It's a romantic ideal I have that Josh and I would spend a day at home, not working and just basking in the deep well of love that we share. Instead, a work-free day goes more like this:
8:16 AM: Josh wakes up, pretending to be mildly perturbed that he slept "too late" and telling me he was actually lying awake in bed from 5:30 AM on, a fact I know to be untrue since I woke up at 7:37 and saw him snoring and realized I could keep sleeping some more, guilt-free.
8:37 AM: Liv struggles out of bed and is on her way to start the coffee, gets sidetracked by re-instructing Dagny that morning potty goes outside and chasing Emmy and Penny out of the bathroom three times while she tries to remember why she's in there. Oh yeah, thyroid medicine.
8:44 AM: while still unsuccessfully making her way to the coffee pot, Liv gets distracted yet again by several Immediately Pressing Messes. Like a paper towel with toast crumbs and several dried-green paint brushes in the sink. Josh hops up from his first 28 minutes on his computer and demands to know why Liv is so business oriented and is cleaning things up this early. Liv explains that she is trying to make coffee but keeps getting disoriented, and why didn't he facilitate the coffee consumption sooner. Josh protests that coffee making is not his job, Liv makes offhanded snarky comment about doing many "jobs" that she doesn't like, Josh takes offense and starts rattling off the hardships of his life. Liv finally makes coffee while pretending to listen.
9:11 AM: Josh is mercifully back on his computer and Liv is sulking on the couch with coffee and two dogs that she would rather were not sitting on her keyboard. Liv makes offhanded snarky comment about Josh's priorities being askew, which instantly engages a Battle Of The Ages that successfully removes both dogs from her keyboard and Josh from his laptop. Liv wins Battle Of The Ages by being correct 100% of the time and Josh is ashamed and says they should go out to lunch. Liv points out that lunch isn't served at 10:23 AM (time lapse allowed for Battle Of The Ages) and Josh gets pouty.
10:29 AM: Liv tells Josh to get guns and we will go shooting. Josh instantly perks up.
10:47 AM: Josh finally has all 6 guns, two ammo bags, zombie targets, ear protection, safety glasses and high protein energy snacks packed in the car. We are ready. We go drop an ink cartridge at Middlesworth's and some groceries at the Whitebird and discover that the reverse gear on the Mini Cooper has abdicated it's post and the car will only go forward. At all. Forever. Josh sees this as a karmic punishment from God for losing The Battle Of The Ages and blames Liv. Now in addition to a deer dent, two sets of bad brakes and a blown compressor on the Denali, we have no reverse. God is good. We were just saying how much we'd like to stay home more. All of the time. Forever.
10:56.0005 AM: The Mustang Grill understandingly serves Josh lunch.
11:32 AM: A fruitless search for a "shooting range" results in Josh pushing the Mini Cooper backwards in lieu of reverse no less than 6 times, while Liv reminds him that this displaces his guilt for not having a weight lifting routine, and they give up and go home, parking carefully pointed outward.
11: 49 AM: Josh is back on his laptop, Liv is sulking on Facebook, Emmy has experienced some gastrointestinal trauma that results in toxic gaseous emissions, aaaaaand it's nap time.
Things About Humor
I don't feel funny today. Not even a little bit. Maybe it's because I have a teeny headache right in the space between my eyes and my ears. Maybe it's because I don't have any cream in my coffee (which is ALWAYS a bad idea). My buddy was talking about how cream in her coffee makes her a nicer person, one that her family likes better, and I have to agree (I mean for myself, not you, girl - you're ALWAYS nice). Either way, I don't feel funny. I had a funny weekend. Really a hilarious weekend. One that started on Thursday morning in a cataclysmic fight with my Adorable Husband and careened wantonly into Monday with two sets of destroyed break pads on the road weary, kid weary, dog weary, work weary Denali. Poor old beast. Reminds me of me.
Sandwiched between these two life-and-budget altering events, we also tested the durability of the Mini Cooper against an oversized whitetail doe, with surprising, however expensive, results. We took 3 kids and 4 dogs camping across the state, the long way, because Google Maps prides itself on creative plotting and wanted us to take a tour of Diablo Dam and the phenomenal Washington Pass, which happens to be the northernmost paved pass in Washington state and also almost two hours out of our way. During this camping trip Truck didn't bite anybody, nephew Judah adopted himself into at least three extended family groups for family photos at the family reunion (that's a lot of family) and Aspen didn't change her clothes or brush her teeth once. I returned her to her dad's house in much the same manner I usually receive her.
The "Camping Trip" was actually a family reunion. The every-other-year opportunity to hang out in the dirt with my dad's brothers and wives, their kids, and their kids's kids. The adults were severely outnumbered by Children Nine and Under, which made the whole event that much dirtier. To be honest, there is something almost magical, in a grubby kind of way, of realizing that I am sharing the same blood and heritage with 50+ people in the campground, and to see flashes of my Grandma Audrey's face in my cousins, and reflections of my dad's awesome sense of humor in dozens of other people. These are my people. And with all of our very extreme differences, we are the same. It's an awesome thing, to know where you come from, and to bask in it, ever so briefly. I really, truly feel a sense of sadness for the ones who do not have what I have in my extended family, on both sides. I feel blessed and privileged to be a part of so many good, crazy, different people, and share the solidarity of common blood and history. I am proud to call them all my family. Except maybe Aspen, by Sunday morning, when her hair was matted and her face matched the path to the campfire.
We decided to go the "right way" home, which worked out great. We started up Steven's Pass and shortly after we stopped at Mt. Index Coffee to take pictures with Bigfoot, Penny pooped in the back of the car. Then we came up on a wreck that had Just Happened. A jeep sat on it's roof at the base of a rock wall. Several people were standing around, none of them with any kind of useful looking skills, so we jumped out, and discerned that there was one occupant trapped in the car. Before the information was fully digested, my Superhero Husband was in the upside down Jeep with the elderly gentleman, while I was trying to put the pieces together from the three grandsons that had been in the vehicle with him when it rolled. Apparently he passed out at the wheel, possible due to some medical issue. The boys were all ok, as was one of the dogs (a dachshund, incidentally), but one of the dogs had bolted as soon as they got out of the wreck and was nowhere to be found. The man inside the Jeep was in and out of consciousness (either from the blood rush to the head or a pre-existing medical condition), and hanging by his seatbelt, but otherwise seemed to be unharmed. To the Jeep's credit, for a pretty rough wreck, there was almost no intrusion into the driver's compartment and the roll cage undoubtedly saved all four lives that day. As well as seat belts. Always. Wear. Your. Seatbelt. It took more than 30 minutes for aid to arrive, and by that time, Josh, me and some other random EMTs that had showed up, including one from Wyoming with real EMS gear, had mostly extricated the man from his trap in the upside down Jeep. This involved Josh squishing himself into the upside down passenger seat and leveraging the man under the headrests to us to slide up a backboard and out the back door. It was tricky. It was successful, and Josh was awesome. After we saved the world, we continued home, and took another questionable turn which may or may not have added a few extra miles to the trek. Stupid Google Maps.
The wreck on Steven's pass was definitely more rewarding that our wreck on Thursday morning, which involved a Large Female Deer T-Boning the side of our Mini. I am not sure who was going faster, the deer or us, but we won, and in spite of an ugly looking fender and smashed headlight (which STILL WORKS!) the mini was still in full operating condition. I was surprised how well the little thing held up. Josh was still recovering from our Epic Battle Of Wills that morning and I think he viewed the deer as karmic justice for my misbehavior, since I was driving (too fast as always), even though the burden of the insurance deductible rested squarely on his Broad, Handsome and Totally Capable Shoulders. As if that wasn't enough of an unexpected expense, by Monday morning, after grinding our way down Sherman pass for the fourth time that week, both front and rear brakes went out on the Denali. By out I mean metal on metal, nothin' to grab on to, out. Hello $600 repair! But the little change of events in the day gave us a chance to go see World War Z at the illustrious Alpine Theater. It was good to get my zombie fix, since Walking Dead Season 3 STILL isn't on Netflix.
Anyway, here we are, it's Tuesday morning, and in spite of all of the comedic drama this weekend, I still don't feel funny. I guess I should go get some cream for my coffee, take a nap, and try again.
So I will leave you with a picture of a banana slug....
Sandwiched between these two life-and-budget altering events, we also tested the durability of the Mini Cooper against an oversized whitetail doe, with surprising, however expensive, results. We took 3 kids and 4 dogs camping across the state, the long way, because Google Maps prides itself on creative plotting and wanted us to take a tour of Diablo Dam and the phenomenal Washington Pass, which happens to be the northernmost paved pass in Washington state and also almost two hours out of our way. During this camping trip Truck didn't bite anybody, nephew Judah adopted himself into at least three extended family groups for family photos at the family reunion (that's a lot of family) and Aspen didn't change her clothes or brush her teeth once. I returned her to her dad's house in much the same manner I usually receive her.
The "Camping Trip" was actually a family reunion. The every-other-year opportunity to hang out in the dirt with my dad's brothers and wives, their kids, and their kids's kids. The adults were severely outnumbered by Children Nine and Under, which made the whole event that much dirtier. To be honest, there is something almost magical, in a grubby kind of way, of realizing that I am sharing the same blood and heritage with 50+ people in the campground, and to see flashes of my Grandma Audrey's face in my cousins, and reflections of my dad's awesome sense of humor in dozens of other people. These are my people. And with all of our very extreme differences, we are the same. It's an awesome thing, to know where you come from, and to bask in it, ever so briefly. I really, truly feel a sense of sadness for the ones who do not have what I have in my extended family, on both sides. I feel blessed and privileged to be a part of so many good, crazy, different people, and share the solidarity of common blood and history. I am proud to call them all my family. Except maybe Aspen, by Sunday morning, when her hair was matted and her face matched the path to the campfire.
The wreck on Steven's pass was definitely more rewarding that our wreck on Thursday morning, which involved a Large Female Deer T-Boning the side of our Mini. I am not sure who was going faster, the deer or us, but we won, and in spite of an ugly looking fender and smashed headlight (which STILL WORKS!) the mini was still in full operating condition. I was surprised how well the little thing held up. Josh was still recovering from our Epic Battle Of Wills that morning and I think he viewed the deer as karmic justice for my misbehavior, since I was driving (too fast as always), even though the burden of the insurance deductible rested squarely on his Broad, Handsome and Totally Capable Shoulders. As if that wasn't enough of an unexpected expense, by Monday morning, after grinding our way down Sherman pass for the fourth time that week, both front and rear brakes went out on the Denali. By out I mean metal on metal, nothin' to grab on to, out. Hello $600 repair! But the little change of events in the day gave us a chance to go see World War Z at the illustrious Alpine Theater. It was good to get my zombie fix, since Walking Dead Season 3 STILL isn't on Netflix.Anyway, here we are, it's Tuesday morning, and in spite of all of the comedic drama this weekend, I still don't feel funny. I guess I should go get some cream for my coffee, take a nap, and try again.
So I will leave you with a picture of a banana slug....
Things That I Don't Get
Life isn't fair.
Of all of the lessons that my parents taught me, including The Best Places to Hide Spanking Spoons, Guaranteed Ways to Get to Watch a Movie, and How To Thoroughly Clean A Bedroom, this is the one that stands out as the most useful and definitely, most often applied: Life Is Not Fair.
You do not get what you deserve in life. You get what you need to become the person you are supposed to be. You get what you want sometimes, if you work hard AND you are lucky. You get things that you definitely DON'T deserve and didn't even know you want sometimes just because Life Isn't Fair. This principle applies both ways, which is something I am thankful for every single day. If life was fair, my life would probably look much different. There's a strong possibility that I wouldn't even exist at all since I am not sure what my parents did so badly in their lives to deserve me. I wouldn't have four gorgeous, healthy, mostly sane children. I wouldn't have a million family members and friends who still speak to me and love me for totally unmerited reasons. I wouldn't have a Man at my beck and call that I drive crazy but is hell bent on taking care of me and my crazy babies.
Bad People have good luck. Good People get the most horrible hands imaginable dealt to them. Innocents suffer and evil people thrive. There is no sense to how and why things happen, but as I watch with frustration the world is upended one town at a time by tragedy and mayhem and sickness of every kind. And all I can do is be thankful that Life Is Not Fair. That I am here, safe, with my family. Happy. In need of nothing. With the liberty to do things that some people can only imagine, whether they are constrained by physical limitations, social, political, philosophical or even mental, I have the capacity to do almost anything I can dream up. I am lucky.
Maybe this talk is all to remind myself that a little bit of pain, or not getting my way every once in awhile, is a ridiculously small amount of trouble in a ridiculously great life. Mostly I think I say these things because I get ticked off when bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people and the world gets all turned upside down and backwards. But I have to remember that if life was fair, I would be in a world of hurt. All I can do is try to share my good luck with as many people as I can.
If you would like more information about Where To Hide Spanking Spoons, How To Thoroughly Clean A Bedroom or Guaranteed Ways to Get To Watch a Movie, please contact me.
Of all of the lessons that my parents taught me, including The Best Places to Hide Spanking Spoons, Guaranteed Ways to Get to Watch a Movie, and How To Thoroughly Clean A Bedroom, this is the one that stands out as the most useful and definitely, most often applied: Life Is Not Fair.
You do not get what you deserve in life. You get what you need to become the person you are supposed to be. You get what you want sometimes, if you work hard AND you are lucky. You get things that you definitely DON'T deserve and didn't even know you want sometimes just because Life Isn't Fair. This principle applies both ways, which is something I am thankful for every single day. If life was fair, my life would probably look much different. There's a strong possibility that I wouldn't even exist at all since I am not sure what my parents did so badly in their lives to deserve me. I wouldn't have four gorgeous, healthy, mostly sane children. I wouldn't have a million family members and friends who still speak to me and love me for totally unmerited reasons. I wouldn't have a Man at my beck and call that I drive crazy but is hell bent on taking care of me and my crazy babies.
Bad People have good luck. Good People get the most horrible hands imaginable dealt to them. Innocents suffer and evil people thrive. There is no sense to how and why things happen, but as I watch with frustration the world is upended one town at a time by tragedy and mayhem and sickness of every kind. And all I can do is be thankful that Life Is Not Fair. That I am here, safe, with my family. Happy. In need of nothing. With the liberty to do things that some people can only imagine, whether they are constrained by physical limitations, social, political, philosophical or even mental, I have the capacity to do almost anything I can dream up. I am lucky.
Maybe this talk is all to remind myself that a little bit of pain, or not getting my way every once in awhile, is a ridiculously small amount of trouble in a ridiculously great life. Mostly I think I say these things because I get ticked off when bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people and the world gets all turned upside down and backwards. But I have to remember that if life was fair, I would be in a world of hurt. All I can do is try to share my good luck with as many people as I can.
If you would like more information about Where To Hide Spanking Spoons, How To Thoroughly Clean A Bedroom or Guaranteed Ways to Get To Watch a Movie, please contact me.
Things To Come To Terms With
I'll admit I have been a little bit melancholy lately. I put on a brave face and say really ridiculous things out loud to cover the shades of sadness that threaten my sunshiny days. Because really, nothing is that bad. And we have so much to be thankful for, to be weighed down by the silly, unimportant things is a waste of a very short life. But maybe sometimes getting all of the gloomy things out of your head and into the heads of other people helps to disperse the burden. "I'd give all my pain to you..." Something like that. Yes, this morning I began listening to TAB. Real TAB. Old school, not on the radio, heavy on the banjo TAB. And I think about things that I can't change. Things like:
My dog eats flip flops. Even my favorite flip flops. And judging by the taste of the kisses she just gave me, she eats poop as well. Now I probably have worms.
Seth Avett is no longer married to his January Wedding bride. Somehow if an Avett brother gets divorced it's way sadder than your average Joe divorce. Maybe he should've worked that 9-5 for her. I feel like this makes Scott sad, because at least for the moment, my illusion has shifted it's entire weight to Scott's somewhat slight shoulders, and he needs to be dedicated enough for all of us. I just want his life to be true. It gives me hope.
The cream in my refrigerator is curdled.
I gained 5 pounds last week.
I can't be with my Favorite Boy Every Minute of the Day, Every Day of the Month, Every Month of the Year. We're apart about 95% more than I would like to be.
My pain is getting worse.
I still can't speak Russian.
I need to apply myself to something.
It's all so overwhelming that just getting it out there makes me want to take a nap. But napping is not going to solve all the world's problems, unlike sitting here and hashing through them on my keyboard as though I was typing out a prescription for world peace and happiness.
Really, all of the things wrong in the world are so subjective. It's sad to me that I have curdled cream in my refrigerator, more so than the disappointment of the Disney enthusiast that missed a fast pass window for Indiana Jones. But how does a two hour wait for a ride, or chunky coffee, equate to a child in another world who goes without water today, or is sold for sexual uses to the highest bidder, or burdened with feeding 5 younger siblings and sick parents. What's profoundly amazing to me is that the people suffering in these worlds have known little else, and the relative scale of their suffering is based only on their own experience. That's what struck me so profoundly in Uganda - the unmarred happiness of children who had no idea that they were suffering. We know they are suffering. For heaven's sake, most of them have been deprived of any knowledge of Disneyland, much less visited it. We know that they should have 3.2 liters of clean spring water to drink a day. That they should have a warm shower and shoes on their feet. We know that they shouldn't deal with hearing loss from chronic and easily treated ear infections, or daily pain from easily remedied illnesses. But they have never known anything else. There is no way to equate our worlds. None. But I am not entirely convinced that we are the ones that are better off. Healthier, yes. Fatter, yes. More comfortable, I suppose, but we are so Keenly Aware of our own comfort that it is never enough. So intent on our own gratification that we never taste gratification. There is always more that we can have, do, feel. That is why we are driven. And why they are content with so little. They have nothing to be sad about because they don't know what they are missing. They don't have addictive un-necessities rubbed in their faces on TV 24/7, and even at school, on their phones, their computers - because they don't have them. They don't send a text to tell someone they care. They walk 17 miles barefoot to communicate the message.
Why I am rambling incoherently today is beyond me. I think after a few days in California, my resolve to have less, do less and to be more is steeled. I never want commercial television in my home. I don't want my kids on the internet if they aren't gaining purposeful knowledge and expanding themselves positively as humans, which doesn't involve gaming skills or adding Facebook Friends. I am the guiltiest of all sinners in this spoiled culture. I have eaten greedily from the fat hand. I like to be comfortable, to have pretty things around me that I like. To be noticed and admired... Humans are complex animals. We have so much to learn, and unlearn, to make the most of this brief space in time we occupy. I think that the realization that I have everything that I could want, everything imaginable to make me comfortable and happy, but I am still in A LOT of pain every day it makes me rethink the "value" of things that we have pursued. I can't escape the physical hurt any more than one of those kids in Uganda that can't get an antibiotic. At least I have hope that I will someday... And them? I think I need a nap from all of this.
My dog eats flip flops. Even my favorite flip flops. And judging by the taste of the kisses she just gave me, she eats poop as well. Now I probably have worms.
Seth Avett is no longer married to his January Wedding bride. Somehow if an Avett brother gets divorced it's way sadder than your average Joe divorce. Maybe he should've worked that 9-5 for her. I feel like this makes Scott sad, because at least for the moment, my illusion has shifted it's entire weight to Scott's somewhat slight shoulders, and he needs to be dedicated enough for all of us. I just want his life to be true. It gives me hope.
The cream in my refrigerator is curdled.
I gained 5 pounds last week.
I can't be with my Favorite Boy Every Minute of the Day, Every Day of the Month, Every Month of the Year. We're apart about 95% more than I would like to be.
My pain is getting worse.
I still can't speak Russian.
I need to apply myself to something.
It's all so overwhelming that just getting it out there makes me want to take a nap. But napping is not going to solve all the world's problems, unlike sitting here and hashing through them on my keyboard as though I was typing out a prescription for world peace and happiness.
Really, all of the things wrong in the world are so subjective. It's sad to me that I have curdled cream in my refrigerator, more so than the disappointment of the Disney enthusiast that missed a fast pass window for Indiana Jones. But how does a two hour wait for a ride, or chunky coffee, equate to a child in another world who goes without water today, or is sold for sexual uses to the highest bidder, or burdened with feeding 5 younger siblings and sick parents. What's profoundly amazing to me is that the people suffering in these worlds have known little else, and the relative scale of their suffering is based only on their own experience. That's what struck me so profoundly in Uganda - the unmarred happiness of children who had no idea that they were suffering. We know they are suffering. For heaven's sake, most of them have been deprived of any knowledge of Disneyland, much less visited it. We know that they should have 3.2 liters of clean spring water to drink a day. That they should have a warm shower and shoes on their feet. We know that they shouldn't deal with hearing loss from chronic and easily treated ear infections, or daily pain from easily remedied illnesses. But they have never known anything else. There is no way to equate our worlds. None. But I am not entirely convinced that we are the ones that are better off. Healthier, yes. Fatter, yes. More comfortable, I suppose, but we are so Keenly Aware of our own comfort that it is never enough. So intent on our own gratification that we never taste gratification. There is always more that we can have, do, feel. That is why we are driven. And why they are content with so little. They have nothing to be sad about because they don't know what they are missing. They don't have addictive un-necessities rubbed in their faces on TV 24/7, and even at school, on their phones, their computers - because they don't have them. They don't send a text to tell someone they care. They walk 17 miles barefoot to communicate the message.
Why I am rambling incoherently today is beyond me. I think after a few days in California, my resolve to have less, do less and to be more is steeled. I never want commercial television in my home. I don't want my kids on the internet if they aren't gaining purposeful knowledge and expanding themselves positively as humans, which doesn't involve gaming skills or adding Facebook Friends. I am the guiltiest of all sinners in this spoiled culture. I have eaten greedily from the fat hand. I like to be comfortable, to have pretty things around me that I like. To be noticed and admired... Humans are complex animals. We have so much to learn, and unlearn, to make the most of this brief space in time we occupy. I think that the realization that I have everything that I could want, everything imaginable to make me comfortable and happy, but I am still in A LOT of pain every day it makes me rethink the "value" of things that we have pursued. I can't escape the physical hurt any more than one of those kids in Uganda that can't get an antibiotic. At least I have hope that I will someday... And them? I think I need a nap from all of this.
I went on a search for something real...
Things About Traveling
1. Nine Year Olds and Continental Breakfasts
When putting carefully selected bagels, toast or other bread-type items on a rotating toaster, don't plan on getting the same items back on the other side when a 9 year old is present. All toasted items dropping into the bottom pan are fair game, as well as the cream cheese and plate you had waiting for your carefully selected bread-type items.
Sneeze guards on piles of already peeled hard boiled eggs work well except for when the nine year old sneezed directly into the opening on the sneeze guard over the pile of eggs. Just refrain from eating already peeled hardboiled eggs at a continental breakfast anyway.
Chances are good that every muffin, cheese cube and danish has been touch-tested for appropriate firmness, moisture content and density by nine year old, recently sneezed on, fingers.
If you can't figure out how to work the milk machine, just drink half and half out of the tiny baby cups by the coffee. Sometimes they are warm, but it's not too terrible.
2. Traveling With a Nine Year Old Physical Agility Requirements
Plan on carrying at least an extra thirty pounds of carry on luggage, not including the iPad packed solely for entertainment purposes, the 23 bags of various and assorted snacks, two large water bottles (one was originally in her bag, but made it too heavy) and a good supply of Benadryl and dramamine for sedation purposes. In addition to your own necessary items, including some herbal version of a poor substitute for Valium, several small flasks of whiskey and for last resort, sleeping pills, you will be asked to carry her Sudoku Jr book, her My little Pony word find notebook, and both the pencil with the lead and the one with the eraser (since pencils apparently don't come with both any more), three contraband calico critters that were NOT supposed to be on the trip at all, and of course, the sweatshirt that is TOO HEAVY to carry but will be desperately needed later when temperatures in Southern California drop to below freezing and she shivers better than an insecure baby wiener dog. Don't forget to allow space for the accumulation of souvenirs as the journey progresses - giant leaves collected off of the ground, stuffed Donald Ducks of every imaginable size, and about 40 packages of honey roasted airplane peanuts.
I recommend the same training for this type of travel as I do for the wildland pack test - a 30-40 lb pack of evenly distributed dead weight over semi rough terrain for at least 3 miles a day, or in inclement weather, a good 45 minutes on an elliptical. Not that I did this training, but I feel like I must have, otherwise how did I survive 4 days of California with a nine year old.
3. Sharing a Hotel Bed With a Nine Year Old
First of all I would just like to say: Don't.
If you must, spend the first night watching which side the nine year old spends the majority of the night facing, and orient yourself on the opposite side for all following nights.
I recommend acquiring a pair of padded hip and thigh hockey or football pants for sleeping in, unless you are good at sleeping on your side with your knees pointed protectively toward offensively thrashing nine year old, sleeping feet.
Cut off all food sources to the nine year old at least 24 hours before sharing a bed with them. This makes projectile vomiting onto your pillow less likely to occur.
Do not fall comfortably asleep at any point of the night when sharing a bed with a 9 year old, as this seems to be the impetus for projectile vomiting onto your pillow.
If the nine year old starts talking in her sleep, get out. Now.
Regardless of how many times the restless nine year old trades you pillows in her sleep, YOUR pillow will still be the preferable target for all projectile vomiting.
Feeding nine year olds at Disneyland, or anywhere within a hundred mile radius, is a bad idea. So is pepperoni, black olive and pineapple pizza. Especially when it is running in fluid form off of your pillow. Papa John's may be ruined forever for me, which is saying a lot.
Lastly:
4. Coming Home
The worst thing I can imagine coming home to would be something like my house being burned down, and all of my dogs dead, or the coffee cream completely curdled.
Coming home to a house that smells like a petting zoo, three pairs of chewed flip flops, and sheets that have clearly been the rolling spot of choice for muddy Cocker Spaniels for a week, really isn't that bad. My Wonderful Boy was even smart enough to leave the filled-but-dirty dishwasher and clothes washer open so they didn't encapsulate wonderful smells for me to enjoy when I opened them upon my return. The sheer volume of destroyed property from a 10 month old dachshund and her cohorts who were left alone during the 4th of July holiday and all of it's anxiety causing noise was impressive. Even for Dagny. To cap off her welcome home celebration she got up sometime during the night while I was finally enjoying the unparanoid sleep that didn't involve a nine year old and ate one of my new Sanuk Flip Flops. How can she be so cute and so bad all at once? Kind of like the nine year old.
PS - A few traveling tips for Disneyland victims : there is NO good coffee in Disneyland. There is also no alcohol. California Adventure has both, but it's a long walk. The Disneyland train will kick you off after a full circle. But you can ride the monorail forever. It also has tinted windows and makes you harder to spot for searching family members. Elbows, Stroller Wheels and Wheel Chairs are all permissible weapons in Disneyland. I recommend the acquisition and use of any or all. And corndogs. The corndogs make it all worthwhile.
Things That I Know
Because everything can't be PERFECT. There has to be just one little something all the time that is not ok. But it's so ridiculously silly to focus on the one little thing when everything else is Just Right. I have my boy home. He got in around one AM and that means he has now been in Northport for the longest consecutive timelapse since his introduction to the place. And Penny, who must have been sick, since she threw up on the porch yesterday and wouldn't eat her dinner, was doing the caddillac dance this morning and seems to be ok. And we had a fight about money that wasn't Very Big, with voices only slightly elevated and no severe name calling. I am not sure who won, but maybe we decided since this was our first day off in pretty much forever, it really wasn't worth it. Although I have the sneaking suspicion that he might be making spreadsheets on his lap top at this very moment that he plans to present to me as proof of his correctness. Which is ludicrous since everyone knows that I do not speak spreadsheet. I supposed one would assume this slight disagreement is the little something that is wrong with today, but in my mind, a Healthy Discussion with a loved one is never a bad thing. It means that you are dedicated to working on your relationship. Forcefully if necessary.
It is getting hot outside, and if I weren't on the couch in sweatpants, writhing in pain (the one small thing that IS wrong with today), I would probably be laying on a blanket out in the sun, baking myself. It would be much more pleasant if I had a cranberry-lemonade-vodka, which I am not sure anyone has ever invented but I just thought of, so must be brilliant, and big slices of watermelon to look at, since I don't really like the way it tastes. I need to make jam with some strawberries I procured, but standing upright just isn't in the picture today. But tomorrow. Maybe.
It is getting hot outside, and if I weren't on the couch in sweatpants, writhing in pain (the one small thing that IS wrong with today), I would probably be laying on a blanket out in the sun, baking myself. It would be much more pleasant if I had a cranberry-lemonade-vodka, which I am not sure anyone has ever invented but I just thought of, so must be brilliant, and big slices of watermelon to look at, since I don't really like the way it tastes. I need to make jam with some strawberries I procured, but standing upright just isn't in the picture today. But tomorrow. Maybe.
Things That I Can Justify
When I said I didn't believe in eating dessert alone, I never considered the option of eating dessert for breakfast, therefore eliminating the danger of secret and self indulgent hedonism in the darkness of a quiet house. In the light of day, it seems quite alright.
You know that moment RIGHT before you start your period when anything within line of sight that you can't eat, you would just as soon kill, even coffee is not doing it's job, the wiener dog baby isn't cute anymore and everything is just UGLY and STUPID, especially male things? Yes. It's amazing how many things become ok during that moment. Like changing outfits 8 times, leaving all of the clothes on the floor and putting sweatpants back on. This moment of time isn't one for making major life decisions, answering the phone call of an unsuspecting but somehow evil husband, or inviting Nice People over to your house. People in sweatpants who like to drink coffee and complain about evil husbands are fine. Or kids, so you have someone to yell at that you won't get a restraining order for.
Another thing I have been meaning to tell you, is why I have decided not to reinvent myself. Actually my Really Smart and Funny and Pretty Cousin decided for me, because she thought I was saying Northportician instead of North Porto Rican, just like my morbid sister, and also because she said this, which made me feel awesome: (quoted without her permission, but if somebody is talking about you, can't you use it anyway?)
"I don't think you have to reinvent yourself at all. I think of Bendablility like flexibility, which is exactly what you seem to exhibit on a daily basis. You are flexible, bendable to whatever life throws at you. Your blog (to me anyways) is about all the ways you bend and shape your life and yourself in order to keep moving, one foot in front of the other." -MSM
"Once again I find myself bending the core of who I have become to embrace the new wave of change, perhaps the beginning of a new and different lifestyle, but then the bending starts to hurt, and I wonder if I have the flexibility to change or if the change will break me. Maybe I have become set in my ways and I can't be reformed to fit into someone else's mold. I am unsure."
I will say I am reticent to relinquish the double meaning of Bendability for a unilateral translation, but it means not having to remember how to get a domain name and do a bunch of relatively easy things that annoy me. Especially today.
Today is probably not the best day to paint. There are children coming over for me to yell at, and wiener dogs with ears anxious for dipping. But I think I will, just so I have something to complain about later, along with the 5 pounds I gained from breakfast.
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| I made this picture extra big so you could KNOW. |
You know that moment RIGHT before you start your period when anything within line of sight that you can't eat, you would just as soon kill, even coffee is not doing it's job, the wiener dog baby isn't cute anymore and everything is just UGLY and STUPID, especially male things? Yes. It's amazing how many things become ok during that moment. Like changing outfits 8 times, leaving all of the clothes on the floor and putting sweatpants back on. This moment of time isn't one for making major life decisions, answering the phone call of an unsuspecting but somehow evil husband, or inviting Nice People over to your house. People in sweatpants who like to drink coffee and complain about evil husbands are fine. Or kids, so you have someone to yell at that you won't get a restraining order for.
Another thing I have been meaning to tell you, is why I have decided not to reinvent myself. Actually my Really Smart and Funny and Pretty Cousin decided for me, because she thought I was saying Northportician instead of North Porto Rican, just like my morbid sister, and also because she said this, which made me feel awesome: (quoted without her permission, but if somebody is talking about you, can't you use it anyway?)
"I don't think you have to reinvent yourself at all. I think of Bendablility like flexibility, which is exactly what you seem to exhibit on a daily basis. You are flexible, bendable to whatever life throws at you. Your blog (to me anyways) is about all the ways you bend and shape your life and yourself in order to keep moving, one foot in front of the other." -MSM
Then she proceeded to quote me, from an older blog, when I said this: (quoted WITH permission from myself)
"Once again I find myself bending the core of who I have become to embrace the new wave of change, perhaps the beginning of a new and different lifestyle, but then the bending starts to hurt, and I wonder if I have the flexibility to change or if the change will break me. Maybe I have become set in my ways and I can't be reformed to fit into someone else's mold. I am unsure."
I will say I am reticent to relinquish the double meaning of Bendability for a unilateral translation, but it means not having to remember how to get a domain name and do a bunch of relatively easy things that annoy me. Especially today.
Today is probably not the best day to paint. There are children coming over for me to yell at, and wiener dogs with ears anxious for dipping. But I think I will, just so I have something to complain about later, along with the 5 pounds I gained from breakfast.
ThingsThat I Have Decided
1) Never eat dessert alone. All of the deliciousness in the world is wasted calories if you can't share the bliss with someone. Which is why I have ice cream freezerburning, shortcake molding and raspberries rotting in my refrigerator. It's like drinking alone. It's just a bad idea. And pointless. Unless you are a really unhealthy person.
2) Sitting at home alone and losing myself in Pinterest is a good idea as long as it doesn't lead to eBay searches for "smokey bear vintage" or "toilet contour rug" because one ends in financial ruin, the other in ultimate disappointment in the human race. Or perhaps just in myself for not finding this before:
2) Sitting at home alone and losing myself in Pinterest is a good idea as long as it doesn't lead to eBay searches for "smokey bear vintage" or "toilet contour rug" because one ends in financial ruin, the other in ultimate disappointment in the human race. Or perhaps just in myself for not finding this before:
3) As much as I complain, I really like life better with my family around. Hands down.
4) Sometimes, Too Much of Nothing Can Make a Man Feel Ill At Ease
5) Mopping floors and then inviting seven thousand kids over to help you do stuff is really pointless.
7) Especially if that stuff involves any type of painting or paint - related materials.
8) Paint-related materials are most easily removed from wiener dog ears by rubbing them on furniture. I am working on a Pinterest tutorial for this.
9) Haviana's taste best when mom leaves you home alone with only three other dogs for the day and you are a 7 month old piranha/dachshund/pterodactyl cross.
10) Having husbands that are not at home with you is really silly.
11) I would trade life in a cardboard box WITH my people for all the mansions in heaven.
12) The awesome relief of good friends and good people and being LIKED (mostly) can't be overstated. It's good to have people. Really good. Here, there and everywhere.
13) Dog doors are VERY SCARY when they are new. It's safest to poop in the house.
14) Make sure, if the washing machine is running late at night, that you bark at it. Incessantly and Loudly. For All of The World To Hear.
15) Sometimes having no major obligations is terribly overwhelming. (see also: Idle hands are the devils playground)
16) Having a cop for a close friend is almost as scary as having a convicted felon for a neighbor. (no sir, I did not bring an open container in my car, to your house.)
17. Being a military wife is BA. Almost as BA as being military myself. But not really.
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| Josh says I look stoic. I think I look HOT. Or maybe cold. I got drenched in a torrential downpour shortly before and was shivering. |
18. Sometimes, you can't fight who you are. And you have to buy a vintage Smokey Bear sleeping bag for $50. Or paint cabinets badly, or give your big hound kisses even when he's misbehaving and smells terribly. Sometimes, you just shouldn't mop the floors at all.
19. Clothing on hangers is extremely hard to visualize and access for daily wardrobing. The floor is much more convenient for these operations.
20. Without the one who loves me here, I am uncriticized, uncorrected, undirected, but miserable. My vices are only fun when they're irking him. My quirks are only silly when he's here to notice. Without him, I am boring and flat, and no matter how many things I do, they seem meaningless. Hurry Home Josh Weston. I am not me without you.
Things That Come to An End
It occurred to me a few days ago, while I was unpacking hydroflasks and silipints and Bend Elks hats and all of the other remnants of my former citizenship, that I am no longer Bendability. Like most things, including my birthday week, Emmy pooping in the exact same spot of carpet 80 times because she doesn't believe in the new dog door, and my precious baby puppy's new obsession with humping every stuffed animal she can get her mutant paws on, my time in Bend has come to an end, and I must reinvent myself. Like Madonna, or The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, Or like Dagny will in a new home if she doesn't stop. Seriously. Right now. So the question at hand is "who am I now?" I have started to ask some of the ones closest to me. My Darling Husband poo-pooed my idea of calling myself "the Northportorican" as sounding racist. He suggested that I was "like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of Bend's Volcanoes." Yes that is a direct quote. Much too self aggrandizing for me, I am thinking, plus I like the rag-tag refugee sound of the Northportorican. Is that racist? Oh dear.
While I am ecstatic about this new life we are beginning, and the odd rambling house that is screaming for a little bit of help in the fashion arena (something I luckily know a little about these days, thank you, Buckle), I am simultaneously frustrated. Mostly I think its the constant downpour of rain that greeted us when we got to Northport, and the fact that my Boy left exactly 24 hours after he arrived, and won't be back for a whole week more. And then he has fire season, which has already started to rear it's ugly but profitable head. And then Boot Camp. And then it will be Christmas, and I will still be sitting here on this couch trying to decide if Northportability is just too long. Dagny, stop. Seriously. Sometimes we just have to go without, dog. Don't act like I can't sympathize!! That being said, I have already enjoyed a little run of social exposure, including two girls nights and a couple of loungy, chatty visits from some of those closest to me. I have made good friends with the hardware lady and scored some of the best salsa ever from a local cook, which I have been living on since. Jaunitas and salsa cover all of the major food groups, in case you were wondering. And they're gluten free!
Since I am not working, and feeling a bit financially restrained without the promise of a paycheck, ever, I have stepped up my creative fundraising efforts with a barrage of items on the local Facebook classifieds page, which is also acting as an additional stimulus to my social life. I have already met three new people through little transactions. But I don't really remember their names. Does it still count? I'm counting it. I even listed some of my precious Frye boots and other Items of Great Importance on eBay, hoping to supplement my potentially negative bank account. I say potentially because the checks haven't come through yet. Sorry Honey.
Speaking of which, the most convenient way to deal with the frustration I am facing, I have found, is to take it out in really bad ways on Josh. For example, when he calls, I have used words like "greedy" and "uncaring" when the man is working 400 miles away from home to be able to pay rent and afford the remodeling we need to do. I have explained to him that him being with me here is more important to me than additions and bathroom remodels, so could he please just come back, and stop making me feel rejected. And by the way, the bathroom really needs help. This is the beauty of a rational woman. Wait.
To my own credit, I did clean out the bathtub drain myself, and am currently trying to switch the light socket on an antique lamp. Working on electric things always brings me back to the time I almost met Josh for the first time, when I nearly electrocuted myself and burned down a house trying to change my own dryer cord. Maybe I will save that one for him this time and go sell more stuff, while I am trying to think of the new me. Please submit all suggestions to me via this blog, Facebook, or a messenger pigeon.
While I am ecstatic about this new life we are beginning, and the odd rambling house that is screaming for a little bit of help in the fashion arena (something I luckily know a little about these days, thank you, Buckle), I am simultaneously frustrated. Mostly I think its the constant downpour of rain that greeted us when we got to Northport, and the fact that my Boy left exactly 24 hours after he arrived, and won't be back for a whole week more. And then he has fire season, which has already started to rear it's ugly but profitable head. And then Boot Camp. And then it will be Christmas, and I will still be sitting here on this couch trying to decide if Northportability is just too long. Dagny, stop. Seriously. Sometimes we just have to go without, dog. Don't act like I can't sympathize!! That being said, I have already enjoyed a little run of social exposure, including two girls nights and a couple of loungy, chatty visits from some of those closest to me. I have made good friends with the hardware lady and scored some of the best salsa ever from a local cook, which I have been living on since. Jaunitas and salsa cover all of the major food groups, in case you were wondering. And they're gluten free!
Since I am not working, and feeling a bit financially restrained without the promise of a paycheck, ever, I have stepped up my creative fundraising efforts with a barrage of items on the local Facebook classifieds page, which is also acting as an additional stimulus to my social life. I have already met three new people through little transactions. But I don't really remember their names. Does it still count? I'm counting it. I even listed some of my precious Frye boots and other Items of Great Importance on eBay, hoping to supplement my potentially negative bank account. I say potentially because the checks haven't come through yet. Sorry Honey.
Speaking of which, the most convenient way to deal with the frustration I am facing, I have found, is to take it out in really bad ways on Josh. For example, when he calls, I have used words like "greedy" and "uncaring" when the man is working 400 miles away from home to be able to pay rent and afford the remodeling we need to do. I have explained to him that him being with me here is more important to me than additions and bathroom remodels, so could he please just come back, and stop making me feel rejected. And by the way, the bathroom really needs help. This is the beauty of a rational woman. Wait.
To my own credit, I did clean out the bathtub drain myself, and am currently trying to switch the light socket on an antique lamp. Working on electric things always brings me back to the time I almost met Josh for the first time, when I nearly electrocuted myself and burned down a house trying to change my own dryer cord. Maybe I will save that one for him this time and go sell more stuff, while I am trying to think of the new me. Please submit all suggestions to me via this blog, Facebook, or a messenger pigeon.
Things I learned this weekend:
2. Josh is more awesome than I thought.
3. I don't need to be concerned about Halle being addicted to prescription drugs since at 17, she still can't open a childproof pill bottle. I discovered this when I asked her to get one of the many pulls I have been taking for me since I was driving and texting and changing the music while drinking coffee. Clearly my hands were full. I was forced to give up the phone and the music to open the pill bottle myself, whereupon I found that she had reduced all of the pills to powder in her attempt. Luckily this particular drug absorbed faster as a dissolving powder and is easier to dose in this form than cracking apart stubby round tablets.
4. Grandma's really stink at laser tag, especially when the opposing team is comprised of cute and semi-innocent looking small children. In addition to her guilt aversion to shooting the little guerrillas, her perfectionist streak caused her to save ammunition for only the most clearly successful targets, which meant she only reloaded once and her score was indicative of the same anti-family-fun apathy that Kizzie was demonstrating when she realized the laser vests made her look fat. Not that Grandpa was much help either, since the mystery of how he scores NO points at all was solved after someone pointed out that he may have been holding his gun backwards the entire time. OK, not really, but he did die unreasonably often.
5. I should probably be concerned that Kizzie was the only family member who knew what a "Charlie's Angels" pose was when we took family laser tag portraits. Clearly we need to watch more questionable TV.
6. Mini Reese's peanut butter cups melt instantly in temperatures above 63 degrees Fahrenheit.
7. Mini Reese's peanut butter cups ate possibly MORE delicious when eaten with a spoon.
8. Eating extra pizza after you are full, pizza for four consecutive meals, or midnight snacks of pizza do not actually help with a digestive issue that has lasted a fortnight. Even veggie pizza doesn't fix it. Next time I am trying extra butter sauce. I feel certain that therein lies my cure. Thank goodness there is a Papa Murphy's on the way home. I think I'm having pizza withdrawals. Dangerously, I still love pizza.
9. Taking the Lord's Name in Vain has a great many interpretations which can be discussed at great length on an hour long car ride to play mini golf since none of the mini golf courses less than an hour away has coupons. Coupons are vital for the appreciation of family activities.
10. Saying a game was stupid, throwing a major tantrum, yelling at your sisters and hurting grandma's feelings by pouting about which games you didn't get to play, or get to win, or had to play.... None of these actually fall under the banner of "complaining", "ungratefulness" or just being plain old spoiled, according to teenage wisdom.
11. Arcades are perfectly safe places for a nine year old to get lost. Especially when you drive a mini-cooper, because the trunk is much too small for kidnapping. Again. More questionable Television MIGHT be a good idea.
12. Six and a half foot teenagers that are all legs, bad attitude and underdeveloped intellectualism do not make good copilot a in a Mini Cooper.
13. Knees actually can bump a shifter out of gear.
14. Sometimes the people that you think you know the best, and truly want the best for, offer you a wake up slap that really frakkin stings.
15. The people that talk the most about hating drama are sometimes the best propagators. Which is why I admit openly that my life is a swirling vortex of dramatic terror. This being said, if there's some that I can leave behind, I will gladly do so. That's why Kizzie is now living at a rest area outside of Ellensburg.
16. Self-protection is the single most powerful human instinct.
17. Being able to rise above our instincts is the only thing that separates us from other animals.
18. Growing up is really hard. At every age.
19. Even Avett Brothers are people who make mistakes.
20. I have absolutely everything in the world to be grateful for.
P.S. 21. Dogs eating out of compost piles before a prolonged road trip is a very very bad thing.
Things That Move
So I sat down with my computer, intending to make lists of things that need to be done, to facilitate better efficiency than I have, to date, been accomplishing in this move. I feel like My Darling Husband has been so absolutely Over-Efficient, that I should compensate by being useless. But then guilt over uselessness sets in and I try to help a little but can't remember what needs to be done. So back to the lists. Or the other things on the computer that distract me. Like Facebook, or Netflix, or eBay, or finding some ridiculousness to blather about so I can continue the vicious cycle of inefficiency, guilt, forgetfulness, and irresponsibility. In my own defense, I did help load a table saw and swept half of the garage. I also spoke to children quite fiercely a time or two in order to extract usefulness from them. Is it just me or is usefulness out of teenage girls as elusive as a good deal on Frye boots? For as little help as I have been in this move, I have to say, they have actually been a huge hindrance. I think it's the discrepancy between what I would consider a room looks like when it's been "completely packed up" and what their view of the thing is. Apparently certain items cannot be boxed. Like dirty socks, and posters of movie characters which will remain unnamed. And collections of things, some unidentifiable, that apparently have too much emotional value to be tucked away even for a few days. I mean, my ENTIRE world is locked up in a swollen Uhaul truck, parked out on the street at this very moment. Every little piece of everything. I even packed all of my underwear, which posed an interesting dilemma this morning when I realized it. I will leave you to wonder about my solution.
My mother and I have had an ongoing discussion about the level of truthfulness in my writing. Apparently I have successfully conveyed to the entire world that my favorite pastime is sitting on the couch in sweatpants, with a giant mug of coffee in my hand and a total disregard for any responsibility to the universe. While this, is in fact, very true, as much as I love to do it, it happens much less often than I have perhaps alluded, and even when it does happen, it is usually followed by a rushed shower and me being late for work, or at least cooking dinner for the family. I guess I realized when I started having to respond to gentle confrontations that I should be contributing to the care and well being of my family, I decided I should look into painting a clearer picture of what I really do. So for the record, while self-deprecation is one of my strongest suits, and partially because I want someone to protest my amazingness (which my Adorable Husband has yet to consider doing), I have to say, most days, I work pretty hard. For a girl. For a girl who is broken. But I DO feel lazy, and pampered and spoiled. Compared to the work that I have been used to doing, cleaning CXT toilets in the forest, or hauling sacks of cement, whole plywood sheets, stacking cinder blocks, pushing 20+ shopping carts uphill in the snow both ways - right now, I have it pretty dang easy. It's almost embarrassing. I mean, I still bust it out when I work, and a seven hour shift at the Buckle may sound posh, but if I stop moving while I am there for one second, I am overcome with the recognition of pain in my left lower quadrant which at this point is perpetually tying my adjacent lower back muscles into knots that pull meanly on the compromised discs that feel as if any second they will just poof out of existence into the growling, burning abyss that is my body and the breathtaking pain that I only get jabs of right now will be eternal and consistent. This is one of the reasons I wasn't much help moving. I have finally grown up enough to admit that the pain is not worth it. I think the hardest thing for me is watching Josh do things that make me actually feel the pain for him - I can't imagine it NOT hurting intensely to lift a box, so it must hurt him too... and I am not helping. I get almost angry that he insists on doing it all when I imagine that we are both in the same amount of pain, but then I remember that except for some aching arms and a twinge of soreness here and there, he isn't. Is it weird that I think that everyone around me hurts as much as I do all the time? It makes me reticent to complain, when I see people who must be suffering just like me moving cheerfully through their days. Even my kids. They do things, move in ways that make me queasy with pain, and I admire them for being so tough. Except that it doesn't hurt them. This pain isn't normal. I hate being broken. I hate being weak. I hate being useless. We keep saying "after surgery...everything will be better, will be easier, will be different..." but what if it isn't, and who knows when and if that life-changing event will occur. At this point I don't have much hope invested into it... Especially when three of our dogs have had surgeries and I am still waiting. I even tried to bribe the vet into doing my hysterectomy. She said no.
Yesterday was my last day of work and I am sad. I will miss it. I am anxious to speed ahead to the point where I am ready for a fire dispatch, or to take on a new job, and at least feel like I am contributing SOMETHING. Other than dinner. In addition to my reasons for not working, Josh makes it much harder for me to force myself into productivity partly because he is worried about me and partly because I will do it wrong. Every time. Inevitably. He has been having night terrors since I told him last week that I wanted to paint the crappy cabinets in the new house - just until we can replace them. The thought of how I will do this and the corners I will cut have been keeping him awake at night. I can imagine that all of our paint supplies could "magically" disappear during the move and I will be once more rendered utterly useless. What I need to do is just write a book, and make a million dollars. Then I will be a contributor. And I can finally justify shopping again. But for now, I'd better go make my lists.
My mother and I have had an ongoing discussion about the level of truthfulness in my writing. Apparently I have successfully conveyed to the entire world that my favorite pastime is sitting on the couch in sweatpants, with a giant mug of coffee in my hand and a total disregard for any responsibility to the universe. While this, is in fact, very true, as much as I love to do it, it happens much less often than I have perhaps alluded, and even when it does happen, it is usually followed by a rushed shower and me being late for work, or at least cooking dinner for the family. I guess I realized when I started having to respond to gentle confrontations that I should be contributing to the care and well being of my family, I decided I should look into painting a clearer picture of what I really do. So for the record, while self-deprecation is one of my strongest suits, and partially because I want someone to protest my amazingness (which my Adorable Husband has yet to consider doing), I have to say, most days, I work pretty hard. For a girl. For a girl who is broken. But I DO feel lazy, and pampered and spoiled. Compared to the work that I have been used to doing, cleaning CXT toilets in the forest, or hauling sacks of cement, whole plywood sheets, stacking cinder blocks, pushing 20+ shopping carts uphill in the snow both ways - right now, I have it pretty dang easy. It's almost embarrassing. I mean, I still bust it out when I work, and a seven hour shift at the Buckle may sound posh, but if I stop moving while I am there for one second, I am overcome with the recognition of pain in my left lower quadrant which at this point is perpetually tying my adjacent lower back muscles into knots that pull meanly on the compromised discs that feel as if any second they will just poof out of existence into the growling, burning abyss that is my body and the breathtaking pain that I only get jabs of right now will be eternal and consistent. This is one of the reasons I wasn't much help moving. I have finally grown up enough to admit that the pain is not worth it. I think the hardest thing for me is watching Josh do things that make me actually feel the pain for him - I can't imagine it NOT hurting intensely to lift a box, so it must hurt him too... and I am not helping. I get almost angry that he insists on doing it all when I imagine that we are both in the same amount of pain, but then I remember that except for some aching arms and a twinge of soreness here and there, he isn't. Is it weird that I think that everyone around me hurts as much as I do all the time? It makes me reticent to complain, when I see people who must be suffering just like me moving cheerfully through their days. Even my kids. They do things, move in ways that make me queasy with pain, and I admire them for being so tough. Except that it doesn't hurt them. This pain isn't normal. I hate being broken. I hate being weak. I hate being useless. We keep saying "after surgery...everything will be better, will be easier, will be different..." but what if it isn't, and who knows when and if that life-changing event will occur. At this point I don't have much hope invested into it... Especially when three of our dogs have had surgeries and I am still waiting. I even tried to bribe the vet into doing my hysterectomy. She said no.
Yesterday was my last day of work and I am sad. I will miss it. I am anxious to speed ahead to the point where I am ready for a fire dispatch, or to take on a new job, and at least feel like I am contributing SOMETHING. Other than dinner. In addition to my reasons for not working, Josh makes it much harder for me to force myself into productivity partly because he is worried about me and partly because I will do it wrong. Every time. Inevitably. He has been having night terrors since I told him last week that I wanted to paint the crappy cabinets in the new house - just until we can replace them. The thought of how I will do this and the corners I will cut have been keeping him awake at night. I can imagine that all of our paint supplies could "magically" disappear during the move and I will be once more rendered utterly useless. What I need to do is just write a book, and make a million dollars. Then I will be a contributor. And I can finally justify shopping again. But for now, I'd better go make my lists.
Things That Change
I guess I won't be Bendability for much longer. Northportability just doesn't have the same ring to it. Maybe it's appropriate since I am returning, like a boomerang, to the land from which I hailed, to become simply Predictability again. Less and less this predictable ness of mine is the reliable inconsistency that I have been known for. Now maybe I really am predictable. Maybe I go to the same place and do the same thing and respond the same way every time. In some ways it's sad to think that I have settled down into some form of regularity, as wanton as that form is. But maybe that's just part of growing up, something I said that I would never do. I am turning 36 soon. That is almost 40. It's old. Older than I have ever been, or really ever hoped to be. It's one of those ages that just SOUNDS old. Like 55. And 27. And 83. I guess there's no fighting it. I will be 36 whether I like it or not. I will be a grown up. And I will be predictable. Sad day. My one consolation is the steadfast belief that "old" is nothing more than a state of mind. An attitude. A choice. As is being "a grown up". I have turned the corner in my life where it has become more work to choose to remain young than it is to act like a grown up. I have to actually remind myself, and some times even coerce myself, into skipping to the bus stop with Aspen. It doesn't just happen spontaneously most days anymore. I have to actually put thought into an outfit that would make my mother cringe. It doesn't come naturally as I "mature". Ice cream doesn't sound good for breakfast these days. Sometimes I even crave vegetable juice. It's as though my body has resigned itself to imminent death and I am just preparing my corporal being for interment into the ground. Gaining weight has less to do with attracting wolf whistles and more to do with fitting into a casket that pallbearers can actually carry. Ok, now I am just getting morbid. Something tells me that I am LONG overdue for a night of line dancing or karaoke and dressing inappropriately for my age. Maybe even a ride on the mechanical bull. Wait - I just did that a couple of weeks ago! See, the memory loss that my age has inflicted upon me is waging war against my anti-maturity tactics!! I am gonna have to up my Peter Pan game as the years go by. My coasting days are over.
My kids are getting so old that I can hardly even look to them for the ideals of perpetual youth. Except Aspen. She will never age. This morning, in a deep philosophical discussion about relationships that end because of things like money or being Jewish (had to set that one straight) or disagreements about life values, she was asking if she would get to visit Josh if ever we split up. For a kid like Aspen, I think that the idea of a forever mom and dad scenario is still a little beyond her imagination, which is sort of heartbreaking. Give us a few years, babe. She was concerned that she would not have visitation rights since Josh is technically a step-dad, and she only gets to visit her "real" dad, but not Lee, who was "like when you go to some stairs and almost step up, but don't, dad". So she was a little fuzzy on what happens when an already-step dad goes away, verses an almost-step dad. Boy I have done some damage. God help me if my kids can't forgive me. Halle and Kizzie have very adult perspectives on life by now. They make always-rational choices and have well-rounded and deeply rooted opinions about all life matters. They have concerns that are far reaching with implications of life and death. Don't all high schoolers? I don't remember being so serious at their age. I guess I remember FEELING serious at their age. Maybe the distinction between feeling and being is what defines maturity. In that case, I am not old at all. I have no idea what I AM but I am quite clear on how I FEEL. That's one thing that hasn't changed since high school. That and my toes. Every other particle of my body is different than it was 20 years ago - much to my husband's chagrin - but my toes are the same. not the toe joints - those are all messed up from irish dance and being stomped on in mosh pits, but the toes themselves look just like they did at 16. Sometimes when I am feeling particularly old, I look at my toes. Or I get a pedicure. It's like babying and protecting the one remnant of my youth to get a pedicure. Josh can't understand the importance - although if it was my 16 year old flat belly or firm thighs I was nurturing I am sure he would gladly pay $30 a week to pamper them. If only my youthful toes would make him so happy.
All this talk of aging makes me a little melancholy. I think I need to go find something slightly ridiculous for my age to wear today and eat crunchies for lunch. Then maybe I need to get a pedicure. Hey - it's my birthday month.
My kids are getting so old that I can hardly even look to them for the ideals of perpetual youth. Except Aspen. She will never age. This morning, in a deep philosophical discussion about relationships that end because of things like money or being Jewish (had to set that one straight) or disagreements about life values, she was asking if she would get to visit Josh if ever we split up. For a kid like Aspen, I think that the idea of a forever mom and dad scenario is still a little beyond her imagination, which is sort of heartbreaking. Give us a few years, babe. She was concerned that she would not have visitation rights since Josh is technically a step-dad, and she only gets to visit her "real" dad, but not Lee, who was "like when you go to some stairs and almost step up, but don't, dad". So she was a little fuzzy on what happens when an already-step dad goes away, verses an almost-step dad. Boy I have done some damage. God help me if my kids can't forgive me. Halle and Kizzie have very adult perspectives on life by now. They make always-rational choices and have well-rounded and deeply rooted opinions about all life matters. They have concerns that are far reaching with implications of life and death. Don't all high schoolers? I don't remember being so serious at their age. I guess I remember FEELING serious at their age. Maybe the distinction between feeling and being is what defines maturity. In that case, I am not old at all. I have no idea what I AM but I am quite clear on how I FEEL. That's one thing that hasn't changed since high school. That and my toes. Every other particle of my body is different than it was 20 years ago - much to my husband's chagrin - but my toes are the same. not the toe joints - those are all messed up from irish dance and being stomped on in mosh pits, but the toes themselves look just like they did at 16. Sometimes when I am feeling particularly old, I look at my toes. Or I get a pedicure. It's like babying and protecting the one remnant of my youth to get a pedicure. Josh can't understand the importance - although if it was my 16 year old flat belly or firm thighs I was nurturing I am sure he would gladly pay $30 a week to pamper them. If only my youthful toes would make him so happy.
All this talk of aging makes me a little melancholy. I think I need to go find something slightly ridiculous for my age to wear today and eat crunchies for lunch. Then maybe I need to get a pedicure. Hey - it's my birthday month.
Things That Are Out Of Order
I definitely have a problem. It's been mentioned to me before, in shocked looks and over reactive arguments, so I never really gave it too much thought, assuming it was merely the vicious contrivance of an enemy mind set to undermine my sanity. But then it hit me square in the face. This morning. When I dropped Dagny off at the vet for her spay appointment and had to fight a mild panic attack, right before I left Aspen standing on a street corner in front of her school and several quasi-questionable vehicles parked in the shadows.
I worry more about my dogs than I do my kids.
Before you slam your computer in disgust and disappointment, or send me a congratulatory note for finally coming to my senses, let me clarify:
As human beings, it is built in to us to control our environments. We change positions or temperatures or colors or smells or really anything that we don't like to live with. We cultivate careers and hobbies and pastimes and families and communities around things that make us happy and captivate us. It's instinctive to draw little compartments around our lifestyle choices and create the most realistic sense of security and control that we can. It's what we do. In 2009, I remember lying awake in a humid bedroom in Uganda, staring at silver-dollar sized holes in the mosquito net above my bed, when the reality that I had four human lives for which I was solely responsible, innocently depending on me, thousands and thousands of miles away, across oceans and continents and hours and days. They were there, I was here, surrounded by other children and people and families. And I realized, in that moment, if anything happened - whether an earthquake shook a roof in on top of my sleeping babies, or a horse trampled one of them, or some driver texting his mom swerved in the wrong second, anything could happen, and I would not be there to control, fix or prevent it. I had a few moments of absolute terror. Anxiety like I have never experienced. The sense of not-being-in-control was something I had never really thought about. Life is just something you coast through and everybody is ok, until they aren't. But there is this thing in the back of our minds, as human beings, that everybody is ok, and things are just fine, because we make it that way. Because we are doing it right. Because we've got it handled. And then one day, somehow, we realize that we don't. Some of us take longer to learn that than others. Some people never figure it out. For some of us, it takes the Most Terrible Thing We Can Imagine to happen to us before we understand that we never "had it handled" in the first place.
This is where we begin to wax all philosophical and talk about the Goodness of God, which I will not contend, or that Everything Happens For A Reason, which I truly believe, and sometimes we even indulge the Sowing and Reaping conversation in an attempt to place blame and reclaim our own control. This argument usually doesn't end well for anyone, unless a life of guilt and bitterness and shame appeal to you... But the reality is that at some point, as human beings, we have to come to terms with the fact that we Do Not Control Things. Some things, maybe. Small things. Things that Have Little Consequence. And this brings me back to my original point: I worry more about my dogs because the world of my dogs is small. It's petty, it's dependent entirely upon me, and it's something, that more or less, I can control. More so than the elementary school where I dropped Aspen off. Who's to say that Ensworth Elementary could never be a Sandy Hook? More so than the swirling emotions of a teenage girl that can't be grounded away. More so than the outcome of the potentially terrible and yet somehow necessary thought of handing over the care and upbringing of one of my children for several months to a family I barely know. More so than a walk down the street with any number of potentially lethal accidents, criminals and catastrophes hanging in the balance overhead.
I realized several years ago that I have little to no control over the lives of other human beings. Including my own children. Whether I am in Uganda or the next bedroom doesn't change whether MacKenzie's heart or Natalee's cello playing fingers will get broken. But my dogs. I tell them where to go. When to sit. When to eat. I subjected Dagny to the pain and suffering and confusing loneliness of a surgery this morning. I can't tell her, like I could tell Halle, Don't worry, this will be worth it, you'll get a prize at the end... Dogs depend on me to control their world. They trust me. My kids already understand the folly of looking to me for a reliable and well-scripted destiny. They have already undertaken the human operation of controlling their own worlds and environments, even the ones I have tried to craft safely for them, they have changed. They have plastered Harry Potter posters over the soft alfalfa-hay green walls that I provided them. They have added chocolate to the perfect cup of coffee that I built. Dagny knows nothing better than the piece of dry dog food from my hand. Simply because it's from my hand. It's easier. Worrying about dogs. It's friendlier to a power-hungry human.
My kids probably feel like they play second (or fifth?) fiddle to a herd of dogs, not knowing that I have channelled my urge to control the outcome of their choices and life events into their canine counterparts. Emmy, with all of her anxiety issues and strange behaviors, is someone that I can effectively mold and shape, whereas the more pressure I put on MacKenzie to conform, or relax into a mold, the more she struggles and fights and makes her own shape. I guess I am just lazy. Or scared to take responsibility for the outcome of my kids. Not that I can avoid it. Whether I shape them passively or aggressively, I get to take some of the credit for how they turn out. But what life delivers to them - I can't control that. I can't put them on leashes and build a fence and tell the doctors exactly what to do them. Remove their ability to reproduce (although this isn't a terrible idea), microchip them so they can never wander without being brought back, trim their toenails so they can't dig in and defend themselves... In some ways the energy seems much more well spent on a pack of dogs. I guess that is what separates people from animals. That sense that we each have our own path and at some point, we have to wander it ourselves. If I let Emmy wander her own path she'd be right back out in the middle of the midnight street, narrowly missingthe bumper of every passing car. I don't have to test her to find out. But Halle - where will she go? If her last adventure didn't work out so well, she'll re adapt, look for a new way. I can be here to offer suggestions and reminders and ideas, and she can take them. Or not. Either way she will learn and grow and experience, for better or worse, all of the things that she needs to. To be her. Which is not me.
So my task is to practice investing my care into my kids, even while knowing I can't predict the outcome, at least as much as I do into my dogs, where I can determine what happens. Human life, relationships, they're all about control. Relinquishing it, maintaining it - this has been my way of clinging to control. I need to learn how to stay involved even when I can't have the last word. This is probably the hardest and most worst thing for any parent. I'd rather wash my hands and walk away then share the burden of one of my kids Big Mistakes. But that's not why we're here. If my parents walked away from all of my Big Mistakes I would be hopelessly adrift. I was for awhile. It sucked. It's a terribly hard transition. To stay invested but not in charge. I don't like hard. I like easy. I like dogs on leashes in sunshine better than kids and tough decisions and letting go. But I've got both. And I need to own both, and love both, and be both. Rarr.
I worry more about my dogs than I do my kids.
Before you slam your computer in disgust and disappointment, or send me a congratulatory note for finally coming to my senses, let me clarify:
As human beings, it is built in to us to control our environments. We change positions or temperatures or colors or smells or really anything that we don't like to live with. We cultivate careers and hobbies and pastimes and families and communities around things that make us happy and captivate us. It's instinctive to draw little compartments around our lifestyle choices and create the most realistic sense of security and control that we can. It's what we do. In 2009, I remember lying awake in a humid bedroom in Uganda, staring at silver-dollar sized holes in the mosquito net above my bed, when the reality that I had four human lives for which I was solely responsible, innocently depending on me, thousands and thousands of miles away, across oceans and continents and hours and days. They were there, I was here, surrounded by other children and people and families. And I realized, in that moment, if anything happened - whether an earthquake shook a roof in on top of my sleeping babies, or a horse trampled one of them, or some driver texting his mom swerved in the wrong second, anything could happen, and I would not be there to control, fix or prevent it. I had a few moments of absolute terror. Anxiety like I have never experienced. The sense of not-being-in-control was something I had never really thought about. Life is just something you coast through and everybody is ok, until they aren't. But there is this thing in the back of our minds, as human beings, that everybody is ok, and things are just fine, because we make it that way. Because we are doing it right. Because we've got it handled. And then one day, somehow, we realize that we don't. Some of us take longer to learn that than others. Some people never figure it out. For some of us, it takes the Most Terrible Thing We Can Imagine to happen to us before we understand that we never "had it handled" in the first place.
This is where we begin to wax all philosophical and talk about the Goodness of God, which I will not contend, or that Everything Happens For A Reason, which I truly believe, and sometimes we even indulge the Sowing and Reaping conversation in an attempt to place blame and reclaim our own control. This argument usually doesn't end well for anyone, unless a life of guilt and bitterness and shame appeal to you... But the reality is that at some point, as human beings, we have to come to terms with the fact that we Do Not Control Things. Some things, maybe. Small things. Things that Have Little Consequence. And this brings me back to my original point: I worry more about my dogs because the world of my dogs is small. It's petty, it's dependent entirely upon me, and it's something, that more or less, I can control. More so than the elementary school where I dropped Aspen off. Who's to say that Ensworth Elementary could never be a Sandy Hook? More so than the swirling emotions of a teenage girl that can't be grounded away. More so than the outcome of the potentially terrible and yet somehow necessary thought of handing over the care and upbringing of one of my children for several months to a family I barely know. More so than a walk down the street with any number of potentially lethal accidents, criminals and catastrophes hanging in the balance overhead.
I realized several years ago that I have little to no control over the lives of other human beings. Including my own children. Whether I am in Uganda or the next bedroom doesn't change whether MacKenzie's heart or Natalee's cello playing fingers will get broken. But my dogs. I tell them where to go. When to sit. When to eat. I subjected Dagny to the pain and suffering and confusing loneliness of a surgery this morning. I can't tell her, like I could tell Halle, Don't worry, this will be worth it, you'll get a prize at the end... Dogs depend on me to control their world. They trust me. My kids already understand the folly of looking to me for a reliable and well-scripted destiny. They have already undertaken the human operation of controlling their own worlds and environments, even the ones I have tried to craft safely for them, they have changed. They have plastered Harry Potter posters over the soft alfalfa-hay green walls that I provided them. They have added chocolate to the perfect cup of coffee that I built. Dagny knows nothing better than the piece of dry dog food from my hand. Simply because it's from my hand. It's easier. Worrying about dogs. It's friendlier to a power-hungry human.
My kids probably feel like they play second (or fifth?) fiddle to a herd of dogs, not knowing that I have channelled my urge to control the outcome of their choices and life events into their canine counterparts. Emmy, with all of her anxiety issues and strange behaviors, is someone that I can effectively mold and shape, whereas the more pressure I put on MacKenzie to conform, or relax into a mold, the more she struggles and fights and makes her own shape. I guess I am just lazy. Or scared to take responsibility for the outcome of my kids. Not that I can avoid it. Whether I shape them passively or aggressively, I get to take some of the credit for how they turn out. But what life delivers to them - I can't control that. I can't put them on leashes and build a fence and tell the doctors exactly what to do them. Remove their ability to reproduce (although this isn't a terrible idea), microchip them so they can never wander without being brought back, trim their toenails so they can't dig in and defend themselves... In some ways the energy seems much more well spent on a pack of dogs. I guess that is what separates people from animals. That sense that we each have our own path and at some point, we have to wander it ourselves. If I let Emmy wander her own path she'd be right back out in the middle of the midnight street, narrowly missingthe bumper of every passing car. I don't have to test her to find out. But Halle - where will she go? If her last adventure didn't work out so well, she'll re adapt, look for a new way. I can be here to offer suggestions and reminders and ideas, and she can take them. Or not. Either way she will learn and grow and experience, for better or worse, all of the things that she needs to. To be her. Which is not me.
So my task is to practice investing my care into my kids, even while knowing I can't predict the outcome, at least as much as I do into my dogs, where I can determine what happens. Human life, relationships, they're all about control. Relinquishing it, maintaining it - this has been my way of clinging to control. I need to learn how to stay involved even when I can't have the last word. This is probably the hardest and most worst thing for any parent. I'd rather wash my hands and walk away then share the burden of one of my kids Big Mistakes. But that's not why we're here. If my parents walked away from all of my Big Mistakes I would be hopelessly adrift. I was for awhile. It sucked. It's a terribly hard transition. To stay invested but not in charge. I don't like hard. I like easy. I like dogs on leashes in sunshine better than kids and tough decisions and letting go. But I've got both. And I need to own both, and love both, and be both. Rarr.
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