My Son, the Pirate-Knight, 18 September 2012

The great thing about thrift stores ("charity stores," if you're not from around these here parts) is that they are thrifty.  This morning, Z and I dropped off G at school and started on a treasure hunt.  (Quick rabbit trail: We stopped at a seed store first, where I bought poppy and sweet pea seeds and diatomaceous-earth dust, which apparently "tears apart" the bugs who eat it, according to the shop keeper.  It's organic and it kills bugs--no oil involved--so I'm for it.  As far as the flower seeds go, I love the thought of them magically blooming in my front yard in the spring.  It might actually take magic for them to bloom, since I currently have no place prepared to plant them.  But I have a handle on the pest control, so I'm still ahead.)

A great thing about thrift stores at this time of year is that they have racks of costumes and shelves of accessories, ranging from padded Pooh Bear toddler outfits to adult-size Darth Vader suits, and everything in between.  While I searched for potential birthday gifts for G (hey, he won't know it's been used), Z discovered his own treasures.

When I turned around from pawing through a rack, there was a 3.5-foot tall pirate staring at me, complete with three-cornered black hat, plastic cutlass, and huge grin.

His weapon of choice basically looked like this

Throughout the rest of my browsing, Young Pirate followed me around in his garb; I think he didn't poke any of the other shoppers with the sword.  Before leaving, his eye caught two other treasures: One was a plastic knight's helmet and the other a heavy sword (still plastic, but much more substantial).

The sword he found was slightly shorter and slightly more plastic than this image, but not by much

Z immediately decided that G should receive the pirate hat and large sword, while he would keep the cutlass and switch to the helmet.  But Rachel draws a line on bringing home weapons that could break the other weapons already at home, so I said "no" to that but "yes" to the pirate hat, the cutlass, and the helmet, adding a total of $2.37 to the pile of practical things already in my cart.

"Oh, your total is just a few cents away from qualifying for the $10-off coupon!" the unwitting cashier pointed out.  "Do you want to grab something else?"

Sigh.  Did I buy the 10-cent plastic farm animal sitting on the counter?  As if drawn by an unstoppable force, I fetched the barely-plastic $1.99 sword and added it to the pile.  "Well Z," I conceded, "I guess G gets his sword after all!"

There is something truly delightful about a small child smooshed under a plastic helmet, calling out brashly, "Here's your sword Mommy!  Try and get me!  I'm wearing a helmet so you can't, haha!"  How could I resist?  I grabbed the black pirate hat and the Scary Sword and we began the battle.  Of course, it's impossible for Mommy to win, because if she thwacks a leg, it grows back; and if she gets too close, she's declared captured and hauled off to jail (AKA the bench in the entryway); and if she tries to escape, she's bound with invisible chains.

Z in his "knight cap," as he refers to it

Eventually, I switched sides and joined the Allies, just in time for G to arrive home from school and claim his rights to the new toys.  I sauntered out to the driveway to meet the carpool--oh wait!  Was I still brandishing a sword and sporting a pirate hat?  Giggles from the interior of the van and a smile from the driver revealed that I was.

To end this seedy tale I fast-forward to bedtime tonight.  I went to the living room to find Z, who stood slightly-hunched over with his hands inside his pajama pants.  Before I had time to even imagine what he could be doing in such a position, he straightened up and pulled his hand out from under the waistband...with a cutlass as long as his legs following!  Being a mother of boys, I'm sure I will be shocked many times over the years, but nothing had quite prepared me to see a 2.5-foot sword--hilt and all--rise out of the recesses of a small boy's pajama bottoms.

Methinks that any day which includes pirates, knights, and giggles is a good day.  And now a good-night to ye, mateys!

A "First" Birthday, 13 September 2012

Today I made it through another First.  Today was my first birthday since Jay's mom passed away; it was my third birthday since my mom died.

For those of you who have had close relationships with your moms, I don't need to explain the significance of little traditions that paint a birthday--the phone call with your mom singing Happy Birthday, or being served a dinner of your favorite dishes, or a card being pressed into your hand. Having a birthday when some of those elements are missing is disorienting and--for me at least--sad.

And yet it's still fun to have a birthday and be treated with extra hugs and gifts and cards, so the day is a very mixed bag of feelings.  One moment I'll be dancing around the room to some tunes and then next moment I'll be crying when I receive a phone call that isn't my mom.

Tomorrow I hope to write about the ways I "mothered myself," to borrow a psychological term, and made the day into what I needed it to be.  Since this is a blog about mostly today, I just wanted to write this quick note tonight to say that I made it through today...and I am still able to look forward to tomorrow.

It's a Bug's Life, 07 August 2012

Today I reached a crisis point with my gardening, and I'm going to say something that will instantly alienate me from most of my peers:

I've just about had it with all this organic crap.

If you give me just one moment before you run away screaming "pariah!" I will explain my case.

The Great Gardening Experiment began last September, when I was feeling particularly ambitious and felt the ancient draw of raising fragile green things out of the crusty soil. (Poetry aside, my soil is actually rock-hard-clumpy when dry and unbelievably sticky when wet. Pretty sure they make modeling clay out of the stuff in my backyard.) "Let's do a garden, and let's do it organic!" I exclaimed to Jay, and I checked out an organic gardening book at the library. The two main things I gleaned from that book were 1) compost is key and 2) rabbit manure is a perfect addition to compost. So in another moment of insanity ambition, I brought home two rabbits.

Let me pause here and give you my experience with organic farming.

• Everyone says "green" is healthier, and it probably is.
• Higher-end stores sell organic foods for higher prices, which we don't buy. (What we spend on guilt is still less than what we save on the grocery bill.)
• I read that one library book about organic gardening.

So much for that. Now let me tell you my experience with chemical farming.

• First of all, I love poison. Growing up on five wild acres, poison was my family's friend. I'll never forget the horrible summer when we all had to hoe an acre of rock-solid ground in the scorching summer heat. The only thing that got me through that blisterful trauma was my dad's promise, "I'm going to put pre-emergent down, so we won't have to do this again next year." Lesson learned: Pre-emergent = less suffering.
• My dad couldn't spread pre-emergent over the whole five acres though, so he used another chemical to rescue us from the threat of total weed domination. "I'm going to spray Round-Up today," Dad would announce, and he'd mix up a tank, strap it to his back, and wave the magic spray-wand of death over the targeted areas. For larger-scale assaults, he'd hook a large tank to the tractor and recruit one of us to drive while he walked alongside with the magic wand.
• I have other fond memories of poison, as well. Apparently, five acres of luxurious outdoor living didn't satisfy the local crickets and cockroaches, so they moved into my childhood bedroom. I still shiver when I remember the little scratching noises of their feet on the wall next to my bed. After a huge wood spider crawled over my hand while I slept, my parents gave in to my pleas and sprinkled insecticide granules along the baseboards under my bed.

Imagine waking up to this running over the back of your hand

• Later as a newlywed , I happily controlled ant problems at our first house by spraying its indoor and outdoor perimeters with a long-lasting insect-killing solution. (It said that it was safe for children and pets after it dried, so I wasn't too worried about doing the kitchen counters and cabinets.) When rats moved into the crawl space under our bathroom and discovered the washing machine in the garage, Jay distributed rat poison cubes around the property, and I'm pretty sure he didn't check to see if they were USDA green-certified first (although the cubes were green in color).

As you can see, my experience with chemicals far outweighs the organic. But I'm down with having a healthy family and as I said, last summer I felt ambitious—and optimistic.

I have now been through 1.5 growing seasons in our 8x8-foot garden plot. Some things I planted were quite successful and other things were disappointing. But I have worked very hard to pull weeds (a la Battle of Bermuda) without touching the tempting spray bottle of Round-Up in my shed. I've ignored the handy box of slug & snail bait and covered/uncovered certain susceptible seedlings every day until they were large enough to withstand the munching. Instead of buying bags of Miracle-Gro, I've daily fed rabbits and “recycled” their waste into a stinky pile in the corner of my yard.

To be completely honest, I have had some doubts as to whether I can “count” my garden as being organic. For one thing, when we buy non-organic vegetables and then compost the peels and stems, does that make my compost un- “organic”? If I'm giving my rabbits non- “green” feed, does that make their poop un-organic? When I plant seeds that aren't labeled “organic,” does that mean the plants that grow out of them are un-organic, even if their leaves aren't sprayed with chemicals? These doubts have nagged me.

And then today as I gazed wistfully at the hand-tilled dirt rows that should have been full of seedlings, I felt defeated. DE-feated. Every day there are fewer seedlings than there were the day before. As of today, I had a total of three beet seedlings left. There were four bok choy plants left out of 24 seeds planted. Half of the bunching onions are gone. One quarter of the sugar snap peas are left.

Clearly, organic is working for the bugs in my life, but it isn't working for me.

After using up a wad of Kleenex and drying my eyes, I did a web search on organic pest control—which admittedly I probably should have done at the very beginning. But the first article I looked at this morning wasn't very helpful. It said that of the growers they interviewed, the highest pest-control success rate was from letting ducks and chickens roam their yards.

Perfect. Even if our home owners' association allowed raising poultry, I'm already pushing my personal limits by having two rabbits. We do live near a series of duck ponds, but the mallard couple who visits our neighborhood for one week a year during mating season prefers our front yard.

Couldn't you visit the backyard?  The alysum can take care of itself.

Another article advised planting a larger crop than you need to allow for insect consumption. That is what I did, but the bugs are taking more than their fair share...and I'm not going to dig up my entire backyard in the hopes that I'll get four beets next year instead of three.

The next article I looked at discussed making earwig traps using oil or something; I didn't finish reading it because a neighbor arrived at the door just at that moment. She noticed my red-rimmed eyes and asked how I was, so of course I had to tell her my woes. She looked thoughtful and then said, “Are you putting down oil traps for earwigs? My grandmother did that.”

Sigh. Maybe I shouldn't decry the entire organic movement as being a failure but should instead better equip myself to implement it more effectively. My, doesn't that sound mature of me?  The truth is, I'm ready to plow the whole autumn crop under (all 12 plants) and liberally dose the ground with some of the Good Stuff.

But I guess I could finish reading the oil trap article first. It does sound intriguing.

Reading Between the Lines, 01 September 2012

Once upon a time I had a mother.
Now I don't.
The end.

Monday Madness, 27 August 2012

Today is one for the books.  I may be the only sober woman in the history of the world to sleep through her alarm on her First Grader's first day of class.  In fact, the only reason I woke up when I did is because a pajama-clad five-year-old stood in my bedroom door and called out, "Mommy, I thought you said we were getting up early today!"

Yes, son, I sure did.  The plan was not to have 15 minutes in which to dress, make a lunch, pack a backpack, and eat breakfast.  For those of you who hate suspense, I will end your angst by telling you that we did arrive--fed and dressed--to class only two minutes late, just in time for G to grab a quick hug and find his place in line before the kids went inside.

This was obviously not how I pictured the first day of sending my child to school.  Let me tell you how it happened.

It all started two years ago when my mom died.  I'm not being dramatic here; Mom's death, and the following death of my mother-in-law, created pockets of time during which I become mentally and physically overwhelmed with grief.  The last week or so has been tough as we begin to anticipate the fall trial for my MIL, but Saturday and Sunday were brutal.  By "brutal" I mean lots of crying, wakeful nights, sad dreams when I sleep, anger at being abandoned by my moms, and a dread of anyone asking "How are you?"

So last night I went to bed early, knowing the alarm would go off sooner than I wanted it to.  This would give the kids and me plenty of time to make a healthy breakfast, dress with care, and arrive at school a respectable ten minutes early.  Maybe I could even snap a couple adorable pictures of G in his backpack.  The plan was all well and good, but my early bedtime didn't prevent hours of lying awake in the dark with gnawing heartache.  Trying to fight, I listened to comforting music, prayed, listened to chapters of Psalms, fluffed my pillows, and kept my eyes squeezed closed.

At 5 a.m., feeling sleepy at last, I checked the volume on my iPod to make sure it was good and loud so I'd hear the alarm at 6:45.  This has always worked.  Until today of course.

The good news is, I didn't have any time to feel sorry for myself as I launched out of bed at 7:30 and threw clothes at the boys.  (As it turns out, I didn't have time to check my hair in the mirror, either.  Hopefully the first grade teacher didn't pay too much attention to me.)  I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry hysterically while slamming together G's sandwich and repeatedly asking a small naked child to forget about matching socks and put on a shirt and pants, but there wasn't really time to have an emotional breakdown.  There also wasn't time to make oatmeal, which was the only breakfast we had in the cupboards.

Throwing the dice that traffic would be smooth and the McDonald's drive-thru would be speedy, I announced to the kids that we were having a special breakfast treat on this first day of school, and the three of us ran out the door: One adult wearing bed hair and no make-up, one boy wearing one small white sock and one long red sock, and one very grown-up boy beaming with a full backpack and a semi-matching outfit.

Mickey D's was not the quickest it could have been, but it could have been worse.  The boys were thrilled with their $1 sausage muffins, at least!  I did have a moment of panic when the on-ramp was backed up, but it cleared up sooner rather than later, and as I said earlier we made it to school more-or-less on time.

What I would now like to do more than anything else is call my mom on the phone and tell her about G's first day of school.  But at this point, all I really feel like saying is, "Gee, thanks Mom for not being here and making me so sad that I can't even enjoy a normal thing like driving my kid to school on his first day.  Thanks a lot."

I realize it's not Mom's fault for not being here, but since she's not around to defend herself or feel stung, I'm not worrying too much about it.  And eventually the anger will pass, as will this wonky day.  G can take as much time as he wants on the drive home to tell me all about class, and we can always have oatmeal for breakfast tomorrow.

***UPDATE***
I checked my iPod this afternoon and discovered that my alarm had never been set.  I distinctly remember walking over to it last night in order to set it, but in my haze I apparently got distracted.  At least I know the volume button isn't to blame!

Untangling My Brain, 21 August 2012

Today I woke up with a lot on my mind.  Maybe writing about it will help me sift through the stuff swirling around in my brain.  Oo, I know--I'll make a list.  Lists are awesome.

• I want to get away with Jay.  Far away, like for maybe two weeks.  Using the excuse of our 10th wedding anniversary, I'm trying to figure out if we can swing it.  Jay keeps telling me that what other people do or think doesn't matter, but I keep having this little voice in the back of my mind saying, "It's only the 10th.  People don't go on big vacations unless it's their 25th or 30th."  Being afraid of what other people think is one of the things I do best, so I'm working through that.
• When--and I'll say when and not if--Jay and I get away, how can we fit in all the things we want to do in the amount of time and money we have?  That's where creativity comes in.
• Yesterday I went to a new craft store that opened in my city.  The store's pretty awesome, but I had a very unexpected reaction as I browsed the aisles: I wanted to cry!  Didn't see that coming.  Maybe because I wish I were a craftier person?  Maybe because it reminded me of projects we did as kids...with my mom?  Sigh.
• While at the craft store, I started thinking about Christmas.  Kinda hard not to when hundreds of square feet are dedicated to holiday decor and merchandise.  Who in my family will be together this year?  Will we be at my house?  Will I want to put up stockings for everyone, or only the people who are present?
• My mom's parents are moving out of their house of 50 years this fall, and I'm having a hard time imagining life without my grandparents in that house.  The thick, soft carpet; the mirrored hall; the aroma of Old Spice and coffee; the brick fireplace; the floral bathroom wall paper and stained-glass dining room window.  Until the past few years, my family had every Christmas day there.  Hard to imagine Christmas without Grandma and Grandpa's house.
• Of course, we'll still be able to visit them...in their assisted-living apartment.  What will that be like?  It's a place I associate with my quiet, sweetly-wrinkled great-grandma, and I remember Christmases there, too. Every year growing up, the day after Christmas was a large family gathering with extended family in the community's club house.  It smelled like bleach and hard carpet (well, it did).  Will my grandparents' new place smell like bleach and carpet, or will it have the familiar scent of Old Spice and coffee?  I'm guessing Old Spice will win out, and that is comforting.

Now it's time to get the kids breakfast, and I haven't finished my list.  Other topics of note are a murder trial, an estate sale of my mom's things, the one-year anniversary of my mil's death, G starting first grade, being alone with Z during the mornings, a fall garden crop.

Thankfully, all this stuff does take a back burner when held up against my current desire for pancakes, which is rapidly overtaking all other thoughts in my brain.  Let me remind myself: I am taking life one day at a time.  Glad I acknowledged today's thoughts, but I'm not going to make them all today's concerns.

Hmmmm, buttermilk or sweet?  Butter and syrup...

The Battle of Bermuda -or- Four Hours Later -or- Two Mistakes I Made Today, 10 August 2012

Today found me in a determined frame of mind to get my little garden plot ready for the fall/winter crop.

Since June, I've ignored the weeds playing happily alongside the squash and cucumbers, but I draw the line at letting weeds compete with the new seedlings that need to get started.  One thing or another has kept me from getting to the garden this week, so I finally decided that today had to be the day.  Looking at the forecast, I quaked in my boots a bit at the predicted temp of 102 F, but I made plans to get out there at 6:30 in the morning and attack it before the sun got the better of me.  (Rachel doesn't like weeds and she doesn't like hot weather.  The two combined make a formidable foe!)

Well, after a restless night of sleep, the 6:30 alarm was put back to sleep until 7:45, at which point I had to get ready and leave for a morning appointment.  I got back home at 9:30--the outside temperature was already 80 degrees F--but refused to put off the task until another day.  I donned a tank top, shorts, and a hat, and grabbed the shovel.

There was my first mistake.  Between donning the tank top and grabbing the shovel, I should have applied sunscreen.  Little did I know...


I've talked about my nemesis Bermuda grass in a previous post.  Basically, my garden plot is a dug-out section of the lawn: an island of dirt surrounded on four sides by a sea of the Bermuda scourge.  It's a type of grass that spreads by seeds, roots, and trailing stems.  (Yeah.)  Over the course of the last six months, nature took its course and the grass infected the garden.

My goal for today was to cleanse the grass out, work a fresh batch of compost in, and plant several rows of new vegetable seeds.  Two hours of work maybe?  Done by noon, the heat wouldn't be too bad.  Doable.

Four Hours, a Palm Blister, Lobster-red Shoulders, and a Borderline Heatstroke later, I'd finally gotten the grass out and the compost in.  Panting and shaking, I dragged the garden tools off the lawn and basically crawled into a cold shower, where I stayed a good long time.

Jay was very sweet, bringing me cold drinks and rubbing aloe vera gel on my blazing shoulders.  By this evening I had recovered most of the way, in time to savor the meal Jay bought me of a delicious, calorie-crammed burger with fries and iced tea on the side.

Unfortunately, the iced tea was mistake number two.  I'm a caffeine lightweight, but didn't even consider that when downing the large glass of tea at 6 p.m.  Now it's 1 a.m. and I'm as awake as ever.  The complication is, I have to be out of my house again at 7 a.m. tomorrow--er, today--for another (unrelated) outdoor project I'm doing.

Naturally, the forecast high for the day is a grand 106 degrees F.  I'm already failing at getting enough sleep, but I'm determined not to fail in other areas.  Shade.  Sunscreen.  Being done and indoors by 1 p.m.  And not pulling one single weed.

Say, is it hot in here or is it just me?  Oh, it's my shoulders.  Aloe, here I come!