There's a wonderful man in my pottery class. Any man that spends more than five hours a week with a studio full of women must have something special within his heart. These women talk about everything from hot flashes to arguments with their husbands to nude cruises. And this man listens quietly, laughs occasionally, and always lends an ear and a hug when someone is in need.
He's also talented - he can take a lump of clay and turn it into a functional casserole dish within 15 minutes. And his work has that manly touch - he's not into delicate details or flourishes. For potluck he brings one of three phenomenal dishes - a chocolate cake that's more like fudge, firehouse meatballs from his firefighter days, or fruit salad. He invites his wife to every potluck, and never says or does anything even approaching inappropriate.
I find him refreshing, as do all of them women in my class. We adore him.
A few months ago he walked into class late, which is unusual. His eyes seemed a little puffy to me. He said his sister, Sissy, was sick. Come to find out, Sissy was very sick. Leukemia. She's younger than him, and his closest sibling, from what I understand.
They sent her to Duke. And that's never a good sign. I think we all, including him, knew it was only a matter of time. He and Sissy's husband took her to Duke and subsequent treatments locally. She met her newborn grandson. But several weeks ago she entered the hospital, and stopped eating.
I asked him each week how Sissy was doing. "Not good. But her spirits are good."
I skipped this last session of pottery class because of the holidays. My friend's sister died the next week. And I didn't know. I didn't know in time to attend the funeral like I had planned. And now I just don't know what to say. I'll call my teacher and get his number, and dial the phone. And then I'll probably begin to cry.
And it's not just crying for him, but for my fear of losing my sister.
I'm pretty sure my sister is the missing link to my DNA. She's got the street smarts, common sense and can read people. She can also add and subtract without using her fingers. All of these things evade me like a seasoned common criminal.
She's a second mother to my child, and I love her daughter like she's my own. I know it's clique, but my sister truly is beautiful inside and out, and is an inspiration. The only reason I know I could survive if something happened to either of my parents is because of my sister.
I'm relying on her to help me through life. And to do that, she needs to be here. Basically I'm praying that she outlives me. If something happened to her, I don't know how I would get through it.
So, when I call my dear friend tonight, I'm sure that lump in my throat will be about my sweet sister almost as much as it is about him.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Pickled Pigs Feet
People tell me I have a heightened sense of smell. My olfactory glands must be directly connected to my memory, because smelling specific scents springs memories to mind. And I think people are correct - I think I do have a powerful sniffer.
That's a good thing. And a bad thing. It's an especially bad thing when cooking something that just down right stinks.
Such as pickled pigs feet. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I have never, nor will I ever, dine on any sort of foot. No offense, but it just doesn't appeal to me one bit. Toe jam just isn't a flavor I'm up for experiencing.
But Jasen's grandfather, Buddy, loves pickled pigs feet. It's important to understand that this man lived in a home with a dirt floor when he was a child. It was during the Great Depression, and the family hid their chickens under the house so people wouldn't steal them. He ate turnips every night. Pickled pigs feet were a treat.
Pickled pigs feet are not easy to come by. I searched three grocery stores, and never found any. I did, however, find uncooked feet at Food Lion one day a few years back. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to cook Buddy a big pot of pickled pigs feet.
Yes, it was a sweet idea. But smart, absolutely not. The feet take hours to pickle. And you have to skim scum off of the top of the water every few minutes. Not to mention you actually have to handle a pigs foot.
But those issues pale in comparison to the smell. The smell singes your nose hairs. It creeps through the air, and before you know it has completely invaded your home.
The problem is that the smell invades so slowly that I didn't notice. Plus it was winter, and therefore I didn't think to open a window or door. My sister stopped by for a visit.
My sister doesn't share my olfactory gift. She does, however, posses a fairly strong gag reflex. She dry-heaved for half an hour before we went outside. Once we came back in, I dry-heaved for three days before the stink left.
I'll never cook pigs feet again. Believe it or not, Harris Teeter carries the feet pre-pickled. And so, every few weeks I pick up a jar, vow to the teenager ringing my order that I've never have and never will eat them, and surprise Buddy. He says they're not as tasty as my batch, but I'm thinking that's just too bad. My nose just can't take another pickling session with a swine's toe jam.
That's a good thing. And a bad thing. It's an especially bad thing when cooking something that just down right stinks.
Such as pickled pigs feet. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I have never, nor will I ever, dine on any sort of foot. No offense, but it just doesn't appeal to me one bit. Toe jam just isn't a flavor I'm up for experiencing.
But Jasen's grandfather, Buddy, loves pickled pigs feet. It's important to understand that this man lived in a home with a dirt floor when he was a child. It was during the Great Depression, and the family hid their chickens under the house so people wouldn't steal them. He ate turnips every night. Pickled pigs feet were a treat.
Pickled pigs feet are not easy to come by. I searched three grocery stores, and never found any. I did, however, find uncooked feet at Food Lion one day a few years back. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to cook Buddy a big pot of pickled pigs feet.
Yes, it was a sweet idea. But smart, absolutely not. The feet take hours to pickle. And you have to skim scum off of the top of the water every few minutes. Not to mention you actually have to handle a pigs foot.
But those issues pale in comparison to the smell. The smell singes your nose hairs. It creeps through the air, and before you know it has completely invaded your home.
The problem is that the smell invades so slowly that I didn't notice. Plus it was winter, and therefore I didn't think to open a window or door. My sister stopped by for a visit.
My sister doesn't share my olfactory gift. She does, however, posses a fairly strong gag reflex. She dry-heaved for half an hour before we went outside. Once we came back in, I dry-heaved for three days before the stink left.
I'll never cook pigs feet again. Believe it or not, Harris Teeter carries the feet pre-pickled. And so, every few weeks I pick up a jar, vow to the teenager ringing my order that I've never have and never will eat them, and surprise Buddy. He says they're not as tasty as my batch, but I'm thinking that's just too bad. My nose just can't take another pickling session with a swine's toe jam.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The Great Pooptastrophe of 2009 (and other innard exerpts)
It's amazing how our lives change with children. Whatever seems important in their world at the moment suddenly becomes paramount in our lives. Our everyday lives revolve around these tiny creatures and their entry into the world.
I assumed potty training would go like every other milestone in Juni's life: he'd find a way to make it as difficult as possible, but throw in a few laughs for comic relief and to keep me sane. I was correct.
Juni takes after his dad. No bladder control. And he has taken to peeing outdoors. And I'm not talking about on a tree in the woods. I'm talking about off our front porch. In front of my uber-clean friend, and at the beach on a holiday weekend.
He shows no shame. He once pulled his swim trunks down in front of my germiphobe friend and pooped in the rocks beside the pool. I asked him what he thought he was doing, and he replied "it's okay mommy. Just squirt the watergun up my my butt, and Duchess (our dog) will eat my poop." I didn't even know what to say after that.
Then there was the time he proclaimed "mommy! daddy! Come watch me poop! It's gonna be a big one!" When a potty training toddler asks you to check out his business, you check out his business. And I've got to admit...it was huge. Of epic proportions.
And there was the time he had an accident in his undies, and while in transit from the undies to the toilet the poop took an unexpected detour...to my son's head. It smacked him right upside the forehead. To this day I don't know how that happened, but it did. It bounced off his head and plopped itself right in the toilet. A perfect landing.
After a particularly large sushi meal of avocado roll, my husband once beckoned me into the bathroom to show off his son's prized poop. "Mommy! It's as big as a dragon's tail," Juni proclaimed. My redneck husband was so proud.
But nothing compares to the Pooptastrophe. Nothing.
I'll be the first to admit that the Pooptastrophe was my fault. Mine and Levi Strauss. Whomever decided it was a good idea to fasten a size 4t pair of jeans with a button in lieu of a snap needs to be slapped. Hard. With a large, dead fish. Right in their big, fat, non-toddler-thinking mouth.
Juni was just learning to center himself on the toilet. "I need privacy" became his favorite bathroom saying. And he meant it. The kid likes his privacy. So he'd sneak into the bathroom, and call me when he was ready for a good butt wipe. Never leave the job of wiping up to the toddler. You will absolutely find three results: a great loss of toilet paper followed by a severely clogged toilet, and a toddler with his finger in his ass, telling everyone who will listen that his butt itches. But I digress.
It was early morning, and I was busy checking the business email upstairs. I heard him close the bathroom door, which meant it was poop time. Then I heard him say "mommy! I need you help me peeze..." Of course I assumed he needed a wipe. I obviously assumed wrong. Very wrong.
You see, when a four-year-old boy has to poop, he waits until the last possible moment before leaving his toys. Using the toilet serves no purpose to that four-year-old, other than to interrupt his playing tractors. And so therefore, there is a very limited amount of time between when he begins moving toward the bathroom, and when the turtle head starts to pop out.
I hopped down the stairs about 30 seconds later and was hit in the face with two things. First, the smell of a very ripe bathroom. Second, the sight of my son, his urine-soaked pants around his ankles, a giant turd resting in his underwear, and his hands reaching down to pick it up.
Before I could mutter even the beginning of the word "stop!" Juni had grabbed the log, tossed it in the toilet, and was unravelling the toilet paper.
He'd made it to the potty on time only to find that his new pants didn't have a snap, but a grown-up button. He fumbled with the button, and my bathroom paid the price. I stripped him of his clothes, disinfected his hands, and began to scrub down the bathroom.
Too bad I didn't give him specific instructions to NOT make his own breakfast while I was cleaning up after the Great Pooptastrophe. When I finished the bathroom, I had a box of Nesquick, a bag of cereal, and a gallon of milk to mop off the floor.
Most of my experiences with Juni the Toddler make me laugh. Some make me cry. Others, like the Great Pooptastrophe of 2009, leave me in stitches. I learned something extremely important through the Pooptastrophe: Never ask a potty training toddler, especially a boy, to "hold on just a sec."
I assumed potty training would go like every other milestone in Juni's life: he'd find a way to make it as difficult as possible, but throw in a few laughs for comic relief and to keep me sane. I was correct.
Juni takes after his dad. No bladder control. And he has taken to peeing outdoors. And I'm not talking about on a tree in the woods. I'm talking about off our front porch. In front of my uber-clean friend, and at the beach on a holiday weekend.
He shows no shame. He once pulled his swim trunks down in front of my germiphobe friend and pooped in the rocks beside the pool. I asked him what he thought he was doing, and he replied "it's okay mommy. Just squirt the watergun up my my butt, and Duchess (our dog) will eat my poop." I didn't even know what to say after that.
Then there was the time he proclaimed "mommy! daddy! Come watch me poop! It's gonna be a big one!" When a potty training toddler asks you to check out his business, you check out his business. And I've got to admit...it was huge. Of epic proportions.
And there was the time he had an accident in his undies, and while in transit from the undies to the toilet the poop took an unexpected detour...to my son's head. It smacked him right upside the forehead. To this day I don't know how that happened, but it did. It bounced off his head and plopped itself right in the toilet. A perfect landing.
After a particularly large sushi meal of avocado roll, my husband once beckoned me into the bathroom to show off his son's prized poop. "Mommy! It's as big as a dragon's tail," Juni proclaimed. My redneck husband was so proud.
But nothing compares to the Pooptastrophe. Nothing.
I'll be the first to admit that the Pooptastrophe was my fault. Mine and Levi Strauss. Whomever decided it was a good idea to fasten a size 4t pair of jeans with a button in lieu of a snap needs to be slapped. Hard. With a large, dead fish. Right in their big, fat, non-toddler-thinking mouth.
Juni was just learning to center himself on the toilet. "I need privacy" became his favorite bathroom saying. And he meant it. The kid likes his privacy. So he'd sneak into the bathroom, and call me when he was ready for a good butt wipe. Never leave the job of wiping up to the toddler. You will absolutely find three results: a great loss of toilet paper followed by a severely clogged toilet, and a toddler with his finger in his ass, telling everyone who will listen that his butt itches. But I digress.
It was early morning, and I was busy checking the business email upstairs. I heard him close the bathroom door, which meant it was poop time. Then I heard him say "mommy! I need you help me peeze..." Of course I assumed he needed a wipe. I obviously assumed wrong. Very wrong.
You see, when a four-year-old boy has to poop, he waits until the last possible moment before leaving his toys. Using the toilet serves no purpose to that four-year-old, other than to interrupt his playing tractors. And so therefore, there is a very limited amount of time between when he begins moving toward the bathroom, and when the turtle head starts to pop out.
I hopped down the stairs about 30 seconds later and was hit in the face with two things. First, the smell of a very ripe bathroom. Second, the sight of my son, his urine-soaked pants around his ankles, a giant turd resting in his underwear, and his hands reaching down to pick it up.
Before I could mutter even the beginning of the word "stop!" Juni had grabbed the log, tossed it in the toilet, and was unravelling the toilet paper.
He'd made it to the potty on time only to find that his new pants didn't have a snap, but a grown-up button. He fumbled with the button, and my bathroom paid the price. I stripped him of his clothes, disinfected his hands, and began to scrub down the bathroom.
Too bad I didn't give him specific instructions to NOT make his own breakfast while I was cleaning up after the Great Pooptastrophe. When I finished the bathroom, I had a box of Nesquick, a bag of cereal, and a gallon of milk to mop off the floor.
Most of my experiences with Juni the Toddler make me laugh. Some make me cry. Others, like the Great Pooptastrophe of 2009, leave me in stitches. I learned something extremely important through the Pooptastrophe: Never ask a potty training toddler, especially a boy, to "hold on just a sec."
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Crying Cows
Cows are amazing, sweet, docile creatures. In the winter, while they chew their hay, I like to close my eyes, smell the hay and listen. It's peaceful. And sounds surprisingly like water lapping against a bulkhead.
We raise gelbeigh cows. They're a large, sweet breed with a tuft of curly hair right in between their ears and large, dark eyes.
Occasionally I'll peek out my window and cuss those sweet creatures for romping across my back yard, chomping my garden or stomping holes in the yard. But they rarely escape, and it's usually the calves that find the way out.
Yesterday we rounded up 12 of our 18 cattle and took them to the market. It took three strong and one 85-year-old wise man to load them into the stock trailers. Cows don't like to be rushed. They don't like change. And they're not stupid. Humane slaughter houses build a maze of walls leading to the end. Otherwise, the cows will refuse to move forward.
Our cows will go anywhere there's grain, since they are mostly pasture-fed. When it was all over, we had one man headed to the hospital for a suspected (but luckily not) broken hand, an exhausted 85-year-old, my redneck husband covered in cow crap, and his brother looking at a two hour drive to the market and back.
Most of our cows will face slaughter. A few of the bulls will go on to wonderful lives as breeding stock, and maybe one or two of the young female calves will join them. But for the most part, by the time they leave our pasture, they're past their prime and have trouble keeping their weight. Some of them can be a pretty sorry sight after 15 years of bearing a calf every 15 months.
The day the cows leave doesn't bother me. I don't name the ones that will leave. I name the ones that stay. Daisy will always stay. I can't find anyone who knows the natural life expectancy of a cow. I'm assuming that's because no one is insane enough to keep a cow as a pet. But I don't care. She may have horns, but she's sweet, and loving, and mine.
It's the night after the cows leave. One of the female cows had her calf leave, and one of the calves we kept lost its mother. And they cry. Nonstop. For at least three days. They only time they stop calling for their mothers and babies is while they eat. Which means they woke me up at 3 a.m. last night, crying outside my bedroom window.
This morning, their cries were a little less loud. That's because their throats become sore from strain. Tonight, they sound like a robotic version of themselves. Their voice wanes in and out. And by tomorrow morning, half of their cries will come out silent. But still, they cry.
Daisy's calf died a few weeks after its birth last spring. It's not unusual, but heartbreaking. She nudged it, sniffed it, pawed at it with her hooves. She cried to it for a day, until Jasen came home from work to haul it into the woods. Daisy charged the ATV, and he had to whack her between her horns with a shovel. He wasn't trying to be mean, but let's face it...a charging half-ton cow with horns is not exactly easy to handle. She shook her head, and kept running after her calf. But she couldn't keep up. Her utters were too full of milk, and she stopped about 10 yards from the gate. She stood there for almost two days, crying for her calf. Searching for a way into the woods.
People tell me I give my animals human emotions that they can't possess. But I don't know. It seems very human to me to cry for a lost baby. It seems very human to me to mourn for a lost loved one. And it seems very human to me to fear the unknown and to sense death.
I feel more pain for my animals because I assign these human emotions. But I think I also find more joy in them as well. And I know we can't keep every cow or save every calf or house every stray. But for the ones we do keep, it's a pretty good life. Especially when they break into the young fall garden.
We raise gelbeigh cows. They're a large, sweet breed with a tuft of curly hair right in between their ears and large, dark eyes.
Occasionally I'll peek out my window and cuss those sweet creatures for romping across my back yard, chomping my garden or stomping holes in the yard. But they rarely escape, and it's usually the calves that find the way out.
Yesterday we rounded up 12 of our 18 cattle and took them to the market. It took three strong and one 85-year-old wise man to load them into the stock trailers. Cows don't like to be rushed. They don't like change. And they're not stupid. Humane slaughter houses build a maze of walls leading to the end. Otherwise, the cows will refuse to move forward.
Our cows will go anywhere there's grain, since they are mostly pasture-fed. When it was all over, we had one man headed to the hospital for a suspected (but luckily not) broken hand, an exhausted 85-year-old, my redneck husband covered in cow crap, and his brother looking at a two hour drive to the market and back.
Most of our cows will face slaughter. A few of the bulls will go on to wonderful lives as breeding stock, and maybe one or two of the young female calves will join them. But for the most part, by the time they leave our pasture, they're past their prime and have trouble keeping their weight. Some of them can be a pretty sorry sight after 15 years of bearing a calf every 15 months.
The day the cows leave doesn't bother me. I don't name the ones that will leave. I name the ones that stay. Daisy will always stay. I can't find anyone who knows the natural life expectancy of a cow. I'm assuming that's because no one is insane enough to keep a cow as a pet. But I don't care. She may have horns, but she's sweet, and loving, and mine.
It's the night after the cows leave. One of the female cows had her calf leave, and one of the calves we kept lost its mother. And they cry. Nonstop. For at least three days. They only time they stop calling for their mothers and babies is while they eat. Which means they woke me up at 3 a.m. last night, crying outside my bedroom window.
This morning, their cries were a little less loud. That's because their throats become sore from strain. Tonight, they sound like a robotic version of themselves. Their voice wanes in and out. And by tomorrow morning, half of their cries will come out silent. But still, they cry.
Daisy's calf died a few weeks after its birth last spring. It's not unusual, but heartbreaking. She nudged it, sniffed it, pawed at it with her hooves. She cried to it for a day, until Jasen came home from work to haul it into the woods. Daisy charged the ATV, and he had to whack her between her horns with a shovel. He wasn't trying to be mean, but let's face it...a charging half-ton cow with horns is not exactly easy to handle. She shook her head, and kept running after her calf. But she couldn't keep up. Her utters were too full of milk, and she stopped about 10 yards from the gate. She stood there for almost two days, crying for her calf. Searching for a way into the woods.
People tell me I give my animals human emotions that they can't possess. But I don't know. It seems very human to me to cry for a lost baby. It seems very human to me to mourn for a lost loved one. And it seems very human to me to fear the unknown and to sense death.
I feel more pain for my animals because I assign these human emotions. But I think I also find more joy in them as well. And I know we can't keep every cow or save every calf or house every stray. But for the ones we do keep, it's a pretty good life. Especially when they break into the young fall garden.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
How King Neptune Kicked my Arse
Yesterday was one of those days that in retrospect was splendid and torture at the same time. I took Juni to the Neptune Festival - a 45 minute drive down to the Virginia Beach boardwalk. It took 45 minutes to get there, and another 45 minutes to find a parking spot. We ended at 33rd street, where the festival ended.
We watched the parade, played in the sand and surf, ate hot dogs and kettle corn. He ran around and squealed at dogs, and around 20th street we bought a John Deere chair he's had his eye on for some time.
We both planned to see the sand sculptures. These people are not playing around with this sand. They use (literally) tons of sand and creative supplies. It's amazing.
It also began at 12th street. We walked the boardwalk until we hit the sand sculpture. The hike took about 2 hours, but we were lallygagging half the way. He saw a few castles, and then decided to hit the park on the beach. I knew we were flirting with danger ... by this time it was nearly 2 p.m. Time for toddler tantrums and over tiredness. Of course younger child ripped out a huge handful of Juni's hair, and he cried for 30 minutes both from the pain and embarrassment. I don't know where this kid's parents were, but if I ever find them they should run. Fast.
That was the end of the fun. We came off the boardwalk and onto the street at 8th street. Our car was on 33rd street. You do the math. That's a long way, especially after walking from 8th to 33rd (13 blocks with a wooden JD chair in tow).
It's offseason at the beach now. This means no taxis. No trolley. And apparently, none of those guys with bikes that tow you around. So we began to walk.
We made it to 12th street before we suffered our first tantrum. I had one arm to hoist him onto my hip. We'd also acquired a kite, reel and half-full bag of kettle corn to tote around.
The second tantrum began at 13th street and pretty much ended at the car. It sucked. I made the executive decision to make the hike one street off of the main drag so his tantrums wouldn't be quite to horrible without toy stores in sight.
My only option was the scoop and run. I carried this kid from 13st street to 33rd street. Let's do the math again. That a really friggin long way with a chair, kite, reel of string, kettle corn, purse and 38 lb dead-weight toddler. I switched arms as much as possible, and we took breaks.
Desperation began to take over. We were tired. Sweaty. And the Tech game started in 30 minutes. Each block seemed like a mile. I began to fantasize about hitching a ride with a nice, non-homicidal-looking elderly couple, or bribing some kids to carry him part of the way, or hitching a ride in someone else's stroller.
A marine, his wife and daughter were in the same situation. The man had a hurt foot, and hobbled behind his wife who toted their daughter. We'd pass them, they'd pass us, we'd pass them. And we were all three bitching the whole way.
When I saw our car it was like a mirage. That pool of water in the desert. My patience was shot. So were my arms, knees, neck and back. I drove home, listening to Tech whip Miami while Juni napped in the back.
The last time my body felt this sore was when Jasen and I rafted down the upper Gauley river in W. Va. I pretty much feel like I've ran a marathon.
But I'm glad I did it. Juni and I are a team. We have our great kettle corn moments, and then our disastrous tantrums on the corner of Atlantic and 17th. But it's worth it. Life is good.
We watched the parade, played in the sand and surf, ate hot dogs and kettle corn. He ran around and squealed at dogs, and around 20th street we bought a John Deere chair he's had his eye on for some time.
We both planned to see the sand sculptures. These people are not playing around with this sand. They use (literally) tons of sand and creative supplies. It's amazing.
It also began at 12th street. We walked the boardwalk until we hit the sand sculpture. The hike took about 2 hours, but we were lallygagging half the way. He saw a few castles, and then decided to hit the park on the beach. I knew we were flirting with danger ... by this time it was nearly 2 p.m. Time for toddler tantrums and over tiredness. Of course younger child ripped out a huge handful of Juni's hair, and he cried for 30 minutes both from the pain and embarrassment. I don't know where this kid's parents were, but if I ever find them they should run. Fast.
That was the end of the fun. We came off the boardwalk and onto the street at 8th street. Our car was on 33rd street. You do the math. That's a long way, especially after walking from 8th to 33rd (13 blocks with a wooden JD chair in tow).
It's offseason at the beach now. This means no taxis. No trolley. And apparently, none of those guys with bikes that tow you around. So we began to walk.
We made it to 12th street before we suffered our first tantrum. I had one arm to hoist him onto my hip. We'd also acquired a kite, reel and half-full bag of kettle corn to tote around.
The second tantrum began at 13th street and pretty much ended at the car. It sucked. I made the executive decision to make the hike one street off of the main drag so his tantrums wouldn't be quite to horrible without toy stores in sight.
My only option was the scoop and run. I carried this kid from 13st street to 33rd street. Let's do the math again. That a really friggin long way with a chair, kite, reel of string, kettle corn, purse and 38 lb dead-weight toddler. I switched arms as much as possible, and we took breaks.
Desperation began to take over. We were tired. Sweaty. And the Tech game started in 30 minutes. Each block seemed like a mile. I began to fantasize about hitching a ride with a nice, non-homicidal-looking elderly couple, or bribing some kids to carry him part of the way, or hitching a ride in someone else's stroller.
A marine, his wife and daughter were in the same situation. The man had a hurt foot, and hobbled behind his wife who toted their daughter. We'd pass them, they'd pass us, we'd pass them. And we were all three bitching the whole way.
When I saw our car it was like a mirage. That pool of water in the desert. My patience was shot. So were my arms, knees, neck and back. I drove home, listening to Tech whip Miami while Juni napped in the back.
The last time my body felt this sore was when Jasen and I rafted down the upper Gauley river in W. Va. I pretty much feel like I've ran a marathon.
But I'm glad I did it. Juni and I are a team. We have our great kettle corn moments, and then our disastrous tantrums on the corner of Atlantic and 17th. But it's worth it. Life is good.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Who Stole the F'in Cookies?...
Jasen and Juni did the grocery shopping this week. I was just too much of a wreck after loosing Shelby. They came back with three things: a 3 lb bag of shredded mozzarella cheese, chocolate oatmeal cookie dough, and that frozen cookie dough that is already in the shape of cookies, so you can bake one or 12.
I love cookie dough. Especially sugar cookie dough. I could eat it at least 3 times a day. My husband knows this, and therefore never keeps it in the house. He knows I'd eat it and then blame him for bringing the evil substance into my home.
Jasen and Juni had cookies that night, and I will admit I had two. I also fully admit I ate a raw one just before bed. It was probably midnight or so. The next night, Juni asked for the sugar cookies, and Jasen couldn't find them. He asked me, I said I'd eaten one the night before, and that I'd also returned them to the freezer.
My redneck husband proceeded to tell me that cookies don't just walk away. Someone took them. And that someone was me. He actually accused me not only of eating 12 raw cookies, but then hiding the empty wrapper in the trash, and then lying about it. Are you kidding me? I pretty much shut down at that point. I could care less where the cookies were, and figured Juni had put them someone in a pretend kitchen. I was sure we'd find them by following either the smell or ants in a few weeks.
But my husband, at 8 p.m., actually went outside to the big trash can, and dug through it. Because he thought his wife would actually eat that much and hide the evidence. My feelings were definitely crushed, but beyond that I was just plain pissed. Thirty minutes and 55 arguments later Jasen found said cookie dough in the freezer; it had just fallen under the drawer.
I asked for an apology, and he refused. Said he still thinks it's something I would do. I still don't think he realizes why I've been pretty much silent to him for the past three days. He goes through these phases where he'll just completely become agitated at me for no reason, and then ride my butt like ... well I don't even know what. He's in one of those phases where I'm supposed to cook dinner, cut the grass, do the paperwork for the business, run all the errands, clean the house, be where and do what he needs at a moments notice and ... oh yeah ... raise a human being to be a positive addition to the human race. No biggie...I may not speak to him for another 6 days, but I've totally got this under control...
I love cookie dough. Especially sugar cookie dough. I could eat it at least 3 times a day. My husband knows this, and therefore never keeps it in the house. He knows I'd eat it and then blame him for bringing the evil substance into my home.
Jasen and Juni had cookies that night, and I will admit I had two. I also fully admit I ate a raw one just before bed. It was probably midnight or so. The next night, Juni asked for the sugar cookies, and Jasen couldn't find them. He asked me, I said I'd eaten one the night before, and that I'd also returned them to the freezer.
My redneck husband proceeded to tell me that cookies don't just walk away. Someone took them. And that someone was me. He actually accused me not only of eating 12 raw cookies, but then hiding the empty wrapper in the trash, and then lying about it. Are you kidding me? I pretty much shut down at that point. I could care less where the cookies were, and figured Juni had put them someone in a pretend kitchen. I was sure we'd find them by following either the smell or ants in a few weeks.
But my husband, at 8 p.m., actually went outside to the big trash can, and dug through it. Because he thought his wife would actually eat that much and hide the evidence. My feelings were definitely crushed, but beyond that I was just plain pissed. Thirty minutes and 55 arguments later Jasen found said cookie dough in the freezer; it had just fallen under the drawer.
I asked for an apology, and he refused. Said he still thinks it's something I would do. I still don't think he realizes why I've been pretty much silent to him for the past three days. He goes through these phases where he'll just completely become agitated at me for no reason, and then ride my butt like ... well I don't even know what. He's in one of those phases where I'm supposed to cook dinner, cut the grass, do the paperwork for the business, run all the errands, clean the house, be where and do what he needs at a moments notice and ... oh yeah ... raise a human being to be a positive addition to the human race. No biggie...I may not speak to him for another 6 days, but I've totally got this under control...
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
What's wrong with your eyes?
My baby Shelby Sue (my Sheltie I'd had since college) passed away last week. It was horribly traumatic, and I'm heartbroken. I'm definitely not ready to blog about that day yet, but when I am, I definitely believe it will help me heal. In the meantime, I'll post some more uplifting stories. Here's one from the day after Shelby died. I'd cried for the entire night, and much of the morning before dropping my son off at preschool and going to my pottery class. I knew I needed to be around people who loved their dogs as much as I do...
The last day of each session we have a potluck for lunch in class. This week, I wanted to bake a cake and decorate it for our instructor's birthday. Ron, a retired fireman (about 60 or so) usually makes a chocolate cake, but I really wanted to try my hand at baking this new recipe. So he let me take the task.
I walked into pottery, and he immediately asked, when I plopped down a Farm Fresh cake on the table "Where's this great cake you promised? I thought you were going to bake and decorate all morning for us?"
Let me make it perfectly clear that Ron is one of the kindest, sweetest men. He's in a class with 10 women ranging in age from 31 to 89, so he's heard it all and laughs every bit of it off. All I could squeak out was "I had a bad day."
I had my back turned to him, so he continued to make fun of me. Until I turned around, tears streaming down my face. He felt so bad that he grinded down all of my sharp edges of my pottery.
My instructor told me the story of when she smothered her favorite bird in a pullout couch, and she cried.
But here's the absolute best story. Definitely the best. Peggy is pushing 80, and the first time I met her, she asked me "so what's the deal with crystal meth?" Like I would know. Then she proceeded to describe the nude cruise she and her husband had just taken. Told me she was tired of private parts right next to the buffet line.
Anyway, Peggy told me the story of her friend, who's husband had passed away. She'd invited a man to live with her, and he was also 80. She was slowly backing out of her garage, when she hit something. Hard. And something big. It was her boyfriend. This woman ran OVER her 80-year-old boyfriend, who had collapsed and passed out from a heart attack.
I asked Peggy if he'd died, and she said "yes. I'm sure it was a combination of both a heart attack and being run over by a car. Either way, it's pretty damn funny when you think about it."
That was the first and only time I smiled that day.
The last day of each session we have a potluck for lunch in class. This week, I wanted to bake a cake and decorate it for our instructor's birthday. Ron, a retired fireman (about 60 or so) usually makes a chocolate cake, but I really wanted to try my hand at baking this new recipe. So he let me take the task.
I walked into pottery, and he immediately asked, when I plopped down a Farm Fresh cake on the table "Where's this great cake you promised? I thought you were going to bake and decorate all morning for us?"
Let me make it perfectly clear that Ron is one of the kindest, sweetest men. He's in a class with 10 women ranging in age from 31 to 89, so he's heard it all and laughs every bit of it off. All I could squeak out was "I had a bad day."
I had my back turned to him, so he continued to make fun of me. Until I turned around, tears streaming down my face. He felt so bad that he grinded down all of my sharp edges of my pottery.
My instructor told me the story of when she smothered her favorite bird in a pullout couch, and she cried.
But here's the absolute best story. Definitely the best. Peggy is pushing 80, and the first time I met her, she asked me "so what's the deal with crystal meth?" Like I would know. Then she proceeded to describe the nude cruise she and her husband had just taken. Told me she was tired of private parts right next to the buffet line.
Anyway, Peggy told me the story of her friend, who's husband had passed away. She'd invited a man to live with her, and he was also 80. She was slowly backing out of her garage, when she hit something. Hard. And something big. It was her boyfriend. This woman ran OVER her 80-year-old boyfriend, who had collapsed and passed out from a heart attack.
I asked Peggy if he'd died, and she said "yes. I'm sure it was a combination of both a heart attack and being run over by a car. Either way, it's pretty damn funny when you think about it."
That was the first and only time I smiled that day.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Juni the Toddler goes to School
Last night I tucked Juni into bed and he fell immediately asleep. I, on the other hand, didn't turn off the light until after 1 a.m. He wasn't nervous about meeting new kids, listening to new rules from new teachers, a new classroom with new expectations, or having his bus moved from the green light on the blackboard to the yellow or (gasp) the red.
Juni didn't have those wasps in his tummy or racing thoughts in his mind. He felt sad that his best friend wouldn't be in his class, but the thought of legos in the classroom hushed that hesitation.
Juni felt no anxiety over beginning preschool. It was me.
I don't think I went to preschool. If I did, I don't remember. I do, however, remember my first day of kindergarten. The Sesame Street toy. Nap time. Play time. Letter time. I remember hiding on the school bus, because I didn't want to go home. I wanted to go back to school. I remember my mom's face after she'd chased the bus back to the school, sick and frazzled with worry about her missing daughter, who was comfortably wedged beneath the seat along with old gummy bears and snack packs.
I loved school. Hopefully, my son will take after me and love school too. Today he would act excited one moment and nervous the next. I was the last mommy to leave the room, but he didn't cry. Hopefully, as I type, Juni is sitting next to his new best friend. Hopefully, Juni is learning that he likes school. Hopefully, Juni is learning that Mommy's anxiety about change doesn't have to transfer to him.
Here's the poem his teacher handed me as I rushed out the door, both happy and sad.
The First Day
I gave you a little wink and smile as you entered my room today. For I know how hard it is to leave, and know your child must stay.
You've been with him for three years now and have been a loving guide, but now, alas, the time has come to leave him at my side.
Just know that as you drive away, and tears down your cheeks may flow; I'll love him as I would my own, and help him learn and grown. For as a parent, I too know, how quickly the years do pass; and that one day soon it will be my turn to take my child to class.
So please put your mind at east and cry those tears no more. For I will love him and take him in when you leave him at my door.
Juni didn't have those wasps in his tummy or racing thoughts in his mind. He felt sad that his best friend wouldn't be in his class, but the thought of legos in the classroom hushed that hesitation.
Juni felt no anxiety over beginning preschool. It was me.
I don't think I went to preschool. If I did, I don't remember. I do, however, remember my first day of kindergarten. The Sesame Street toy. Nap time. Play time. Letter time. I remember hiding on the school bus, because I didn't want to go home. I wanted to go back to school. I remember my mom's face after she'd chased the bus back to the school, sick and frazzled with worry about her missing daughter, who was comfortably wedged beneath the seat along with old gummy bears and snack packs.
I loved school. Hopefully, my son will take after me and love school too. Today he would act excited one moment and nervous the next. I was the last mommy to leave the room, but he didn't cry. Hopefully, as I type, Juni is sitting next to his new best friend. Hopefully, Juni is learning that he likes school. Hopefully, Juni is learning that Mommy's anxiety about change doesn't have to transfer to him.
Here's the poem his teacher handed me as I rushed out the door, both happy and sad.
The First Day
I gave you a little wink and smile as you entered my room today. For I know how hard it is to leave, and know your child must stay.
You've been with him for three years now and have been a loving guide, but now, alas, the time has come to leave him at my side.
Just know that as you drive away, and tears down your cheeks may flow; I'll love him as I would my own, and help him learn and grown. For as a parent, I too know, how quickly the years do pass; and that one day soon it will be my turn to take my child to class.
So please put your mind at east and cry those tears no more. For I will love him and take him in when you leave him at my door.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Feta Face
Our home is filled with smells. Candles, baking cookies in the winter, maybe a nice dinner in the crock pot.
And the smell of my boys. Of course by boys I mean my redneck husband and our son. My son refuses to wear socks with his new "big boy" shoes. He picked them out himself, and has decided it's a fashion statement to either wear just one sock, or none.
I love the shoes. They're skater shoes with a skull and cross-bones on the toe. Very grown up. And so is the smell. Wearing no socks is not a good thing for a boy, apparently. We were driving in the car the other day when he kicked off his shoes. I seriously almost fainted. Jasen didn't even notice the smell, and I'm driving with my head out the window like the neighbor's dog.
I shouldn't have been shocked. He takes after his father. Not that my husband has stinky feet. In fact, he has the softest, best-smelling feet ever. It's just not fair that a man has such silky feet. But when he eats butter, it's a different story.
My husband could grown a full beard at age 14. I kid you not. I took him to my junior prom and people called him Grisly Adams. The man has hair on every inch of his body. Now he has a goatee.
Butter and goatees do not mix. When they do mix, it creates a smell just like that of feta cheese. I know this, because my husband gets what we call "feta face" after eating artichokes dipped in butter, buttered corn, basically anything that would allow butter to get on his hair.
We coined the term a few years ago when we were newly married. He'd never tried artichokes, and I love them. We had a great night, and snuggled in on the couch for some kissy-face. And then we smelled it. I was scared it was me, he was scared it was him. We ignored it for a few minutes, but just couldn't stand it. Both of us blurted out in unison "WTF is that SMELL?" He smelled my hair, I smelled his shirt. We smelled everything around the couch. We couldn't figure it out. Until we kissed again. It was his goatee. His friggin goatee smelled like feta cheese.
Today we have found no remedy for feta face. Dove, Pantene, rubbing alcohol. Nothing washes or strips the smell away. And it's only real butter that does it. If we use a spread, feta face doesn't show himself. So no butter will ever find itself on an artichoke, corn or any other food that could cover his hair. And if my redneck husband does decide to indulge in that wonderful buttery dip, my lips are off limits. Feta Face is not someone I'm big on making out with.
And the smell of my boys. Of course by boys I mean my redneck husband and our son. My son refuses to wear socks with his new "big boy" shoes. He picked them out himself, and has decided it's a fashion statement to either wear just one sock, or none.
I love the shoes. They're skater shoes with a skull and cross-bones on the toe. Very grown up. And so is the smell. Wearing no socks is not a good thing for a boy, apparently. We were driving in the car the other day when he kicked off his shoes. I seriously almost fainted. Jasen didn't even notice the smell, and I'm driving with my head out the window like the neighbor's dog.
I shouldn't have been shocked. He takes after his father. Not that my husband has stinky feet. In fact, he has the softest, best-smelling feet ever. It's just not fair that a man has such silky feet. But when he eats butter, it's a different story.
My husband could grown a full beard at age 14. I kid you not. I took him to my junior prom and people called him Grisly Adams. The man has hair on every inch of his body. Now he has a goatee.
Butter and goatees do not mix. When they do mix, it creates a smell just like that of feta cheese. I know this, because my husband gets what we call "feta face" after eating artichokes dipped in butter, buttered corn, basically anything that would allow butter to get on his hair.
We coined the term a few years ago when we were newly married. He'd never tried artichokes, and I love them. We had a great night, and snuggled in on the couch for some kissy-face. And then we smelled it. I was scared it was me, he was scared it was him. We ignored it for a few minutes, but just couldn't stand it. Both of us blurted out in unison "WTF is that SMELL?" He smelled my hair, I smelled his shirt. We smelled everything around the couch. We couldn't figure it out. Until we kissed again. It was his goatee. His friggin goatee smelled like feta cheese.
Today we have found no remedy for feta face. Dove, Pantene, rubbing alcohol. Nothing washes or strips the smell away. And it's only real butter that does it. If we use a spread, feta face doesn't show himself. So no butter will ever find itself on an artichoke, corn or any other food that could cover his hair. And if my redneck husband does decide to indulge in that wonderful buttery dip, my lips are off limits. Feta Face is not someone I'm big on making out with.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Worst Pickup Line Ever: Did I Crap my Pants?
My husband is not the most romantic man in the world. Don't get me wrong...he buys me more diamonds than I can wear in a week. Before we got married, he'd bring home roses for no reason. He picks out wonderful cards. But I'm pretty sure rednecks aren't allowed to be but so romantic.
With that said, I remembered one of our first dates and couldn't help but laugh. He was taking me to dinner. Of course he was driving his obscenely large F350 teal dually. I'm thinking he must have eaten some sort of Mexican fare for lunch, or some other gassy cuisine, because he just couldn't hold it in.
Now that we've been married for six years, he thinks nothing of burning my nose hairs with his ass. But at the time, he tried to keep things smelling pleasant.
So we're driving down the road, and he says to me "I've got to pull over for a minute. I think I just crapped my pants." I reply "are you kidding me?"
Obviously not. He pulled the truck over, stuck his butt in the air, and asked me if his jeans had a spot.
Of course he didn't crap his pants. He's an adult, and adults don't crap their paints, right? Wrong.
Fast-forward about two years. We're newly married, and lying on the couch. I had my head in his lap, and smelled something funky. Being newly married, I didn't say anything, and in the back of my head worried if it was me.
The next night, I took my spot on the couch, my head again in his lap. And there it was. That smell. What the heck is that smell? Again, I went to bed and tried to not think about what it could be.
The next day I was sorting laundry, and came across the offender. His comfy flannel pants that he wore at night. Apparently, someone had crapped their pants several nights ago, and never realized it.
How can an adult NOT realize crapping their pants? To this day I seriously have no idea. What I do know is that I gingerly picked them up by the pant cuff and ran to the outside trash can. That night I started laughing uncontrollably when I explained the smell, my reaction, and my discovery.
And my redneck husband proceeded to ask me why I threw the pants away. "They were really comfortable," he said. Yea. Too comfortable, if you ask me.
With that said, I remembered one of our first dates and couldn't help but laugh. He was taking me to dinner. Of course he was driving his obscenely large F350 teal dually. I'm thinking he must have eaten some sort of Mexican fare for lunch, or some other gassy cuisine, because he just couldn't hold it in.
Now that we've been married for six years, he thinks nothing of burning my nose hairs with his ass. But at the time, he tried to keep things smelling pleasant.
So we're driving down the road, and he says to me "I've got to pull over for a minute. I think I just crapped my pants." I reply "are you kidding me?"
Obviously not. He pulled the truck over, stuck his butt in the air, and asked me if his jeans had a spot.
Of course he didn't crap his pants. He's an adult, and adults don't crap their paints, right? Wrong.
Fast-forward about two years. We're newly married, and lying on the couch. I had my head in his lap, and smelled something funky. Being newly married, I didn't say anything, and in the back of my head worried if it was me.
The next night, I took my spot on the couch, my head again in his lap. And there it was. That smell. What the heck is that smell? Again, I went to bed and tried to not think about what it could be.
The next day I was sorting laundry, and came across the offender. His comfy flannel pants that he wore at night. Apparently, someone had crapped their pants several nights ago, and never realized it.
How can an adult NOT realize crapping their pants? To this day I seriously have no idea. What I do know is that I gingerly picked them up by the pant cuff and ran to the outside trash can. That night I started laughing uncontrollably when I explained the smell, my reaction, and my discovery.
And my redneck husband proceeded to ask me why I threw the pants away. "They were really comfortable," he said. Yea. Too comfortable, if you ask me.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Visions of Sugar Plums...and Dead Babies...in my Head
I've battled a fairly severe panic disorder for as long as I can remember. Pregnancy shoved my panic into overdrive.
Once Juni was born, my panic morphed. I didn't suffer from the never-ending attacks as much. But at night, rocking my new baby, my body aching from less sleep than anyone thought was humanly possible, my panic tortured me in a totally different way.
I began having visions of my baby, dead in my arms. I'm in the hospital, refusing to let him go. I know he's dead, but he's still warm. I can't let go. I can't stop crying. I can't stop talking to him. I can't stop stroking his skin. I can't let the nurses rip him from my protective arms.
Juni is three-and-a-half, and I still have the same vision, with me clutching his toddler-sized, limp body in my arms. It's the worst kind of panic attack. It's the kind no pharmaceutical company can develop a pill to cure. It's the kind of panic attack only a mother must suffer.
Once Juni was born, my panic morphed. I didn't suffer from the never-ending attacks as much. But at night, rocking my new baby, my body aching from less sleep than anyone thought was humanly possible, my panic tortured me in a totally different way.
I began having visions of my baby, dead in my arms. I'm in the hospital, refusing to let him go. I know he's dead, but he's still warm. I can't let go. I can't stop crying. I can't stop talking to him. I can't stop stroking his skin. I can't let the nurses rip him from my protective arms.
Juni is three-and-a-half, and I still have the same vision, with me clutching his toddler-sized, limp body in my arms. It's the worst kind of panic attack. It's the kind no pharmaceutical company can develop a pill to cure. It's the kind of panic attack only a mother must suffer.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Burying Joe
We buried my husband's great uncle today. The same man who's home I searched for a will.
I met the man only once, but nonetheless cried. The graveside service was short and simple. No tears.
A french horn played Taps. Still no tears. The flag was folded, and my eyes remained dry. But then the officer began to present the flag to Joe's nephew, to whom he'd left everything. The nephew quickly directed them toward Jasen's grandfather, Joe's only living sibling, and presented the 85-year-old with the flag of his youngest brother.
A single tear slid from his eye, and I started to cry. He hadn't expected the flag, and I hadn't expected him to shed a tear. Buddy (Jasen's grandfather) stood after the service, bowed his head and placed his right hand on the casket. I don't know what he said, and it didn't matter. My throat was tight and the tears welled on the lower rims of my sunglasses.
He turned around, and said to his granddaughter that he was all alone; that he was the last of his siblings, and began to walk away from the grave site. He used the casket to steady himself on the uneven ground and clutched the folded flag to his chest. That was pretty much the end of my mascara.
I couldn't help but think of my maternal grandfather's funeral. He passed away almost 10 years ago, while I was a sophomore at Tech.
For as long as I can remember, grandad was dying. His first surgery cut out his prostate and bladder when my mom was pregnant. His chest looked like someone gutted him with a dull fillet knife and stitched him back together with shoe laces.
He fought that cancer for another 20 years. Even at age 80, they continued the surgeries, removing most of his stomach and intestines. Doctors placed him in a drug-induced coma because he became combative with the doctors and nurses. That lasted for almost two months when they began to slowly bring him to consciousness.
The day he died, he asked to see his wife, my Granny, who was flirting with the young doctors in the hallway. They helped him to a wheelchair, and pushed him next to her. He said he wanted a kiss, and she obliged. And then he closed his eyes and took his last breath.
I know it sounds like something out of a romance novel, but that's the story my mom told me, as told to her by my Granny. Completely true or not, it doesn't matter to me. What matters is the thought. That we all need one last kiss from our love before leaving.
At first I didn't want to make the trip to Arlington for his funeral. I'm glad I did.
I still don't think I understand the honor that comes with an Arlington funeral. His grave is within walking distance of the Pentagon, and I know he's loving that, the political buff he was. I still remember my Granny, frail and thin from his long stay in the Naval hospital. For the first time in my life, I realized I was taller than her. She looked so tiny, taking that flag from the officer.
I didn't cry until the horn played Taps, and they began the 21-gun salute. With each ear-piercing shot, his death became more real. The smoke cleared from the gun barrels, and it was over. He was gone.
I don't deal with death well. I don't understand it, I can't rationalize it, and my faith isn't strong enough to lean on. I'm hoping a better understanding and acceptance comes with age.
People who are left suddenly alone seem so small, no matter what their stature. They've been beaten and battered. They've had their spirit broken, and are left to redefine their lives.
I left the funeral today crying not just for Joe and Buddy, but for everyone in my life I've lost, and everyone in my life I could loose.
I met the man only once, but nonetheless cried. The graveside service was short and simple. No tears.
A french horn played Taps. Still no tears. The flag was folded, and my eyes remained dry. But then the officer began to present the flag to Joe's nephew, to whom he'd left everything. The nephew quickly directed them toward Jasen's grandfather, Joe's only living sibling, and presented the 85-year-old with the flag of his youngest brother.
A single tear slid from his eye, and I started to cry. He hadn't expected the flag, and I hadn't expected him to shed a tear. Buddy (Jasen's grandfather) stood after the service, bowed his head and placed his right hand on the casket. I don't know what he said, and it didn't matter. My throat was tight and the tears welled on the lower rims of my sunglasses.
He turned around, and said to his granddaughter that he was all alone; that he was the last of his siblings, and began to walk away from the grave site. He used the casket to steady himself on the uneven ground and clutched the folded flag to his chest. That was pretty much the end of my mascara.
I couldn't help but think of my maternal grandfather's funeral. He passed away almost 10 years ago, while I was a sophomore at Tech.
For as long as I can remember, grandad was dying. His first surgery cut out his prostate and bladder when my mom was pregnant. His chest looked like someone gutted him with a dull fillet knife and stitched him back together with shoe laces.
He fought that cancer for another 20 years. Even at age 80, they continued the surgeries, removing most of his stomach and intestines. Doctors placed him in a drug-induced coma because he became combative with the doctors and nurses. That lasted for almost two months when they began to slowly bring him to consciousness.
The day he died, he asked to see his wife, my Granny, who was flirting with the young doctors in the hallway. They helped him to a wheelchair, and pushed him next to her. He said he wanted a kiss, and she obliged. And then he closed his eyes and took his last breath.
I know it sounds like something out of a romance novel, but that's the story my mom told me, as told to her by my Granny. Completely true or not, it doesn't matter to me. What matters is the thought. That we all need one last kiss from our love before leaving.
At first I didn't want to make the trip to Arlington for his funeral. I'm glad I did.
I still don't think I understand the honor that comes with an Arlington funeral. His grave is within walking distance of the Pentagon, and I know he's loving that, the political buff he was. I still remember my Granny, frail and thin from his long stay in the Naval hospital. For the first time in my life, I realized I was taller than her. She looked so tiny, taking that flag from the officer.
I didn't cry until the horn played Taps, and they began the 21-gun salute. With each ear-piercing shot, his death became more real. The smoke cleared from the gun barrels, and it was over. He was gone.
I don't deal with death well. I don't understand it, I can't rationalize it, and my faith isn't strong enough to lean on. I'm hoping a better understanding and acceptance comes with age.
People who are left suddenly alone seem so small, no matter what their stature. They've been beaten and battered. They've had their spirit broken, and are left to redefine their lives.
I left the funeral today crying not just for Joe and Buddy, but for everyone in my life I've lost, and everyone in my life I could loose.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Juni-Isms
Maybe I puke tonight: He says this at least 12 times a day. He get's it from Jasen, who says this line after just about every dinner.
You be kidding me: He gets this one from me. I say "Are you kidding me?" at least 12 times a day either to him or Jasen. Jasen farts at least once during dinner every night and blames it on Juni... Are you kidding me? Juni paints the walls with blue Avon sunscreen... Are you kidding me? The calves get out and are staring at me... Are you kidding me? The paint I applied two days ago starts randomly coming off in huge latex-like sheets...are you freaking kidding me???
I want it already: pretty much this means he wants something now, and we're about to have a massive tantrum.
It looks like a dragon tail: his description of a gigantic poop.
I go wish you: I go with you
Is dat an idea?: This would be Juni's bargining tool - is that a good idea? If someone tells him no, he turns on his debate skills.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Sum of a Life
I spent much of today rummaging through a distant relative's townhouse. Jasen's grandfather's brother passed away. They didn't get along, but his grandfather is now the final living sibling.
This man lived his entire life alone. He never married, although from what I gather he had his share of women. He was in the Navy. He was a recovering alcoholic. And everything he owned was in this house.
Jasen's grandfather assumed he would take care of his brother's estate, and wanted to find a will. He asked me to help. When I got to the house there was blood on the counter and carpet. He'd suffered respiratory failure, and didn't have anyone looking after him to call for help. He crawled to the phone three days after not being able to move his legs.
This man chose to live a solitary life. I only met him once, and the first think he said was how "fat" my husband had gotten. But I can't help but feel sorry for an 80-year-old man, bleeding and crawling to the phone to ask his partially estranged brother for help. He died five days later in an ICU filled with people on the verge of life and death.
When I arrived at the hospital he was still in the bed, covered with a sheet. There are no doors in the ICU, and he was the first bed on the left. Everyone entering and exiting the ICU walked past this dead man, his life barely out of his hands. And I'm assuming most people had no idea. It happens every day.
I reached his home and searched through his bills, gathering accounts to cancel and services to disconnect. I looked in closets, trying to find a file cabinet or safe that could hold his wishes.
The safe was in a utility closet, sitting atop an old coffee table and under a box with a piece of green outdoor carpet inside.
It took me two hours to find the key. I looked in shoe boxes in the closet, and found veteran papers, love letters, Christmas cards, even a picture of his father lying in his coffin after he shot himself in the family's garage. There was ancient jewelry, presumably his mothers and antique cuff links. A sack of gold coins, Christmas decorations and newspaper clippings of obituaries.
Desk drawers, end tables, dresser drawers; they were all filled with the junk we place in our lives. A deck of cards and old dice. Dog tags from his service. Pictures of an old lover on every mirror and on the phone receiver. Manuals for every piece of appliance thinkable. Dirty magazines. Faded shirts. Vinyl records. Spare change and pocket knives. Things that represented everyday life; pain and happiness.
The key was tucked away in the back of some random drawer.
His safe held his most important documents. Cash from overpaid taxes that he never deposited and never spent. His mother's will. His brother's death certificate. A pocket watch and belt buckle. Diamond rings and pearl necklaces meant for women he never married. And under it all sat an old white envelope with "last will and testament" written on the front in his unsteady handwriting.
There was a piece of paper with the grave plot information. The will was simple. He left everything to a random nephew. Jasen's grandfather's job was done. His brother wanted him to do nothing when he died.
It seemed odd to me that this man left everything he had to a single nephew, but people do strange things every day.
What's haunting my mind now that I've had time to think about my day is what this man left behind. Paid bills from 20 years ago. Dusty gallons of Jim Beam. Old clothes. Old jewelry. Older furniture. A Buick sitting in his parking space. Things that have no sentimental value to anyone except him. And now he's lying in the morgue. His body is all that is physically left. And empty shell.
Did this man leave nothing behind? He lived his entire life alone, and in these last years didn't leave his home much. These possessions will end up at the estate sale or in some pawn shop or some thrift store, looking for a new home. Looking for a new meaning; a new spot in someone else's drawer.
I sit on my couch and wonder what someone would think of me if I died tomorrow and they had to search my home, trying to find out what I'd wanted. I wonder what people would think of my now-divorced parents love letters to each other. The photos of family. The old clothes I can't come to part with. The paintings my grandmother created. I wonder if someone could ever know what these possessions meant to me; what memories they evoke.
I know this man left more behind than what was in that townhome. He left memories in other people's minds, he left a mark on people's lives. But in the end, only a very select few of us leave any tangible evidence that we ever existed. Successful writers, artists, politicians, maybe. But the average person living their average life in their average townhome? That average person, made from the miracle of human existence, leaves nothing.
I carried my toddler son up the steps to his bedroom tonight and I couldn't help but think of this man, 77 years ago, in his mother's arms. What did she hope for him? Is she proud of what he became? I know I will leave something for my son. Hopefully I will leave memories. But if I died tomorrow, would he remember my face 10 years from now? Would he remember our time together? I don't think so. I don't think he would ever know how much I love him, and that's the worst thought that's ever entered my mind.
Hopefully I will live long enough for my son to have endless memories. And with any luck my son will have children, and that small genetic link to me will continue. But I don't know what mark, if any, I will leave on this world. I don't know what purpose I'm here to fulfill.
I do know that I want the sum of my life to be more than what's in my home. I want the sum of my life to mean something to someone other than myself. I want the sum of my life to have met it's purpose.
This man lived his entire life alone. He never married, although from what I gather he had his share of women. He was in the Navy. He was a recovering alcoholic. And everything he owned was in this house.
Jasen's grandfather assumed he would take care of his brother's estate, and wanted to find a will. He asked me to help. When I got to the house there was blood on the counter and carpet. He'd suffered respiratory failure, and didn't have anyone looking after him to call for help. He crawled to the phone three days after not being able to move his legs.
This man chose to live a solitary life. I only met him once, and the first think he said was how "fat" my husband had gotten. But I can't help but feel sorry for an 80-year-old man, bleeding and crawling to the phone to ask his partially estranged brother for help. He died five days later in an ICU filled with people on the verge of life and death.
When I arrived at the hospital he was still in the bed, covered with a sheet. There are no doors in the ICU, and he was the first bed on the left. Everyone entering and exiting the ICU walked past this dead man, his life barely out of his hands. And I'm assuming most people had no idea. It happens every day.
I reached his home and searched through his bills, gathering accounts to cancel and services to disconnect. I looked in closets, trying to find a file cabinet or safe that could hold his wishes.
The safe was in a utility closet, sitting atop an old coffee table and under a box with a piece of green outdoor carpet inside.
It took me two hours to find the key. I looked in shoe boxes in the closet, and found veteran papers, love letters, Christmas cards, even a picture of his father lying in his coffin after he shot himself in the family's garage. There was ancient jewelry, presumably his mothers and antique cuff links. A sack of gold coins, Christmas decorations and newspaper clippings of obituaries.
Desk drawers, end tables, dresser drawers; they were all filled with the junk we place in our lives. A deck of cards and old dice. Dog tags from his service. Pictures of an old lover on every mirror and on the phone receiver. Manuals for every piece of appliance thinkable. Dirty magazines. Faded shirts. Vinyl records. Spare change and pocket knives. Things that represented everyday life; pain and happiness.
The key was tucked away in the back of some random drawer.
His safe held his most important documents. Cash from overpaid taxes that he never deposited and never spent. His mother's will. His brother's death certificate. A pocket watch and belt buckle. Diamond rings and pearl necklaces meant for women he never married. And under it all sat an old white envelope with "last will and testament" written on the front in his unsteady handwriting.
There was a piece of paper with the grave plot information. The will was simple. He left everything to a random nephew. Jasen's grandfather's job was done. His brother wanted him to do nothing when he died.
It seemed odd to me that this man left everything he had to a single nephew, but people do strange things every day.
What's haunting my mind now that I've had time to think about my day is what this man left behind. Paid bills from 20 years ago. Dusty gallons of Jim Beam. Old clothes. Old jewelry. Older furniture. A Buick sitting in his parking space. Things that have no sentimental value to anyone except him. And now he's lying in the morgue. His body is all that is physically left. And empty shell.
Did this man leave nothing behind? He lived his entire life alone, and in these last years didn't leave his home much. These possessions will end up at the estate sale or in some pawn shop or some thrift store, looking for a new home. Looking for a new meaning; a new spot in someone else's drawer.
I sit on my couch and wonder what someone would think of me if I died tomorrow and they had to search my home, trying to find out what I'd wanted. I wonder what people would think of my now-divorced parents love letters to each other. The photos of family. The old clothes I can't come to part with. The paintings my grandmother created. I wonder if someone could ever know what these possessions meant to me; what memories they evoke.
I know this man left more behind than what was in that townhome. He left memories in other people's minds, he left a mark on people's lives. But in the end, only a very select few of us leave any tangible evidence that we ever existed. Successful writers, artists, politicians, maybe. But the average person living their average life in their average townhome? That average person, made from the miracle of human existence, leaves nothing.
I carried my toddler son up the steps to his bedroom tonight and I couldn't help but think of this man, 77 years ago, in his mother's arms. What did she hope for him? Is she proud of what he became? I know I will leave something for my son. Hopefully I will leave memories. But if I died tomorrow, would he remember my face 10 years from now? Would he remember our time together? I don't think so. I don't think he would ever know how much I love him, and that's the worst thought that's ever entered my mind.
Hopefully I will live long enough for my son to have endless memories. And with any luck my son will have children, and that small genetic link to me will continue. But I don't know what mark, if any, I will leave on this world. I don't know what purpose I'm here to fulfill.
I do know that I want the sum of my life to be more than what's in my home. I want the sum of my life to mean something to someone other than myself. I want the sum of my life to have met it's purpose.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Bread & Butter Pickles
I love to cook. Experimenting with food can sometimes backfire, but I otherwise love to try new flavor combinations and recipies.
That's part of the reason why I love my garden so much. It's a heafty workload, but well worth the sweat and bug bites. I love the feel of the dirt in my hands, the sense of accomplishment after you pick a vegetable off the plant you've babies for months. And there's nothing better than crunchy, fresh vegetables.
We always find ourselves with more than an abundance of fresh vegetables. I'll give them away to anyone willing to take them.
But...cucumbers are another story. A few years ago my mom and I decided to dig her old recipe out of her cookbook. it was hand-written on yellow legal pad, tucked neatly into an old cookbook about southern pickles. We decided to see if we'd rather try something new.
Definitely not. Most of the recipes called for us to "remove the scum" off of the top portion of cucumbers sitting in salty water, sometimes after weeks. Yuck. Here is my mom's easy, and awesome, recipe:
Ingredients:
4 qts medium cukes, thinly sliced (i use the long, thin cucumbers)
6 medium onions, sliced
2 small yellow squash, thinly sliced (this is my addition to the original recipe)
2 green peppers, chopped
3 garlic cloves
1/3 cup pickling (or sea, or kosher) salt
crushed ice
5 cups sugar
3 cups apple cider 5% vinegar (or white vinegar with a little extra sugar)
2 tbs whole mustard seeds
1.5 tsp ground turmeric
1.5 tsp whole celery seeds
Combine cukes, onions, peppers, garlic and salt in large bowl. Cover with ice, mix, and let stand 3 hours. Drain.
Combine remaining ingredients, pour over cucumbers, and heat just until boiling.
Spoon cucumbers into mason jars, fill to .5 inches from top and process 10 minutes in warm water bath. Or, if you're going to eat them within a reasonable time, just put them into the jars, wait for the pop, and put them in the fridge.
Mmmm...
Friday, June 12, 2009
Tears of Joy
My husband may be a redneck, but he's a sensitive redneck. It's one of the reasons I love him. He cried over a good birthday card, a sad movie, and especially over the beauty in our son.
But tonight, Jasen surprised me. he cried at dinner not because Juni said "I love you Daddy" or I gave him a heartfelt card. He cried because Juni loved his babyback ribs.
That's right. My husband teared up because our son was gnawing on a pork rib like a tiger cub after its first kill.
But tonight, Jasen surprised me. he cried at dinner not because Juni said "I love you Daddy" or I gave him a heartfelt card. He cried because Juni loved his babyback ribs.
That's right. My husband teared up because our son was gnawing on a pork rib like a tiger cub after its first kill.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Donkeys do NOT Enjoy Pedicures
Donkeys are wonderful, gentle animals. I love Bud and JD very much...if they could be cats, I honestly believe they would take the offer.
With that said, donkeys are not called jackasses for nothing. They are indeed the epitome of the jackass. They're stubborn, and smart. They're strong, and tireless. Basically, they're a giant toddler.
Donkeys need diligent hoof care just like horses. Our donkeys have not had this hoof care, and definitely needed pedicures. If their hooves are not ferried every so often, they will turn into what looks like elf feet, and it can become painful.
It took me almost two years to find a farrier to work on donkeys. Most larger businesses refuse to work on donkeys because, unlike a horse, they kick to intentionally injure the farrier. They're faster, they tend to bite more, and they're smarter. Not a safe combination.
I found a young guy, just starting out, who hadn't been hurt enough to refuse Bud and JD.
The first time he worked on the donkeys it took almost four hours, with Jasen holding them. At one point the farrier had a rope wrapped around both him and the donkey, and was holding onto his back leg for dear life. This guy wrestled with that donkey for 45 minutes before he took the first snip at his hooves.
It was terrifying, and amazing at the same time. He never shouted, never hit, and never gave up.
Today was a different story. We sedated the older, ungelded donkey. He doesn't like anyone near the family jewels, and I can't blame him. But that makes it incredibly dangerous to work on his hind legs.
Apparently, donkeys have a unique gift ... they can ignore sedation and fight back. We dosed him again, and tied him to a cemented pole. He rared up, struck his hind legs toward the farrier, and clawed his front hooves up and over the fence. He snorted, even growled. Sweat began dripping off his body, down the farriers nose, and beaded my upper lip.
It was a good 90 degrees today, and painfully humid. The farrier hoisted bud's front left hoof up under his body. That didn't work. He led him in circles and retied him to the post. That's didn't work. He had me hold him. Nope. Nothing. So we gave up.
With the smaller, younger gelding, we opted out of the sedation, because when he was castrated he had an adverse reaction. Last time JD fought for a while, but eventually submitted. This time he knew better and refused.
I'd never had to twitch an animal before. Until today. The apparatus was too large, since it's made for horses. So I had to use my hands. Try to picture this:
Grabbing a donkey's upper lip with my right hand, and twisting. Then grabbing the lower lip with my left hand, and twisting. Then, when they rare back, I don't let go. It was horrible. he was completely pissed, and just didn't give in. I let go instead of hurting him.
My options are basically to let them be (and possibly have pain in their hooves), sell or give them away to be someone elses problem (although they are very sweet, this whole farrier thing is a pain) or to have a vet come out and sedate them to the ground, which is several hundred dollars per animal. Ouch. I haven't decided what to do yet, since all of those options just plain suck to me.
Right now the farrier is licking his pride wounds, and I'm looking at the rope burn on my left hand and wondering just how sore my body will feel tomorrow.
The second we let the donkey's back into the field tonight they ran to the opposite fence, pouted for 30 seconds, and then ran back to me like nothing had happened. That's my definition of Jackass.
With that said, donkeys are not called jackasses for nothing. They are indeed the epitome of the jackass. They're stubborn, and smart. They're strong, and tireless. Basically, they're a giant toddler.
Donkeys need diligent hoof care just like horses. Our donkeys have not had this hoof care, and definitely needed pedicures. If their hooves are not ferried every so often, they will turn into what looks like elf feet, and it can become painful.
It took me almost two years to find a farrier to work on donkeys. Most larger businesses refuse to work on donkeys because, unlike a horse, they kick to intentionally injure the farrier. They're faster, they tend to bite more, and they're smarter. Not a safe combination.
I found a young guy, just starting out, who hadn't been hurt enough to refuse Bud and JD.
The first time he worked on the donkeys it took almost four hours, with Jasen holding them. At one point the farrier had a rope wrapped around both him and the donkey, and was holding onto his back leg for dear life. This guy wrestled with that donkey for 45 minutes before he took the first snip at his hooves.
It was terrifying, and amazing at the same time. He never shouted, never hit, and never gave up.
Today was a different story. We sedated the older, ungelded donkey. He doesn't like anyone near the family jewels, and I can't blame him. But that makes it incredibly dangerous to work on his hind legs.
Apparently, donkeys have a unique gift ... they can ignore sedation and fight back. We dosed him again, and tied him to a cemented pole. He rared up, struck his hind legs toward the farrier, and clawed his front hooves up and over the fence. He snorted, even growled. Sweat began dripping off his body, down the farriers nose, and beaded my upper lip.
It was a good 90 degrees today, and painfully humid. The farrier hoisted bud's front left hoof up under his body. That didn't work. He led him in circles and retied him to the post. That's didn't work. He had me hold him. Nope. Nothing. So we gave up.
With the smaller, younger gelding, we opted out of the sedation, because when he was castrated he had an adverse reaction. Last time JD fought for a while, but eventually submitted. This time he knew better and refused.
I'd never had to twitch an animal before. Until today. The apparatus was too large, since it's made for horses. So I had to use my hands. Try to picture this:
Grabbing a donkey's upper lip with my right hand, and twisting. Then grabbing the lower lip with my left hand, and twisting. Then, when they rare back, I don't let go. It was horrible. he was completely pissed, and just didn't give in. I let go instead of hurting him.
My options are basically to let them be (and possibly have pain in their hooves), sell or give them away to be someone elses problem (although they are very sweet, this whole farrier thing is a pain) or to have a vet come out and sedate them to the ground, which is several hundred dollars per animal. Ouch. I haven't decided what to do yet, since all of those options just plain suck to me.
Right now the farrier is licking his pride wounds, and I'm looking at the rope burn on my left hand and wondering just how sore my body will feel tomorrow.
The second we let the donkey's back into the field tonight they ran to the opposite fence, pouted for 30 seconds, and then ran back to me like nothing had happened. That's my definition of Jackass.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Bacon of the Month Club
There is only one person I know of that loves food more than my husband, and that's my dad. The man would add bacon and ham hocks to pancakes if it was socially and palatable acceptable.
I come from a long line of avid eaters. It's a gift, really. Given to me by my dad's dad, my Grandaddy. He loved all types of food, and I know he's be extra proud of me today, for I have found the ultimate father's day gift for Jasen and my dad...
The Bacon of the Month Club.
That's right...bacon, to their door, every month for a full year. And this is the good, thick, artisan stuff. Made at sustainable and eco-friendly farms, from crazy breeds of pig I've never heard of, with methods I've never heard of and flavors that sound like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.
Check it out for yourself...it sounds delectable...
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Whole World is his Toilet
Jasen isn't a bathroom kind of guy. He believes in the great outdoors. He believes in feeling the elements while he does his business. He believes the whole world is his toilet.
My sister, her husband (whom at the time was her boyfriend), my dad, Jasen and I met for dinner one night at a local restaurant/bar. We'd just began dating again, and knew it was leading to marriage. I desperately wanted my Dad to like Jasen. This night definitely helped.
Talk of poo, gas and other tummy problems is always commonplace in my family. We call it the "Thrasher Belly." It's disgusting, I know, but it's my family. My dad has an especially severe case of Thrasher Belly, second only to his father. I finish a very close third, but that's beside the point.
This particular night Jasen and my Dad stuffed themselves into oblivion at dinner. And then it happened...Jasen got a case of Thrasher Belly. But apparently, he didn't feel comfortable curing said Thrasher Belly in the public bathroom.
Instead, my redneck husband felt much more comfortable in the bushes. The bushes outside. Beside the restaurant. And in an elderly woman's back yard. Nice fertilizer, I guess.
I was mortified. It was then that I found his secret stash of toilet paper in his truck, kept conveniently hidden for just such emergencies. Even now, he frequently squats beside a tractor, behind a truck door or somewhere in the woods...all while on a job site.
Lucky for me, my Dad finally felt comfortable around Jasen from this moment on. He'd joined the Thrasher Belly club, and took it to a new, if more disgusting, level. Our dinner discussions temporarily took a more subdued tone while my Dad dated his wife, but since they've been married the poo talk is back up and running.
My sister, her husband (whom at the time was her boyfriend), my dad, Jasen and I met for dinner one night at a local restaurant/bar. We'd just began dating again, and knew it was leading to marriage. I desperately wanted my Dad to like Jasen. This night definitely helped.
Talk of poo, gas and other tummy problems is always commonplace in my family. We call it the "Thrasher Belly." It's disgusting, I know, but it's my family. My dad has an especially severe case of Thrasher Belly, second only to his father. I finish a very close third, but that's beside the point.
This particular night Jasen and my Dad stuffed themselves into oblivion at dinner. And then it happened...Jasen got a case of Thrasher Belly. But apparently, he didn't feel comfortable curing said Thrasher Belly in the public bathroom.
Instead, my redneck husband felt much more comfortable in the bushes. The bushes outside. Beside the restaurant. And in an elderly woman's back yard. Nice fertilizer, I guess.
I was mortified. It was then that I found his secret stash of toilet paper in his truck, kept conveniently hidden for just such emergencies. Even now, he frequently squats beside a tractor, behind a truck door or somewhere in the woods...all while on a job site.
Lucky for me, my Dad finally felt comfortable around Jasen from this moment on. He'd joined the Thrasher Belly club, and took it to a new, if more disgusting, level. Our dinner discussions temporarily took a more subdued tone while my Dad dated his wife, but since they've been married the poo talk is back up and running.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Putting all my Eggs in the Chiropractor's basket
People told me being pregnant difficult. I realized being pregnant would be especially difficult for me, given my anxiety, the day the test flashed positive.
People told me labor would be difficult. Too many moms took it upon themselves to tell me just how difficult their labor was. Like it's a right of passage: have baby, use experience of labor to terrify mothers-to-be about said labor.
People still tell me parenting is difficult. I tell myself daily that parenting is difficult. It's obvious.
But what people neglected to tell me was just how difficult my post-baby body would become. I expected stretch marks, but lucked out in that department. I'd heard stories of nursing mothers whose breasts resembled socks filled with rocks. Again, I sneak by with a good push-up bra. I even remember my mom telling me her feet grew by 1/2 size. Seemed like a small sacrifice.
But here's what they didn't tell me:
My feet didn't grow a size, but my joints loosened, making my bunions even that more painful. I now have bursitis in my left big toe joint. I've always had hyper-extendable joints, but the pain is just that much more severe. And my joints pop out of place more easily.
My body decided to grown skin tags while I was pregnant. And of course, several of these annoying little tags were in extremely sensitive places. That turned out to be the most embarrassing, and the most painful, dermatologist appointment of my life. And as someone who was on Accutane three times, I've had some awful dermatology experiences.
I've acquired a tire around my midriff. My mother always told me to suck in my tummy, which I did religiously. But sucking in your tummy just doesn't work when you're pregnant. Juni is now 3-years-old, and I'm still retraining my tummy muscles to stay contracted. The tire doesn't help. It's the consistency of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
I realize I'm a prime candidate for some mild body dismorphia, and that other people probably see me as thinner than I see myself in the mirror. But still. Change is change. And this is SO not the body I signed up for.
My left shoulder has a partial sublaxation from repeatedly picking up Juni. It's similar to the muscle strains I'd feel after a week of softball practice, but doesn't go away. Apparently a 31-year-old shoulder just doesn't rebound like it used to. I can't raise my left hand above my shoulder because it just plain hurts.
I have a misaligned bone in my neck, causing inflammation of the surrounding muscle. My massage therapist says this is a very common condition in moms, since picking up children places so much stress on our necks. I find myself continuously trying to stretch the muscles in my neck to make it comfortable. No deal.
My left hip has become lower than my right. This isn't something I can see, it's something my massage therapist noticed. It's from constantly having a baby, and then toddler, propped on my left hip. It also places undue stress on my back and neck.
My lower back is in constant pain. It started while I was pregnant, and worsened since delivery. A this point the pain is so intense that I can't roll over in my sleep without waking up. I can't get out of my son's bed without holding my breath and wincing. I can't bend down and pick up toys on the floor without sharp pains. I've always had a weak back, and am used to some aches. But this is ridiculous. I can't sit on a couch without fidgeting and stretching, trying to make myself comfortable. Driving is painful. Sleeping is painful. Gardening is painful. I'm thinking at this point you realize...my back is painful.
I was thinking that after pregnancy I'd have some weight to loose and some stretch marks...maybe sock-rock boobs. But pain? I thought that ended with the epidural and various other meds. Not so much.
And so, next week I am officially putting all my eggs in the chiropractor's basket. I've tried massage. I've tried medications. I've tried stretching and I've tried yoga. Nothing has worked. I'm banking on the chiropractor to help me get my body back into working order...
Stay tuned for more Stories about the Redneck's Wife:
Scared Sick
Searching for a purpose-driven life (and blaming it on Oprah)
Yes, I'm a writer. And no, I never finished a book in high school
Visions of sugar plums...and dead babies...in my head
Dealing with my Boobie Bandit
People told me labor would be difficult. Too many moms took it upon themselves to tell me just how difficult their labor was. Like it's a right of passage: have baby, use experience of labor to terrify mothers-to-be about said labor.
People still tell me parenting is difficult. I tell myself daily that parenting is difficult. It's obvious.
But what people neglected to tell me was just how difficult my post-baby body would become. I expected stretch marks, but lucked out in that department. I'd heard stories of nursing mothers whose breasts resembled socks filled with rocks. Again, I sneak by with a good push-up bra. I even remember my mom telling me her feet grew by 1/2 size. Seemed like a small sacrifice.
But here's what they didn't tell me:
My feet didn't grow a size, but my joints loosened, making my bunions even that more painful. I now have bursitis in my left big toe joint. I've always had hyper-extendable joints, but the pain is just that much more severe. And my joints pop out of place more easily.
My body decided to grown skin tags while I was pregnant. And of course, several of these annoying little tags were in extremely sensitive places. That turned out to be the most embarrassing, and the most painful, dermatologist appointment of my life. And as someone who was on Accutane three times, I've had some awful dermatology experiences.
I've acquired a tire around my midriff. My mother always told me to suck in my tummy, which I did religiously. But sucking in your tummy just doesn't work when you're pregnant. Juni is now 3-years-old, and I'm still retraining my tummy muscles to stay contracted. The tire doesn't help. It's the consistency of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
I realize I'm a prime candidate for some mild body dismorphia, and that other people probably see me as thinner than I see myself in the mirror. But still. Change is change. And this is SO not the body I signed up for.
My left shoulder has a partial sublaxation from repeatedly picking up Juni. It's similar to the muscle strains I'd feel after a week of softball practice, but doesn't go away. Apparently a 31-year-old shoulder just doesn't rebound like it used to. I can't raise my left hand above my shoulder because it just plain hurts.
I have a misaligned bone in my neck, causing inflammation of the surrounding muscle. My massage therapist says this is a very common condition in moms, since picking up children places so much stress on our necks. I find myself continuously trying to stretch the muscles in my neck to make it comfortable. No deal.
My left hip has become lower than my right. This isn't something I can see, it's something my massage therapist noticed. It's from constantly having a baby, and then toddler, propped on my left hip. It also places undue stress on my back and neck.
My lower back is in constant pain. It started while I was pregnant, and worsened since delivery. A this point the pain is so intense that I can't roll over in my sleep without waking up. I can't get out of my son's bed without holding my breath and wincing. I can't bend down and pick up toys on the floor without sharp pains. I've always had a weak back, and am used to some aches. But this is ridiculous. I can't sit on a couch without fidgeting and stretching, trying to make myself comfortable. Driving is painful. Sleeping is painful. Gardening is painful. I'm thinking at this point you realize...my back is painful.
I was thinking that after pregnancy I'd have some weight to loose and some stretch marks...maybe sock-rock boobs. But pain? I thought that ended with the epidural and various other meds. Not so much.
And so, next week I am officially putting all my eggs in the chiropractor's basket. I've tried massage. I've tried medications. I've tried stretching and I've tried yoga. Nothing has worked. I'm banking on the chiropractor to help me get my body back into working order...
Stay tuned for more Stories about the Redneck's Wife:
Scared Sick
Searching for a purpose-driven life (and blaming it on Oprah)
Yes, I'm a writer. And no, I never finished a book in high school
Visions of sugar plums...and dead babies...in my head
Dealing with my Boobie Bandit
Saturday, May 30, 2009
If you Pee there I will Seriously Kill You
You'd think this story would be about Juni the Toddler. Not so much.
Jasen likes his beer. Every night, he likes his beer. He's definitely a self-described functioning alcoholic. He uses it to relax; take away the stress. I used to argue with him about it, but have since accepted the drinking.
My husband used to drink brown liquor like it was Kool Aid. The night we got engaged, that all stopped. When I have more time, I'll tell that story. But for now, here is one from New Years a few years back.
After our engagement night disaster, Jasen asks me if he can have a few brown liquor drinks every now and then. This particular night, we were at a New Year's party with my dad and his wife, and a very large man with a very large tolerance for all things alcoholic.
Apparently, Jasen and the large man started talking, and of course drinking. Let me make something perfectly clear: Jasen can hold his liquor. In his drinking heyday, I'm sure he could keep pace with the best of them. But after a few years of a beer-only diet, his body doesn't handle the rough stuff like it used to.
We had a great time at the party, and Jasen never showed his evil side that only comes out after a night with Jim Beam. Once we got home I put on the t.v. and Jasen passed out on the couch.
Or so I thought.
Twenty minutes later, Jasen rises. His skin was that pale, green, clammy color people get when they're drop-down drunk or coming down with the flu. Apparently his bladder woke him up. He told me he had to pee.
Since he said he had to pee, I thought it odd that he didn't take his post on our front porch, as was custom before we had Juni. And yes, I feel bad for our neighbors when he reverts to his old ways and whips it out without warning. But I digress.
It was odd, because instead of passing through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, he stopped at the refrigerator first. Did he really need a snack for the bathroom? Nope. He opened the bottom veggie drawer, and I heard his zipper.
What the hell are you doing? That is NOT a bathroom. That's the refrigerator you jackass! If you pee there, I will seriously kill you...
Jasen stumbled around, and shut the refrigerator door. And then I heard it. That sound of pee hitting something that obviously was not the toilet. It was the outside of our $200 stainless steel trashcan we'd bought the week before. The trashcan he insisted we needed. The trashcan that was now covered in Jim Beam-laden urine.
And there was my husband, in all his redneck glory, jeans around his ankles, eyes glossy and completely unconscious to the world around him. He slept on the couch that night, and was not at all pleased about the mess all over the kitchen. He had no recollection.
He also spent the next hour apologizing for defacing our kitchen, and cleaning his prized trash can.
Jasen likes his beer. Every night, he likes his beer. He's definitely a self-described functioning alcoholic. He uses it to relax; take away the stress. I used to argue with him about it, but have since accepted the drinking.
My husband used to drink brown liquor like it was Kool Aid. The night we got engaged, that all stopped. When I have more time, I'll tell that story. But for now, here is one from New Years a few years back.
After our engagement night disaster, Jasen asks me if he can have a few brown liquor drinks every now and then. This particular night, we were at a New Year's party with my dad and his wife, and a very large man with a very large tolerance for all things alcoholic.
Apparently, Jasen and the large man started talking, and of course drinking. Let me make something perfectly clear: Jasen can hold his liquor. In his drinking heyday, I'm sure he could keep pace with the best of them. But after a few years of a beer-only diet, his body doesn't handle the rough stuff like it used to.
We had a great time at the party, and Jasen never showed his evil side that only comes out after a night with Jim Beam. Once we got home I put on the t.v. and Jasen passed out on the couch.
Or so I thought.
Twenty minutes later, Jasen rises. His skin was that pale, green, clammy color people get when they're drop-down drunk or coming down with the flu. Apparently his bladder woke him up. He told me he had to pee.
Since he said he had to pee, I thought it odd that he didn't take his post on our front porch, as was custom before we had Juni. And yes, I feel bad for our neighbors when he reverts to his old ways and whips it out without warning. But I digress.
It was odd, because instead of passing through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, he stopped at the refrigerator first. Did he really need a snack for the bathroom? Nope. He opened the bottom veggie drawer, and I heard his zipper.
What the hell are you doing? That is NOT a bathroom. That's the refrigerator you jackass! If you pee there, I will seriously kill you...
Jasen stumbled around, and shut the refrigerator door. And then I heard it. That sound of pee hitting something that obviously was not the toilet. It was the outside of our $200 stainless steel trashcan we'd bought the week before. The trashcan he insisted we needed. The trashcan that was now covered in Jim Beam-laden urine.
And there was my husband, in all his redneck glory, jeans around his ankles, eyes glossy and completely unconscious to the world around him. He slept on the couch that night, and was not at all pleased about the mess all over the kitchen. He had no recollection.
He also spent the next hour apologizing for defacing our kitchen, and cleaning his prized trash can.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Is it Too Much to Ask to NOT Have Two Dead Cows in the Backyard? apparently....yes...
We have about 15 cows. It keeps the land under agricultural use, so we can afford the taxes. Buddy, Jasen's grandfather, has always taken care of the cows. But he's getting older, and showing the beginning effects of Alzheimer's Disease. He turns 85 next month.
Keeping the cows fed, the weeds in the fields down and the fences up is work enough. But every so often a calf dies. Here is the latest story...
One of the older cows gave birth to an unusually small calf last week. It seemed healthy, but very small. The mother looked horrible after the birth ... skin and bones. There's not much we can do except give the mother extra hay, unless one of us had time to bottle-feed the baby. I've done this before. It's not fun. It's literally equivalent to taking care of a newborn, and with a toddler and husband working 12-hour days seven days a week, I just didn't have time.
So the calf died three days ago. I didn't know it until I saw it half-buried in the hay barn. Buddy originally said he pulled it there out of the field, but then totally forgot all about it. He forgot the calf had died. So two days after it died, I found it. With Juni. Luckily Juni doesn't understand yet, and I'd like to keep it that way.
Anyway, I told Buddy about the calf. Five minutes later he'd forget. So I showed him the calf, had him get the tractor, and pull it out of the barn. He promised me he'd take it to the woods, where Jasen could later bury it. So I didn't think anymore about it. Until yesterday.
I needed to worm the cows, since Buddy obviously wasn't going to do it. I had Juni in the buggy, and the medicine with me. Then I saw it...the mother. Dead. With her head on top of her dead calf, which was still in the field. It was horrible. She'd died, still trying to get her calf to stand.
When a calf dies or leaves, the mother will mourn for days. She cries, moos, doesn't eat. She stands above her deceased calf, apparently trying to wake them. It's horrible. Last year when Daisy's calf died, Jasen had to keep her away with a shovel while he drug the calf into the woods. She wouldn't let him take the calf away.
So I wormed the cows, which is not easy, and left. That night Jasen got home and I told him about it. He was so stressed from work, but seriously...two dead cows? No way can I take care of that myself, and Buddy is in no condition. So it was up to me to either hire someone, which Jasen vehemently opposed, or for him to suck it up and do it himself. He was NOT happy about the situation., but did it anyway.
Here's my take on the situation: yes, Jasen is working like crazy, and yes, i need to step up and do as much as possible. But there are some responsibilities that he just has to take care of, despite the situation at work. Two dead cows in the backyard is definitely one of them in my book...
Keeping the cows fed, the weeds in the fields down and the fences up is work enough. But every so often a calf dies. Here is the latest story...
One of the older cows gave birth to an unusually small calf last week. It seemed healthy, but very small. The mother looked horrible after the birth ... skin and bones. There's not much we can do except give the mother extra hay, unless one of us had time to bottle-feed the baby. I've done this before. It's not fun. It's literally equivalent to taking care of a newborn, and with a toddler and husband working 12-hour days seven days a week, I just didn't have time.
So the calf died three days ago. I didn't know it until I saw it half-buried in the hay barn. Buddy originally said he pulled it there out of the field, but then totally forgot all about it. He forgot the calf had died. So two days after it died, I found it. With Juni. Luckily Juni doesn't understand yet, and I'd like to keep it that way.
Anyway, I told Buddy about the calf. Five minutes later he'd forget. So I showed him the calf, had him get the tractor, and pull it out of the barn. He promised me he'd take it to the woods, where Jasen could later bury it. So I didn't think anymore about it. Until yesterday.
I needed to worm the cows, since Buddy obviously wasn't going to do it. I had Juni in the buggy, and the medicine with me. Then I saw it...the mother. Dead. With her head on top of her dead calf, which was still in the field. It was horrible. She'd died, still trying to get her calf to stand.
When a calf dies or leaves, the mother will mourn for days. She cries, moos, doesn't eat. She stands above her deceased calf, apparently trying to wake them. It's horrible. Last year when Daisy's calf died, Jasen had to keep her away with a shovel while he drug the calf into the woods. She wouldn't let him take the calf away.
So I wormed the cows, which is not easy, and left. That night Jasen got home and I told him about it. He was so stressed from work, but seriously...two dead cows? No way can I take care of that myself, and Buddy is in no condition. So it was up to me to either hire someone, which Jasen vehemently opposed, or for him to suck it up and do it himself. He was NOT happy about the situation., but did it anyway.
Here's my take on the situation: yes, Jasen is working like crazy, and yes, i need to step up and do as much as possible. But there are some responsibilities that he just has to take care of, despite the situation at work. Two dead cows in the backyard is definitely one of them in my book...
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Jackass
When we had Juni, I definitely felt worried about Jasen's language. He's a four-letter word lover. So I'm seeing myself constantly picking at him, telling him not to teach Juni to say this or that. So of course it would be me that taught him my favorite word...
Jackass
I call Jasen a jackass at least 3 times a week. This is down from 5 times a day before Juni and I visited my dad, and this happened:
Juni wanted to go outside. My dad didn't. He told him to wait patiently. Juni looked at my dad, gave him a pout face, turned around on his heels and said (with my kind of attitude) "jackass." My dad, his wife and I couldn't help but laugh. Still...did jackass have to be the first rude word he learned? Couldn't it have been one of Jasen's favorites? argh.
Jackass
I call Jasen a jackass at least 3 times a week. This is down from 5 times a day before Juni and I visited my dad, and this happened:
Juni wanted to go outside. My dad didn't. He told him to wait patiently. Juni looked at my dad, gave him a pout face, turned around on his heels and said (with my kind of attitude) "jackass." My dad, his wife and I couldn't help but laugh. Still...did jackass have to be the first rude word he learned? Couldn't it have been one of Jasen's favorites? argh.
You Must've been a Real Heifer
I recently lost about 20 pounds. I'd still like to loose 1o more, but still....20 pounds is 20 pounds. The other day Jasen looked at me and said "So how much weight have you lost?" I answered. "Wow babe. You must've been a real heifer before! I never noticed..."
Okay. so how am I supposed to take that?
My problem with weight is that no matter how much or how little the scale reads, I'll never feel happy inside my skin. Never have, never will. I've realized this, and decided to try and move on. But seriously. Calling me a cow? Not helping!
Okay. so how am I supposed to take that?
My problem with weight is that no matter how much or how little the scale reads, I'll never feel happy inside my skin. Never have, never will. I've realized this, and decided to try and move on. But seriously. Calling me a cow? Not helping!
Are you Kidding Me?
I just have to say...Juni just crawled under my computer chair, plopped down on a blanket and fell asleep on the wood floor. With his butt crack showing...
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
I've got balls. My daddy has big balls. You don't have balls.
One of Juni's favorite things is the human anatomy. Boobies and balls, in particular. We're working on learning that 1. boobies are for babies, and 2. Juni is not a baby.
I leave the balls to Jasen, and this is what I'm left with:
1. We're eating sushi with Jasen and my sister. Juni comes back from the bathroom with my sister and announced that he has balls and his aunt does not have balls. Then he continues to point to each patron in the restaurant, stating whether or not each person has balls.
2. Juni, Jasen and an older friend of Jasen's are riding in a truck. All are in the front seat when Juni points out that: I have balls. My daddy has balls. My daddy has big balls. I have little balls.
Argh....
Disclaimer: Yes I realize sitting in the front seat of a truck is not smart. But they were at a borrow pit going about one mile an hour and about 50 yards...
I leave the balls to Jasen, and this is what I'm left with:
1. We're eating sushi with Jasen and my sister. Juni comes back from the bathroom with my sister and announced that he has balls and his aunt does not have balls. Then he continues to point to each patron in the restaurant, stating whether or not each person has balls.
2. Juni, Jasen and an older friend of Jasen's are riding in a truck. All are in the front seat when Juni points out that: I have balls. My daddy has balls. My daddy has big balls. I have little balls.
Argh....
Disclaimer: Yes I realize sitting in the front seat of a truck is not smart. But they were at a borrow pit going about one mile an hour and about 50 yards...
Monday, April 20, 2009
My Redneck Husband
People tell me I could write a book about Jasen, my husband. They're right.
We dated in high school for a while. I was head-over-heels, I'm not sure what he was besides a man-slut. So I got dumped, and moved on. I went to college, then grad school. Long story short, I was dating a wonderful man, and was for the most part content to move out his way after graduation.
That was, of course, until Jasen got my number from my parents and called me out of the blue one day. My parents were married for 29 years and divorced. My poor dad was at home alone on Valentine's Day, and I made the trip up to visit him. I made a side-trip to visit Jasen. That was pretty much it.
I broke off my relationship, turned down a great job, and moved home after graduation. We were engaged within six months and married within a year.
It's a great love story, and we have a great love. But we're polar opposites. As I remember stories that are worth telling, I'll post them. Here are a few:
Dreams of Chicken Fingers
When my husband proposed I initially wanted planning the wedding to be a joint venture. That thought didn't last more than 10 days. I had dreams of elegance and taste. He did not.
We joined a married couple for dinner at a local restaurant one night and began talking about ideas for the reception. In my eyes I envisioned candlelit tables, chocolate-covered strawberries, shrimp, steak, the regular fare for a wedding.
Jasen turned to me and said "I want chicken fingers." Chicken fingers? At my wedding? The big event ceased to be for both of us in that instant.
I just couldn't bring myself to have chicken fingers at my wedding. I couldn't get the thought of Jasen with honey-mustard sauce dripping from his tux out of my head.
Look what I caught, Babe
Our kitchen floor is constantly covered with mud, grass seed and straw from Jasen's boots. I've come to realize that a clean house just isn't in the cards for us. Dirt is inevitable in the country and his line of work.
For the first six months of our marriage I bitched and moaned every afternoon about him wearing his boots in the house. When nagging failed to do the trick, I went on strike. I didn't sweep, mop or vacuum for seven days.
I'm sure Jasen noticed, but he never said a word. I gave up and decided to end the strike but keep up the bitching. It's three years later and he still wears his boots in the house.
The mud reaches its peak during February and any other day that it rains. Jasen doesn't work much in the rain, so he's usually messing around at the barn or with equipment.
One rainy day in June, when our son was almost four months old, I heard the door squeak open. I walked downstairs, hoping to stop him from waking the baby. There stands my husband, dripping wet with the bottom six inches of his jeans caked in mud.
He was balancing in the doorway, trying to keep his boots off of the white kitchen tile, holding the oldest, most rusted coffee can I have ever seen.
"Babe, come here and look what I caught," he said to me.
Okay, so I'm thinking there is no way in Hell I'm going to put my face anywhere near that can. You couldn't pay me enough at this point. For all I know there's a snake, frog or some other type of slimey creature waiting to hiss at me.
He smiles mischievously and promises me there's nothing disgusting in his can. I tell him take it outside and I'll look. So here I am, peering into this coffee can, looking straight into the eyes of an extremely pissed off crawfish.
Apparently this crawfish was playing in a puddle, minding his business when Jasen decided to scoop him up, into the can. We eat crawfish all the time - it's one of our favorite special meals. Jasen wanted to show me what one of the little buggars looked like alive.
The humor of this encounter wasn't so much that Jasen brought me a crawfish, which he subsequently put back in the puddle, but that I saw the next 10 years flash before my eyes. Once Jasen Jr. begins walking, there's no telling what he will have in that coffee can on a rainy day, smiling mischievously and saying "mom, come look what dad and I caught."
My Steak and Potato Man, Hold the Potato
Steak is Jasen's favorite meal. I've known this since we were 15. Now this is not to say that Jasen doesn't like other types of food. The boy will eat anything. He could eat nails and his stomach would take it in stride.
And he'll try just about anything. He ate chitlins at my granddaddy's party once. Granted, he tasted those chitlins for three days from indigestion and swears he'll never eat one again, but he tried them. He love turnips. I don't like the taste of turnips or the smell of his gas after he eats them, but he grows them every year nonetheless.
He also loves sushi. My family introduced him to sushi when we were teenagers, We took him to a Japanese steakhouse, and he ordered the largest meal on the menu. He then proceeded to scarf down the remnants of my entire family's meal. We eat sushi several times a month now.
But regardless of his love for anything almost edible, his first love remains steak.
Like all new fathers, Jasen wants his son to love the same things. Jasen Jr. wasn't more than two weeks old when my husband turned to me one night and asked straightfaced, "honey, when can Junior have steak?" I laughed, but this obviously was not a funny to Jasen. He was completely serious about the subject of feeding our infant son steak.
I explained that Jasen Jr. would drink milk for the first few months and nothing else, and then he'd start cereal. I told him that he could begin eating more solids between six and nine months, but that even then, the meat was more like mush than anything else.
Jasen was crushed. I actually caught him dabbing steak sauce on our son's lips one night when he was three months old. Starting him off right, he explained when I freaked out.
Stay tuned for:
The Whole World is his Toilet
The Worst Pick-up Line: Did I Crap my Pants?
You Smell Like Chicken Poop
We dated in high school for a while. I was head-over-heels, I'm not sure what he was besides a man-slut. So I got dumped, and moved on. I went to college, then grad school. Long story short, I was dating a wonderful man, and was for the most part content to move out his way after graduation.
That was, of course, until Jasen got my number from my parents and called me out of the blue one day. My parents were married for 29 years and divorced. My poor dad was at home alone on Valentine's Day, and I made the trip up to visit him. I made a side-trip to visit Jasen. That was pretty much it.
I broke off my relationship, turned down a great job, and moved home after graduation. We were engaged within six months and married within a year.
It's a great love story, and we have a great love. But we're polar opposites. As I remember stories that are worth telling, I'll post them. Here are a few:
Dreams of Chicken Fingers
When my husband proposed I initially wanted planning the wedding to be a joint venture. That thought didn't last more than 10 days. I had dreams of elegance and taste. He did not.
We joined a married couple for dinner at a local restaurant one night and began talking about ideas for the reception. In my eyes I envisioned candlelit tables, chocolate-covered strawberries, shrimp, steak, the regular fare for a wedding.
Jasen turned to me and said "I want chicken fingers." Chicken fingers? At my wedding? The big event ceased to be for both of us in that instant.
I just couldn't bring myself to have chicken fingers at my wedding. I couldn't get the thought of Jasen with honey-mustard sauce dripping from his tux out of my head.
Look what I caught, Babe
Our kitchen floor is constantly covered with mud, grass seed and straw from Jasen's boots. I've come to realize that a clean house just isn't in the cards for us. Dirt is inevitable in the country and his line of work.
For the first six months of our marriage I bitched and moaned every afternoon about him wearing his boots in the house. When nagging failed to do the trick, I went on strike. I didn't sweep, mop or vacuum for seven days.
I'm sure Jasen noticed, but he never said a word. I gave up and decided to end the strike but keep up the bitching. It's three years later and he still wears his boots in the house.
The mud reaches its peak during February and any other day that it rains. Jasen doesn't work much in the rain, so he's usually messing around at the barn or with equipment.
One rainy day in June, when our son was almost four months old, I heard the door squeak open. I walked downstairs, hoping to stop him from waking the baby. There stands my husband, dripping wet with the bottom six inches of his jeans caked in mud.
He was balancing in the doorway, trying to keep his boots off of the white kitchen tile, holding the oldest, most rusted coffee can I have ever seen.
"Babe, come here and look what I caught," he said to me.
Okay, so I'm thinking there is no way in Hell I'm going to put my face anywhere near that can. You couldn't pay me enough at this point. For all I know there's a snake, frog or some other type of slimey creature waiting to hiss at me.
He smiles mischievously and promises me there's nothing disgusting in his can. I tell him take it outside and I'll look. So here I am, peering into this coffee can, looking straight into the eyes of an extremely pissed off crawfish.
Apparently this crawfish was playing in a puddle, minding his business when Jasen decided to scoop him up, into the can. We eat crawfish all the time - it's one of our favorite special meals. Jasen wanted to show me what one of the little buggars looked like alive.
The humor of this encounter wasn't so much that Jasen brought me a crawfish, which he subsequently put back in the puddle, but that I saw the next 10 years flash before my eyes. Once Jasen Jr. begins walking, there's no telling what he will have in that coffee can on a rainy day, smiling mischievously and saying "mom, come look what dad and I caught."
My Steak and Potato Man, Hold the Potato
Steak is Jasen's favorite meal. I've known this since we were 15. Now this is not to say that Jasen doesn't like other types of food. The boy will eat anything. He could eat nails and his stomach would take it in stride.
And he'll try just about anything. He ate chitlins at my granddaddy's party once. Granted, he tasted those chitlins for three days from indigestion and swears he'll never eat one again, but he tried them. He love turnips. I don't like the taste of turnips or the smell of his gas after he eats them, but he grows them every year nonetheless.
He also loves sushi. My family introduced him to sushi when we were teenagers, We took him to a Japanese steakhouse, and he ordered the largest meal on the menu. He then proceeded to scarf down the remnants of my entire family's meal. We eat sushi several times a month now.
But regardless of his love for anything almost edible, his first love remains steak.
Like all new fathers, Jasen wants his son to love the same things. Jasen Jr. wasn't more than two weeks old when my husband turned to me one night and asked straightfaced, "honey, when can Junior have steak?" I laughed, but this obviously was not a funny to Jasen. He was completely serious about the subject of feeding our infant son steak.
I explained that Jasen Jr. would drink milk for the first few months and nothing else, and then he'd start cereal. I told him that he could begin eating more solids between six and nine months, but that even then, the meat was more like mush than anything else.
Jasen was crushed. I actually caught him dabbing steak sauce on our son's lips one night when he was three months old. Starting him off right, he explained when I freaked out.
Stay tuned for:
The Whole World is his Toilet
The Worst Pick-up Line: Did I Crap my Pants?
You Smell Like Chicken Poop
Running down the Driveway, Chicken in Hand and Toddler in Tow
I thought it would be a good to take my favorite chicken, Gladys, on a little field trip. Juni could learn about what chickens eat, and I could enjoy the weather. We decided the best place for this trip would be the back yard, where I could pick up the bricks that border the flower beds and Juni could find bugs. Juni and I walked down the driveway to the chicken pen, a carried her back up to the house.
Problem was that it was windy outside, and the inflatable bouncer was still out from the Easter egg hunt. The bouncer was high-tailing it down the driveway, headed toward the road. So I started to run, chicken in hand, and Juni in tow. Gladys was flapping her wings, screeching in my ear, while I hauled the bouncer back up to the house and stuffed it into the garage.
That was my exercise for today.
Problem was that it was windy outside, and the inflatable bouncer was still out from the Easter egg hunt. The bouncer was high-tailing it down the driveway, headed toward the road. So I started to run, chicken in hand, and Juni in tow. Gladys was flapping her wings, screeching in my ear, while I hauled the bouncer back up to the house and stuffed it into the garage.
That was my exercise for today.
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