcohol than we began the night with - good or bad, that will be determined. The guest of honor cried happy tears and rapped to Biggie Smalls; I call that a fucking win.
I loved it so much I've decided I'm going to make it a weekly thing. Starting next week, I'm going to invite all of my friends to my house each Monday night - open house style - come and go as you please, bring something or have whatever we're having - bring the kids and let's throw them upstairs or in the back yard to play while the grownups talk and drink and whatever...fill our buckets, our cups, our mental health meters. It's so fucking hard these days to just exist. Last night, the conversations I had, remind me that IT'S NOT JUST ME. We are all fighting the same fight, struggling in the same ways. Well, we're not, but we are. You know? You know what I mean. And being with people who tell us it's okay, that we're not alone, that we have people in the world who love us and support us even when shit gets hard, well, that's super important. And despite the fact that we're living in a technologically advanced age of social media and oversaturation connection with every detail of each others lives at our fingertips - I think a lot of us are feeling really lonely and isolated. Talking to my friends in person, seeing them in person, hugging their necks in person - it makes ME feel better. and I'm guessing IT'S NOT JUST ME.
The girls stayed at Dot's last night, and since my house is "company clean" today, I decided I had time to take the girls somewhere fun after I picked them up. We got bathing suits on and headed up to Iroquois Park - we go there a lot, but it's a special treat for them to get to play in the spray pad water thingy. When we pulled up, I noticed two young black men getting out of a car two spots from us, and a family of white people getting out of a car across the parking lot. The older man of the white family met the older of the black men halfway between their cars in the middle of the lot and shook hands - somehow I gathered that the white family was looking to buy the car the black men were driving. I got the girls out of their car seats and set them free - as I was walking to catch up with them, I noticed the family walking around the car, as if inspecting it. I peripherally noticed when it drove off, as if someone was taking it for a test drive. I thought one of the black men stayed behind. I thought, "Yeah, that makes sense, if you're meeting someone in a park to buy a car, take a second with you, and leave someone behind to assure everyone everything is legit."
I walked around the playground as the girls played in the water - I was trying to get steps in. I was hung over and not hydrated enough to try to do any real cardio today, but I could get some steps in walking circles around my kids, like the helicopter mom that I am.
I don't know how long it had been since we showed up since someone drove off with the car for a test drive, but on one trip around the playground, I saw a woman coming up the sidewalk in front of the park, and she seemed to be yelling, and crying...I was confused, was I hearing what I thought I was hearing? My girls were squealing and yelling - I couldn't be sure, but it sure looked like this woman was crying and screaming...and then her people, the family, were running toward her, and I'd walked closer and could hear her saying "...told me to go around the circle one more time and that noise would stop...put a gun to my head....took my purse..." oh no oh no oh no...
She'd been robbed, at gunpoint, by the two black men who'd posed as people selling a car.
I fucking hate people.
The older white man, the one I'd assumed was the father, he looked to be in shock, stunned. The mother-lady, she was calling 911. The woman who'd been robbed, she looked to be in her 30s somewhere, she just stood there, sobbing, trying to hug herself and gasp out the story. No one hugged her. No one was hugging her. That still really bothers me. I just wanted to go and hug her, but G was suddenly by my side, asking why that woman was crying, asking what was wrong, and I led her away trying to explain in 5 year old terms what had happened and that everything is fine and she shouldn't be scared even though I was shaking with adrenaline and rage and fear and the urge to scoop my babies up and run even though the rational part of my brain said "they've gotten what they were after, the police will be here in a moment, they're not coming back, the girls are safe." The feeling of violation, the audacity, was so strong, despite that this was a situation that didn't happen to me, that didn't harm mine. With the family, there was a 13ish year old girl, and a 9ish year old boy - the girl was so sad and scared - her pale face was red from crying. The boy seemed to be in shock. Ugh.
I'm so angry. That poor woman, who probably just needed a good reliable cheap car to get her to work, she's been traumatized for life. Her family has been traumatized. Those kids... And now they all have a story to help endorse and perpetuate the tale of evil black men in our society.
And those black men. What were they thinking in those moments when they first met that family? I'm so glad she brought her family with her. What situation made them so desperate for a little cash that this was the best plan they had? The forethought and premeditation and trickery that went into it - it makes me sick. What made them so desperate? Part of me hopes they have some dire circumstance that lead to this, because alternately... well, I like to try to not think about the part of the world where people do this sort of shit just because.
I started wrangling the girls to go home shortly after the first police car showed up. I generally don't like to hang where there are police anyhow, but I was so skeeved out, so uncomfortable, so uneasy, I just wanted to get my kids home to where I knew we were all safe.
This all happened hours ago. I'm still struggling with it mentally a bit. It's a fucked up thing to witness, the immediate aftermath of a trauma like that. I'm so sad for that woman, that family. I'm so sad for those men, and angry with them too. Goddammit. And I'm angry with our society, with our reality, that makes it easier for people to make money doing horrible things than to make money doing noble things.
*******************************************************************************
I discovered this morning that blogger I'd loved forever, who stopped blogging a while ago, stopped blogging basically because her life went to shit. All of the things in her world that looked really awesome from the outside were crap on the inside and exploded in a bad way. It made me really sad for her. I think a lot of the time people only ever want to tell the good part of the story, the happy ending, the silver lining. I keep finding, over and over again, that the best part of the story is the part that makes you cringe when you tell it, the part that you think makes you look the worst, the part that hurts the most. Those words, they're the ones that heal, the ones that resonate, because they're the ones spoken with the most truth.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
I can do hard things.
This week was hard, but I've survived it, apparently. It's not the hardest thing I've ever done, I don't think, but maybe top 10? Definitely Top 10 Most Stressful Week.
I've ignored the internet and news for days and days. I've snuck peeks, and immediately regretted it. My little bubble, my safe place, it got real scary for a moment, and I was glad I hadn't been keeping up. There were rallies everywhere today, and I should've been there - I'd even half-heartedly asked Jimi last week, after sneaking a peek, if he wanted to try to go to DC. Fuck. Maybe that's what cursed this week - the last time we tried to go to DC, we ALL got sick. This time it was just Jimi, but damn, what a doosie. I'm disappointed in myself and ashamed that I didn't make it out today, that I didn't put my own shit aside for a moment to do what I know we have to do in this moment, as Americans. I don't even have any money I could throw at it right now, to help assuage my guilt.
Can I mention again - just be patient with me - how thankful I am for this life? For our Village? For the privileges with which we've been so blessed? And I am so very humbled - what makes us so special? Why isn't everyone able to have this same experience when shit goes bad?
I'm not trying to be cryptic: my sweet husband has been in the hospital since Thursday, and it's been a little stressful. Scary.
For some reason the fact that our yard hadn't been cut in weeks - because of his finger injury, and then the rain, and then because it's apparently hard as shit to find people to take cash money for actual work - was causing me SERIOUS anxiety, because I guess I had nothing better to focus my energy on? (Because I like to make passive aggressive points as often as possible: The dudes who showed up at my house at 5 o'clock this afternoon after getting a call at 3 pm on the Saturday before the 4th of July in 98degree weather? Hispanic. Did a fantastic job in just over an hour that would've taken me at least 4 hours. I paid them enough that they each got an extra $20 on top of the rate they quoted me, because they saved my MFn sanity. They tried to give me the extra $$ back. The two white guys I'd booked previously both ghosted me. I'm so excited to tell all my friends about how fabulous these guys are - I'll post their business card later.)
I wasn't going to write a novel tonight, but I guess I am. Pull up a chair.
We are so lucky to have the friends and family we have. The offers of help and support that have poured in are overwhelming and I feel unworthy. I'm so thankful to have so many people willing to lend a hand. It's really really hard for me to ask for help, to risk inconveniencing anyone. (Even thought sometimes I feel like I only call my poor sweet Momma when I need a babysitter!) I don't have the words to say how much it means to know so many people are willing to help out, to support our family.
I've been really down on the state of our nation, in case you haven't noticed. I'm eternally optimistic, but goshdang it's getting harder and harder. But for all the wrongs I see, we really are so very lucky to be here, of all places. Aren't we? I want to feel this unabashedly, but then I realize my awe at seeing my sick husband surrounded by the best technology and most well-trained medical professionals is still obtained with a badge of privilege that is not available to everyone. I remember that in other parts of the world people don't even have clean water, much less portable X-ray machines. (Do they have X-ray machines in Flint, MI?)
But we, Jimi and I, we have access to these things - portable X-ray machines and potable water. He was surrounded by doctors and nurses and aides and medicines and technology all dedicated to making him well. And he will be well again. And we can afford this emergency room visit that resulted in a 4 day hospital stay with a private room and round-the-clock care and meals and cable television and air conditioning and a fabulous view, because we are gainfully employed in jobs that offer a comfortable annual salary with reasonably affordable medical benefits and vacation days and holiday pay. And we each only have to work one job to live this American dream. We are the best case scenario for your average middle class family, I think.
Then I mentally poll my friends list - how many of you fit that same description? What makes us so special?
I just want to be thankful for what I have. It doesn't feel right, though, to have all of this when I know that it's not the same for everyone.
Friday, May 25, 2018
Moving on...
Need to get the post with the word "Fuck" in the title, twice, off the top of the page, perhaps. As good a reason as any to write something down, huh?
It's 7:30 a.m. on Friday May 25, 2018. I've taken the day off as a little mental health gift to myself. I'm going to spend my day working for my family, and for myself. Here in a minute I'm going to go take Finn for a walk around the block - Jimi and I were watching Versailles last night and I skipped his walk and so I will make up for it today. It's really nice outside right now, about 60 degrees. When we get back, I'm going to mow the yard, front and back. Then I'm going to take a shower, clean the bathroom, and fold laundry while watching a documentary of some sort or another. Or maybe Orange is the New Black. I'm going to read on the front porch for an hour, then do yoga in the sunshine. I'll clean the kitchen while I listen to the last episode of Seeing White, the most amazingly eye-opening piece of education I've ever experienced on the topic of race and what it really means to be white. (You should check it out - seriously. It should be required listening for every American.) I'm going to reorganize my pantry today and get my dining room straight. I'm going to condense all the cardboard amazon and diaper and toilet paper boxes and get them ready for recycling. For dinner, I'm making, per Geneva's request, tuna casserole, with peas and lots of extra love.
Once these chores are finished, these tasks accomplished, my house will be ready for a 3-day weekend of playing and fun, not cleaning and straightening. I'll be refreshed and ready to enjoy my favorite people. I'm so excited!
Okay, I'm 10 minutes behind schedule already. Typical. At least I'm my own boss today. :)
Happy Friday y'all!
It's 7:30 a.m. on Friday May 25, 2018. I've taken the day off as a little mental health gift to myself. I'm going to spend my day working for my family, and for myself. Here in a minute I'm going to go take Finn for a walk around the block - Jimi and I were watching Versailles last night and I skipped his walk and so I will make up for it today. It's really nice outside right now, about 60 degrees. When we get back, I'm going to mow the yard, front and back. Then I'm going to take a shower, clean the bathroom, and fold laundry while watching a documentary of some sort or another. Or maybe Orange is the New Black. I'm going to read on the front porch for an hour, then do yoga in the sunshine. I'll clean the kitchen while I listen to the last episode of Seeing White, the most amazingly eye-opening piece of education I've ever experienced on the topic of race and what it really means to be white. (You should check it out - seriously. It should be required listening for every American.) I'm going to reorganize my pantry today and get my dining room straight. I'm going to condense all the cardboard amazon and diaper and toilet paper boxes and get them ready for recycling. For dinner, I'm making, per Geneva's request, tuna casserole, with peas and lots of extra love.
Once these chores are finished, these tasks accomplished, my house will be ready for a 3-day weekend of playing and fun, not cleaning and straightening. I'll be refreshed and ready to enjoy my favorite people. I'm so excited!
Okay, I'm 10 minutes behind schedule already. Typical. At least I'm my own boss today. :)
Happy Friday y'all!
Friday, May 18, 2018
Fuck right the fuck off.
“I have a different opinion and your opinion is making me
uncomfortable so please stop talking about it.
I can’t listen to you have a conversation that doesn’t involve me
without becoming offended and insisting you shut down your conversation.”
Thursday, March 29, 2018
All I Really Want
...Is some patience. A way to calm the angry voice.
Fuck yes. I can recognize and relate to that.
I had to turn Alanis off, though. I switched to Yanni. Way better for thinking, sorting your thoughts. Still reminds me of my adolescence. And reminds me that we need a piano in our lives. I would like to play again; the girls would love it. I need to make that happen.
Also: I want to paint. I bought oils and canvas over 2 years ago - I've not opened them yet. It's past time.
I need to leave social media. I recognize it plays an addictive role in my life and I use it the way an addict uses and it is sucking away my time, making me agitated and angry. The bad is outweighing the good.
I fucking suck at blogging anymore. I don't know what stories to tell. I don't know how to tell them anymore. I want to record our lives, to document our day to day, but fucking facebook and Instagram are so much better for that than a blog - so much easier and convenient when you feel like you never have any time. Of course, if i gave up the facebook and Instagram and twitter, i guess I'd find some time...
I'm going to be 38 next month. Heh. In a week and a half. 38. That sounds way older than I feel. I don't know what that means, I just know that I have an idea in my head of what a 38 year old woman is, and that's not me. Except...stable career, married, couple of kids, house, lease, dog, cat - okay. Maybe. I also want to say "my life is not at all what I imagined it would be at 38," but that's not true either. The truth is that, while I full expected I'd be making fuckpiles more money than I currently am, I never pictured many details in my adult life beyond "married" and "kids". I got that going for me. So true, I've not published a book or jumped out of an airplane or traveled the world - YET - I'm really not doing bad for 38. Not by my personal standards, at least.
The truth is, I'm happy as a pig in shit with my boring little life. I have this fabulous man who loves me and made the most beautiful children with me and he is just the best daddy in the whole world and my boss thinks I'm awesome and my parents are the absolute best and my brother, well, I love my brother, and we have this great dog and cat and our jobs pay the bills and leave a little left over and we've got a house with good bones in a safe neighborhood and our girls will go to a decent school...I mean, what else is there, at 38? At any age? I'm not being facetious, or sarcastic - I'm thankful. I went to the doctor earlier this week for my annual health-insurance-required physical, and as she was filling out the form, the doc commented, "Your numbers are great, I wish all of our patients had these numbers." They were all in normal range. WTF? Seriously, so far, 38 is killing it.
I need to make some changes, though, if I'm going to live my best life. I've been doing a great job of focusing on self-care, of being more social, of reaching out to my friends more. I need to do better at home, truth be told. I still come home and spend too much time on my phone when I should be playing with my girls. I excuse myself by saying I'm tired or that I need to take just a few minutes for myself, to clear my brain, but it always becomes more than a few minutes and I end up letting them sit in front of the TV so I can scroll through the nonsense. I do need a few minutes for myself, to clear my brain, but social media sure isn't the answer to that. I can find better, less distracting outlets to clear the day from my mind so I can be a good mom. I'm typing this here because if I put it in writing then I'm acknowledging it and maybe I'll be more inclined to actually do something about it. Maybe. Probably.
I need new hobbies, or to focus on the ones I've tried to cultivate in the past. I have a partially-knitted scarf for Jimi in a bag hanging on the inside of the coat closet door in the living room. I started it 3 years ago, unraveled it when I fucked up a few rows, then began again this past winter. I'm maybe 8 inches into a 36 inch (minimum) scarf. I'll finish it one of these days. "I do what I want," is what I say when Jimi asks if I'll ever finish his scarf.
I also have a lot of garden spots in my yard that have been pretty much ignored since summer of 2015 when I planted the garden in the spot that was sunny in January but not-so-sunny in June. I moved in a few raised beds the summer after that, but their yield was mediocre and i think i was in the full throes of my personal version of postpartum funk by then - it was hard to give too many shits about too much of anything - If it wasn't easy, fuck it, it wasn't happening. There's something to be said for living that way, but you can't live that way and be a gardener, probably.
Hiking. I want to hike so much - I wish I could get into the wood every day. But it rains. Or it gets cold. Or it rained for the last 4 days, so all the trails are muddy washouts. Or it's in an area where they say you shouldn't hike alone as a female because there have been "incidents". For a city with so many parks and so many trails, it sure it difficult for me to find the right alignment of the stars to be able to get out into/onto them. It's frustrating. But the girls are bigger and bigger - I started taking them last year, and we'll do more, so much more, of that that this year. G has already asked when we're camping again. "Soon, baby," is what I tell her. Camping and hiking go hand in hand. My girls will love the woods and the outside at least as much as I do - hopefully more.
Camping - we're going to camp so much this year. Jimi and I have both missed it since the girls came along. I know it's possible to camp with babies and small children - for other people, it totally is. It wasn't for us. I mean, we could've survived it, but it was never going to be easy. Maybe that's because my brain chemistry was all fucked up so everything was hard, but whatever the reason, we've only camped a handful of times in the last five years and now our children are big enough to enjoy the great outdoors so we're going to go get all up in it this summer. It's good for the mind, body, and soul. I need it. I miss it so much.
I wish we had The Property to go to - my grandparents owned 20ish acres in Adair County Kentucky, we dubbed it The Property. When they bought it, there was no road leading to it - it was just a large field and a couple of hills and hollers back off a county road. Papaw mowed it and laid gravel and rebuilt the barn, and although there was no running water or electricity at first, it was the perfect campground. My mom's brother and sisters and their spouses and granny and papaw and their brothers and sisters would all drive out, pitch tents in a circle we'd call tent city, and the men would build a huge bonfire and sit around with their guitars, pickin' and grinnin' as they'd call it - singing songs old and new. It was Papaw's dreamland, and eventually they built a house on the land and moved there full time. He got 3 years or so there before he died. He was getting the soft dirt from under the treeline to add to his flowerbeds in front of the porch. Heart attack. Granny lived another 6 years. They sold the place after she died. I still keep some little fantasy in the back of my heart that one day I'll have the cash to walk up to the front door of that house and make the owners an offer they can't refuse - to move and leave The Property to me. Not that it's even that great of a house or land - but it's my childhood.
Roller skating. Bike riding. Reading. Giving myself a facial. Listening to music. Writing. And that's before I even dive into the mile-long list of mom-related things I should be doing to better the lives of my children. Not that they're wanting for anything at all, but you know how mom-guilt is - i could always improve, right?
I've got half a mind to do something drastic - like cut off my social media access completely. At least Twitter and Facebook - they are the main source of my time-suck.
I'm struggling with this social-media thing, can you tell? Like, a lot. The internet is the best and worst of all the things. Like parenting. And cheesecake.
I'm not making any promises or declarations tonight. I will promise to come back here and hash it out with myself a bit more at a later date, because frankly, I'm sick of talking about it and it's getting late and i need to get to bed.
Sweet dreams.
Fuck yes. I can recognize and relate to that.
I had to turn Alanis off, though. I switched to Yanni. Way better for thinking, sorting your thoughts. Still reminds me of my adolescence. And reminds me that we need a piano in our lives. I would like to play again; the girls would love it. I need to make that happen.
Also: I want to paint. I bought oils and canvas over 2 years ago - I've not opened them yet. It's past time.
I need to leave social media. I recognize it plays an addictive role in my life and I use it the way an addict uses and it is sucking away my time, making me agitated and angry. The bad is outweighing the good.
I fucking suck at blogging anymore. I don't know what stories to tell. I don't know how to tell them anymore. I want to record our lives, to document our day to day, but fucking facebook and Instagram are so much better for that than a blog - so much easier and convenient when you feel like you never have any time. Of course, if i gave up the facebook and Instagram and twitter, i guess I'd find some time...
I'm going to be 38 next month. Heh. In a week and a half. 38. That sounds way older than I feel. I don't know what that means, I just know that I have an idea in my head of what a 38 year old woman is, and that's not me. Except...stable career, married, couple of kids, house, lease, dog, cat - okay. Maybe. I also want to say "my life is not at all what I imagined it would be at 38," but that's not true either. The truth is that, while I full expected I'd be making fuckpiles more money than I currently am, I never pictured many details in my adult life beyond "married" and "kids". I got that going for me. So true, I've not published a book or jumped out of an airplane or traveled the world - YET - I'm really not doing bad for 38. Not by my personal standards, at least.
The truth is, I'm happy as a pig in shit with my boring little life. I have this fabulous man who loves me and made the most beautiful children with me and he is just the best daddy in the whole world and my boss thinks I'm awesome and my parents are the absolute best and my brother, well, I love my brother, and we have this great dog and cat and our jobs pay the bills and leave a little left over and we've got a house with good bones in a safe neighborhood and our girls will go to a decent school...I mean, what else is there, at 38? At any age? I'm not being facetious, or sarcastic - I'm thankful. I went to the doctor earlier this week for my annual health-insurance-required physical, and as she was filling out the form, the doc commented, "Your numbers are great, I wish all of our patients had these numbers." They were all in normal range. WTF? Seriously, so far, 38 is killing it.
I need to make some changes, though, if I'm going to live my best life. I've been doing a great job of focusing on self-care, of being more social, of reaching out to my friends more. I need to do better at home, truth be told. I still come home and spend too much time on my phone when I should be playing with my girls. I excuse myself by saying I'm tired or that I need to take just a few minutes for myself, to clear my brain, but it always becomes more than a few minutes and I end up letting them sit in front of the TV so I can scroll through the nonsense. I do need a few minutes for myself, to clear my brain, but social media sure isn't the answer to that. I can find better, less distracting outlets to clear the day from my mind so I can be a good mom. I'm typing this here because if I put it in writing then I'm acknowledging it and maybe I'll be more inclined to actually do something about it. Maybe. Probably.
I need new hobbies, or to focus on the ones I've tried to cultivate in the past. I have a partially-knitted scarf for Jimi in a bag hanging on the inside of the coat closet door in the living room. I started it 3 years ago, unraveled it when I fucked up a few rows, then began again this past winter. I'm maybe 8 inches into a 36 inch (minimum) scarf. I'll finish it one of these days. "I do what I want," is what I say when Jimi asks if I'll ever finish his scarf.
I also have a lot of garden spots in my yard that have been pretty much ignored since summer of 2015 when I planted the garden in the spot that was sunny in January but not-so-sunny in June. I moved in a few raised beds the summer after that, but their yield was mediocre and i think i was in the full throes of my personal version of postpartum funk by then - it was hard to give too many shits about too much of anything - If it wasn't easy, fuck it, it wasn't happening. There's something to be said for living that way, but you can't live that way and be a gardener, probably.
Hiking. I want to hike so much - I wish I could get into the wood every day. But it rains. Or it gets cold. Or it rained for the last 4 days, so all the trails are muddy washouts. Or it's in an area where they say you shouldn't hike alone as a female because there have been "incidents". For a city with so many parks and so many trails, it sure it difficult for me to find the right alignment of the stars to be able to get out into/onto them. It's frustrating. But the girls are bigger and bigger - I started taking them last year, and we'll do more, so much more, of that that this year. G has already asked when we're camping again. "Soon, baby," is what I tell her. Camping and hiking go hand in hand. My girls will love the woods and the outside at least as much as I do - hopefully more.
Camping - we're going to camp so much this year. Jimi and I have both missed it since the girls came along. I know it's possible to camp with babies and small children - for other people, it totally is. It wasn't for us. I mean, we could've survived it, but it was never going to be easy. Maybe that's because my brain chemistry was all fucked up so everything was hard, but whatever the reason, we've only camped a handful of times in the last five years and now our children are big enough to enjoy the great outdoors so we're going to go get all up in it this summer. It's good for the mind, body, and soul. I need it. I miss it so much.
I wish we had The Property to go to - my grandparents owned 20ish acres in Adair County Kentucky, we dubbed it The Property. When they bought it, there was no road leading to it - it was just a large field and a couple of hills and hollers back off a county road. Papaw mowed it and laid gravel and rebuilt the barn, and although there was no running water or electricity at first, it was the perfect campground. My mom's brother and sisters and their spouses and granny and papaw and their brothers and sisters would all drive out, pitch tents in a circle we'd call tent city, and the men would build a huge bonfire and sit around with their guitars, pickin' and grinnin' as they'd call it - singing songs old and new. It was Papaw's dreamland, and eventually they built a house on the land and moved there full time. He got 3 years or so there before he died. He was getting the soft dirt from under the treeline to add to his flowerbeds in front of the porch. Heart attack. Granny lived another 6 years. They sold the place after she died. I still keep some little fantasy in the back of my heart that one day I'll have the cash to walk up to the front door of that house and make the owners an offer they can't refuse - to move and leave The Property to me. Not that it's even that great of a house or land - but it's my childhood.
Roller skating. Bike riding. Reading. Giving myself a facial. Listening to music. Writing. And that's before I even dive into the mile-long list of mom-related things I should be doing to better the lives of my children. Not that they're wanting for anything at all, but you know how mom-guilt is - i could always improve, right?
I've got half a mind to do something drastic - like cut off my social media access completely. At least Twitter and Facebook - they are the main source of my time-suck.
I'm struggling with this social-media thing, can you tell? Like, a lot. The internet is the best and worst of all the things. Like parenting. And cheesecake.
I'm not making any promises or declarations tonight. I will promise to come back here and hash it out with myself a bit more at a later date, because frankly, I'm sick of talking about it and it's getting late and i need to get to bed.
Sweet dreams.
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
It's Tuesday. Here's what I think:
I'm so damned impressed by these kids in Florida. I hope they change the world. I'm trying to convince Jimi we need to go to Washington DC in March. I may just go by myself.
Arctic ice is melting. Russia totally fucked up our last election. More people died because someone's feelings were hurt. Are we great again?
So many complicated thoughts. So many things to worry about. My kids ate cupcakes at 8:30 tonight. WTF?
But. Mountain pose. Pay attention to your breath. Be in the moment. Calm. Steady.
It isn't all bad. There's Sheli and Dot. And Mom. And Jimi and those sweet babies who love you so much. And the puppy and the kitty. Life is sweet and good.
And Sheli made sables and I brought some home. I'm going to eat one now. One of the ones with strawberry jam, because those are amazeballs.
The world is really fucking scary. There are lots of bad things happening every day. Remember to look for the helpers.
Dot moved her momma into her home tonight. Her momma took a train all the way from Oregon to Chicago, then she and Dot's sister rented a car and drove down, but there were lots of roadblocks and hiccups along the way, so they arrived about 24 hours later than originally planned. But there was Dot, with a smile and a hug, and a warm healthy dinner, and a houseful of beloved friends, to welcome her momma home. She's a real helping helper. It warms my heart to think of her selflessness in this - the work she put into making sure her mom's room was just right, the details she watched. She's a good woman. I hope her momma can feel the love tonight.
Geneva did not get into the school we wanted her to get into. Knee jerk reaction from me is to look into private schools. I went to my 20 year high school reunion this past weekend, and I had a conversation with an old classmate of mine who is a teacher now. As I found myself in the middle of telling this woman that I think public schools aren't the best choice for my little angels, I realized I'm an asshole. This woman paid thousands and thousands of dollars to go to school for years and years so she could make a barely-livable wage to have the privilege of working in a public school. She's signed up to buy her own work supplies because her employer can't. These days, she's signed up to be an actual human shield should some gun-wielding nut decide to shoot up her school. And she does it happily, because teaching is what she loves. And there I was, saying that wasn't enough. What in the actual fuck, Natalie?
So. Maybe we're going to try out this public school thing. I won't lie, these kids in Florida give me great hope for our future. They are starting a movement. If the Russian trolls are against you, I'm with you. And I'm thinking - if I can find the money for private school, why can't I find that same money to donate to my child's public school? Why can't I help boost their resources, literally put my money where my mouth is? Maybe I can talk to some people and get them to feel the same way. Maybe we can start a thing. Maybe.
I went on a tear this weekend - I believe the issue of school shootings is absolutely a gun issue, BUT, if you don't, that's cool. If it's an education thing, let's fund the shit out of our public schools and give teachers and counselors the tools they need to educate and support and guide our children. If it's a mental health thing, let's fund health programs and make mental health services readily available for everyone. If it's a parenting issue, let's fund family leave policies so parents can attend to the individual needs of their children without fear of losing their jobs and/or going bankrupt.
There has to be an answer. If we are the greatest nation on Earth, we can find a way to stop these massacres. Doing nothing is not an answer, and it's not okay. I think we're seeing the beginning of a movement that will make something happen. I have hope.
When Trump was elected, my Daddy told me, "The US has survived things far worse than Donald Trump." True. But he's still pretty fucking bad. The indictments that came out this past weekend show that Russia was actively working to get him elected because they believe that was literally the best way they could hurt America. Our sitting President was elected by people swayed by Russians trying to harm our country. That's a pretty fucking big deal.
I'm waiting for the leaders to emerge - the ones who lead the charge of infuriated and outraged Americans who demand justice for our democracy. Surely we have elected someone to a higher office who is up to this task?
Arctic ice is melting. Russia totally fucked up our last election. More people died because someone's feelings were hurt. Are we great again?
So many complicated thoughts. So many things to worry about. My kids ate cupcakes at 8:30 tonight. WTF?
But. Mountain pose. Pay attention to your breath. Be in the moment. Calm. Steady.
It isn't all bad. There's Sheli and Dot. And Mom. And Jimi and those sweet babies who love you so much. And the puppy and the kitty. Life is sweet and good.
And Sheli made sables and I brought some home. I'm going to eat one now. One of the ones with strawberry jam, because those are amazeballs.
The world is really fucking scary. There are lots of bad things happening every day. Remember to look for the helpers.
Dot moved her momma into her home tonight. Her momma took a train all the way from Oregon to Chicago, then she and Dot's sister rented a car and drove down, but there were lots of roadblocks and hiccups along the way, so they arrived about 24 hours later than originally planned. But there was Dot, with a smile and a hug, and a warm healthy dinner, and a houseful of beloved friends, to welcome her momma home. She's a real helping helper. It warms my heart to think of her selflessness in this - the work she put into making sure her mom's room was just right, the details she watched. She's a good woman. I hope her momma can feel the love tonight.
Geneva did not get into the school we wanted her to get into. Knee jerk reaction from me is to look into private schools. I went to my 20 year high school reunion this past weekend, and I had a conversation with an old classmate of mine who is a teacher now. As I found myself in the middle of telling this woman that I think public schools aren't the best choice for my little angels, I realized I'm an asshole. This woman paid thousands and thousands of dollars to go to school for years and years so she could make a barely-livable wage to have the privilege of working in a public school. She's signed up to buy her own work supplies because her employer can't. These days, she's signed up to be an actual human shield should some gun-wielding nut decide to shoot up her school. And she does it happily, because teaching is what she loves. And there I was, saying that wasn't enough. What in the actual fuck, Natalie?
So. Maybe we're going to try out this public school thing. I won't lie, these kids in Florida give me great hope for our future. They are starting a movement. If the Russian trolls are against you, I'm with you. And I'm thinking - if I can find the money for private school, why can't I find that same money to donate to my child's public school? Why can't I help boost their resources, literally put my money where my mouth is? Maybe I can talk to some people and get them to feel the same way. Maybe we can start a thing. Maybe.
I went on a tear this weekend - I believe the issue of school shootings is absolutely a gun issue, BUT, if you don't, that's cool. If it's an education thing, let's fund the shit out of our public schools and give teachers and counselors the tools they need to educate and support and guide our children. If it's a mental health thing, let's fund health programs and make mental health services readily available for everyone. If it's a parenting issue, let's fund family leave policies so parents can attend to the individual needs of their children without fear of losing their jobs and/or going bankrupt.
There has to be an answer. If we are the greatest nation on Earth, we can find a way to stop these massacres. Doing nothing is not an answer, and it's not okay. I think we're seeing the beginning of a movement that will make something happen. I have hope.
When Trump was elected, my Daddy told me, "The US has survived things far worse than Donald Trump." True. But he's still pretty fucking bad. The indictments that came out this past weekend show that Russia was actively working to get him elected because they believe that was literally the best way they could hurt America. Our sitting President was elected by people swayed by Russians trying to harm our country. That's a pretty fucking big deal.
I'm waiting for the leaders to emerge - the ones who lead the charge of infuriated and outraged Americans who demand justice for our democracy. Surely we have elected someone to a higher office who is up to this task?
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Catholic huh?
Catholic education is the topic tonight. Catholics. Catholicism. The Church.
I don't want to send my kids to Catholic school because I don't want them to be indoctrinated into the Catholic faith.
I've grown up thinking that the Catholic church is a sham that turns its back on people in their time of need.
I think that because I was told, I think, that when my Dad's Dad died, when my dad was 14 and his youngest sister was 9 months old and there were 5 kids in between the two of them and suddenly Mamaw found herself alone with 7 kids, she went to the Church to ask for some help, because JFC she probably legit needed some help. I heard she didn't get it. That my dad left the Church because of that.
Cool. Not cool, but okay. I get it.
Tonight, discussing Geneva's kindergarten school placement - she didn't get into our first choice, but got into our second choice which was only our second choice because it was the best ranked school in our cluster at a 5 out of 10 - the other 5 schools we could've chosen were 2s and 3s out of 10. This is the education system in America, folks. If you don't live in the rich neighborhood, you can choose between mediocre, okay, or absolute shit when it comes to your kids' public school options. W00t.
We've thrown out there for discussion the topic of private school because, well, we can't home school and because our public school options were collectively not great. But we don't have private school money, truth be told. We're already stretched paying more than our mortgage each month for daycare for 2 kids - daycare plus private school tuition is more than daycare for two kids and we spent 13K on daycare in 2017. Still, education. It's important. A big damned deal.
I asked my Dad tonight for his opinion on Catholic Schools. He shocked me when he said, "If you can afford it, I think it's the best choice. I don't think they could get a better education."
WTF, Dad? I'm confused.
He went further, "It's a deep topic and we should talk about it alone another time." The girls were both on his lap, as he sat in his recliner. "I think it's the one true Church. But the Church and the people, those are different..."
Mind. Blown.
I'm so confused.
This will definitely have to be continued. I wish I could call him now and be like, so, um, talk to me yo. Not tonight, though. Soon.
I don't want to send my kids to Catholic school because I don't want them to be indoctrinated into the Catholic faith.
I've grown up thinking that the Catholic church is a sham that turns its back on people in their time of need.
I think that because I was told, I think, that when my Dad's Dad died, when my dad was 14 and his youngest sister was 9 months old and there were 5 kids in between the two of them and suddenly Mamaw found herself alone with 7 kids, she went to the Church to ask for some help, because JFC she probably legit needed some help. I heard she didn't get it. That my dad left the Church because of that.
Cool. Not cool, but okay. I get it.
Tonight, discussing Geneva's kindergarten school placement - she didn't get into our first choice, but got into our second choice which was only our second choice because it was the best ranked school in our cluster at a 5 out of 10 - the other 5 schools we could've chosen were 2s and 3s out of 10. This is the education system in America, folks. If you don't live in the rich neighborhood, you can choose between mediocre, okay, or absolute shit when it comes to your kids' public school options. W00t.
We've thrown out there for discussion the topic of private school because, well, we can't home school and because our public school options were collectively not great. But we don't have private school money, truth be told. We're already stretched paying more than our mortgage each month for daycare for 2 kids - daycare plus private school tuition is more than daycare for two kids and we spent 13K on daycare in 2017. Still, education. It's important. A big damned deal.
I asked my Dad tonight for his opinion on Catholic Schools. He shocked me when he said, "If you can afford it, I think it's the best choice. I don't think they could get a better education."
WTF, Dad? I'm confused.
He went further, "It's a deep topic and we should talk about it alone another time." The girls were both on his lap, as he sat in his recliner. "I think it's the one true Church. But the Church and the people, those are different..."
Mind. Blown.
I'm so confused.
This will definitely have to be continued. I wish I could call him now and be like, so, um, talk to me yo. Not tonight, though. Soon.
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