To Walk Bravely

In 2002, I began a journey. When it became apparent Mutant and I would have to move from the glorious mountaintop into this wilderness valley, we were overwhelmed. Life hadn’t worked out the way we planned; Ase 7, Zany 6, and Girly a bubbly 2 years old. After 11 years of transitions and seven moves, we were exhausted.

We all needed to slow down and heal our wounds. Mutant and I decided to school the kids at home to give them that chance.

To let them breathe.

To figure out who they were.

To let them learn the way their brains were wired.

It was a year by year decision. Some years we thought about sending them back to public school for my sanity. Other years, we were excited to keep them home. Through it all the boys had the freedom to play sports and fall in love with dance. They were able to fall in love with it and deal with the bullying and judgment that came their way.

Because they had the space to heal. The freedom to walk away permanently from people who ridiculed them. 

When Girly began to explore science and fall in love with math. As Fluffy-the dead cat- was brought home, skulls, owl pellets, Mutant’s hunting prizes and Aunt’s dead dolphin treasures and more collected on her bookshelf. She could do math to relax herself. Her love of reading developed organically, instead of forced.  Brothers taught her about discretion;  how to resist pressure of sacrificing self to fit in.

What started out as a season of healing, homeschooling became a place for discovery and finding their personal integrity. This wild adventure of non-sequiturs, faith, emotional meltdowns over assignments, testing limits and falling in love with learning was nothing we expected.

When the boys graduated 8th grade, they attended public high school. We chose the one best suited for them. To experience people from different walks of life. Learn through different methods. Greatest of all, to become who they were meant to be. They graduated in 2013 and 2014.

So here we are.

Today…

Girly begins her journey in the school of her choice. Walking in compassion with people from different places. To be academically challenged. Taking all of her discoveries and curiosities along for the adventure. Taking pieces of her brothers with her, she bravely faced the day.

And me. Saying goodbye to a 12 year career, feeling satisfied with a job well done.

A Nest With A Revolving Door

I was not prepared for this.

I did what they told me to. Those older wise women in ministry as they reflected reverent behavior. They told us not to slander. Not to drink-if you do, not too much. We were admonished to love our husbands and children. To be discreet in our actions, make sure all of our flirtations and obedience was towards our husbands and NOT make friends with other men. Don’t act like Jezebel. Defer all final decisions to the husband. It’s ok to make suggestions, but in the end his word is law.

It was our job, to make sure God wasn’t blasphemed.

Over the last 20ish years of marriage and kids, I’ve watched my friends feel shame when the economy soured and they went back to work. Those who chose to send their kids to school defending it with, “My husband…” Those who did homeschool explain why their kids needed to go to school. I had friends who wouldn’t invite people over because she wasn’t a good housekeeper.

The cycle continues with the younger moms today. They carry a heavy millstone of obligation to everyone else.

And here I sit.

Two kids in college and yesterday I dropped Girly off for classes that we’ve added to the homeschool schedule. This season is coming to a close.

The season of children.
The season of being that hot wife.
The season of running the home.
The season of everyone else’s agenda.

I’ve spent the last year looking forward to this and also dreading it because it exposes a nasty, uncomfortable question:

What about me?

Friendships were directly tied to who the kids were friends with. Now that most of the boys’ friends are off to college, those moms are off on adventure of discovery. Their nest is completely empty while mine still has a fledglings and a rotating door.

I feel lost.

What about me?

Somehow I got the idea through the women’s ministry to not ask that question. It’s about Jesus. It’s about being God’s representative. It’s about the husband. It’s about the kids.

I feel confused. I’m not the kind of mom who wishes the kids were small again. I’ve loved every stage. Every moment that we passed through was savored. I like being their friend and mentor now. I like watching them make decisions and mistakes themselves. The question haunts:

What about me?

I become irritated with myself. The question sounds pathetic.

So…

In my struggle to find an answer I reflect on all of the women’s retreats, bible studies, groups, sermons and mentoring for an answer. It eludes me. I’m not an older woman who could mentor. I am not a younger woman eager to learn home management, child rearing and husband happiness techniques.

I am in a middle and feel a bit abandoned. I have no clear answer. My thoughts fall to my youth, when the focus simply was loving God and serving others. I wonder if that should have been the message all along.

An Ode to Poo

They’re cute, right?

Ase just into a toddler bed and Zany in a crib shared the master bedroom. With space to play and a huge window to watch the traffic drive by, they thought it was perfect.

Ase would wake up early, grab a few toys and give them to Zany in his crib. They would quietly play until I came in to get their day started. Ase would be changed and dressed first. Then Ase continued to play, but with one eye on me while I got Zany ready.

Then… the flu.

Ase got it first, then Zany. Both still in diapers. Carefully holding my breath I would peal back to reveal toxic waste.

After a few days, I went to the doctor. He told me about BRAT foods: Bananas, Rice, Applesauce and Toast. Doctor said it worked the same as Amodium and was better for them.

Ase responded quickly. Within a day he was solid and back on regular foods. Zany was slow to improve, but as they were tucked in that night I expected he would be fine by morning.

Their quiet murmurs greeted me as I walked down the hallway next morning. With a spring in my step and the hope of a poop free day in my heart, I opened their bedroom door.

Zany looked at me with dreamy blue eyes from the floor. Diaper gaping open. Brown goo smeared all over his legs and belly. Ase sat next to him: with a clean diaper and a hand full of wipes, his golden brown eyes met mine with pride:

“Mommy! I help Zany!”

I looked over at the crib. Sheets were spotted with caramel. What could I do? With a heart filled with love for his best friend, Ase gathered all the cleaning supplies, then somehow lifted Zany out of his crib. I couldn’t get mad. This was what we were working toward.

Brothers that worked together.
Brothers who would help each other out, no matter the cost.
Brothers who would work out differences.

So… I got down on my knees and helped him clean his brother. We talked about the mess. I told him how proud I was of him. That poop cleaning really is a Mommy and Daddy job, but I really appreciate him trying. It was a very loving thing to do.

THEN I cleaned every surface of that room. Praying nothing was left behind. What happened next was Legen...dary.

They traded that crap for the next six weeks.

I began to hate BRAT foods. They weren’t a savior, they were bondage. Just when things would get solid and they would try regular food, all went loose. In a fit of desperate crazy after Oprah one day, I made up the preschool germ nuking formula-1 part bleach/10 parts water- and cleaned the shit out of that room.

God often whispers this memory to my heart when I reach out to help someone. Ase was too small, to immature to effectively help Zany. How many times do I walk into someone’s life to help them but, instead make it worse? Many times the answer is simply to love the sinner and let Holy Spirit do his job. God is much better at cleaning up shit and getting the job done.

Zany: A Boy Became a Man

Ase was 8 months old when I found out I was pregnant.

Zany blasted into this world with one of "those" birthing stories- cord prolapsed. Dramatic race down the hallway with a male nurse between my legs and plugging my hoo-ha. The only OB left only moments before. There I lay, anesthesiologist sitting poised with general anesthetic. The nurse still sitting between my lets, fighting to hold a crowning head above my cervix. Nurses running in and out:
"We can't find a doctor."
"We found one, He's just scrubbed in for surgery, but he's a neurosurgeon and hasn't done a c-section since residency"
"Never mind, the OB is back."

Anesthesiologist gently looks at me and says, "Start counting backwards."

At 10 months, sitting in a high chair eating breakfast.
Zany leaned to one cheek. Let out a butt cheek flapper. Sat straight up.
AND laughed.

At 11 months I asked him playfully what kind of birthday he wanted.
He hummed the Winnie The Pooh theme song.
"You want a Winnie The Pooh birthday party?"
"Yuss!"

I was in trouble.

I began to pray for inspiration. It came: How did Robin William’s Mom do it? Or Jim Carrey, Andy Kaufman, Tim Conway, Jonathan Winters…Somehow these men were raised without being broken by their Mothers.

After a bad day in first grade, he threw a vacuum across the room. His teacher turned a blind eye while classmates punish each other. She only acknowledged good behavior. In this Lord Of The Files environment, they cornered Zany, under a desk, yelling at him.

When we moved to the Central Valley where we chose to  home school. So much needed to be corrected and we wanted to give them a love of learning. Zany struggled to get his schoolwork done on time. So, I designed a natural consequence:

If you don’t get your school work done within the time allotted, then at the end of the school day, you take it to your room. No playing out side with the neighborhood kids.


He contentedly sat in his room for a week. AND quit doing school work altogether.

It was a hill I died on.

Some people wanted to call him “Strong-Willed.” But I knew he wanted to please. He had a soft and compassionate heart. If I broke that will, he would become a broken man. Not prepared for the life God called him to.

I met a Mom of a similar boy. In his teens now, this boy, years earlier would only wear kakis. It lasted a year. Why? Because it was weird to wear his name- jeans.  She agreed with me. That “Strong-Willed” book was only good for one thing:

Hitting your kid with it.

She introduced me to Raising Your Spirited Child and Making Children Mind Without Loosing Yours. These books saved his life. I stumbled across Nurture By Nature-based on the Meyers-Briggs personality test. This book gave me a game plan that changed as often as he did.

In Zany’s preteens, exasperated, I asked him, “Do I need to explain to you WHY I am an authority in your life?”


His stormy blue eyes widened. He softly and humbly asked, “Yes. Please?”

Because I Said So never worked.

Why? BECAUSE if I wasn't there he had no reason to follow the rule. He needed to have an intrinsic reason to be honest, respectful, honor authority, forgive and serve others.

Early tees found me in tears and on my knees daily. Homeschooling him was what he needed, but it was a refining fire for me. How to raise this gifted, gentle soul and not break him.
Zany wasn't mine.

I was a steward of the child God created. I would be held accountable for every millstone, harsh word or injustice. One morning, looking in the mirror and at a complete end Holy Spirit whispered this verse to my heart:

Through the Lord's mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23


If God’s mercies are new every morning for me, then from that fountain, I can extend them to him. I decided I was going to like Zany as a teen-EVEN IF IT KILLED ME.

Zany went to public high school. He was ready to be accountable to someone else. He wanted me to be just Mom.

Now he is a senior. Drug free, alcohol free, and a solid faith in a God who loves him. He knows he has shortcomings. Zany knows the only help to navigate them is growing in faith. He has a tireless work ethic. Impervious to bullying and passionate about justice. Still driven by his individualistic ethos.

He turns 18 today.
He’s a man.

AND I LIKE HIM.

Beauty and Spiders

Originally written September 2008 for a writers workshop

Fear in my head looks like the Robot from Lost in Space.

With arms waving, a sweet mechanical voice yells, "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!" 

Instead of being a prison which confines, I consider Fear's advice. It no longer controls my decisions. When the kids were afraid, I would share the tools of overcoming. Our most remarkable victory was GirlyK’s fear of spiders.  

            It began when she was two. In Mammoth, spiders were rare. In this Central Valley town, they are everywhere. Those small sphered creatures with that bit and sucked and eight creepy crawly legs that seemed to work independent looked the creature from The War of the Worlds come to life. 

            She would be alone, in her room playing. Out of the corner of her eye that creepy crawly would dangle. Toddler legs catapulted her out of the room. With a glass shattering shriek, she would beg for someone to come kill it.We tried to explain that her shoe was bigger than the spider She could take care of it herself.

 She looked at us like we were aliens.

The final straw came when she was eight. We were working in the yard and she went inside to use the bathroom. Moments later, that blood curdling scream.

I raced toward the house thinking GirlyK had lost a limb. She sped around the corner and crashed into my stomach. Her body blurred with vibrations as she wailed,

"There was a GIANT black spider in the bathroom!"

With a deep breath to stifle the giggle, I took her quivering hand as we charged into the bathroom to face this gargantuan invader.

Nothing was there. 

I checked all corners, curtains and the trashcan.  Tears streamed from green eyes as she asserted, "There was a giant spider!  There WAS!"

I said, "I believe you. I think when you screamed you scared him as much as he scared you and ran away." 

She stood blinking, dumbfounded at my conclusion. 

The spring air warmed the chill of our winter bones a few weeks later at a craft fair.  We perused a booth filled with resin-encased insects. Necklaces, bracelets and earrings filled the space. I admired the encased butterfly wings when GirlyK approached me with a medallion necklace.

Lifting it into my eyes she plead, "Mom, will you please buy me this necklace?  I think it would help me conquer my fear of spiders." 

My eyes focused upon a yellow spider, about the size of a nickel. Its abdomen shaped into thorny points. I looked deep within those green eyes and thought,

How can I say no? 

I paid the lady. GirlyK proudly put on the necklace. Her brothers looked on dumbfounded. Holding her breath and standing a little taller, she led the way out of the booth. 

Serendipity visited a few weeks later through my friend Jeff Klingler. I looked through his online portfolio and loved his ability to capture the beauty of small, insignificant things. Casually scrolling through I caught my breath.

I called GirlyK from the other room. Her breath caught. Eyes widened and a wind of freedom blew across her face.

We saw before us iridescent beads of dew hanging delicately from a small portion of a spider's web against a liquid chartreuse background. 

"Mom!  That is what I want to do in my room!  We can paint my ceiling that color and make a giant crystal web over the whole thing!  I can sleep under the spider web. It will glitter and sparkle and be beautiful."

GirlyK spent the next weeks creating different ways the web could fill her whole entire room.  With liberation she could now walk into empty rooms without the fear of a creepy crawly lurking in the corner. She created a way to face a crippling, silly fear, and the result was a possibility to see beauty. 

2014 follow up: The reality of a whole room spider web was daunting for this Crafty Mom. She settled on a few different lighting options that hung over her bed. GirlyK collects spiders to this day. 

Mommy Nugget: Flying the Coop

Kids.

Are they a gift?

Some call them a curse. A Mother’s saying is, “I hope you have a child just like yourself.”

Men are told they have daughters if they were unkind to girls in their teens-Karma.

Each time I held my new born child and felt the wonder of the moment I was aware of the weight. The power to influence this little person to change the world, or destroy it. Every word, action or intent will leave a fingerprint on their soul.

Filled with terror, I would get away within the first few weeks to cry out for help from the Divine. God knew this child. Within the secret place of my womb Divine Love knit together DNA, cells, synapses, muscles and skin. He knew the number of their days.

And… I was responsible. Would I give them roots and wings or a millstone around their neck? At the end of my days, standing at that beautiful throne, I would need to give an accounting of what I said or did.

God and I came to an understanding: I was a steward.

These little people were only moving through my life. I did not own them. Their visit would only last 18 years at least. After that, the relationship would become more of a mentoring than authoritative. I needed to remember that. God had a plan and a path for them. It probably would not agree with my visions of grandeur. God deposited talents and a calling into their heart. I realized that my job was to teach them how to hear that Still Small Voice and follow it.

The truth is, my voice will only carry them so far. Once they are out of earshot, the will be listening to something: a teacher, peers, their own grand schemes…

The terror assuaged, I focused on the end game. I was not raising children. I was raising adults. Personal responsibility, compassion and respect would motivate all of the rules and disciplines that were carried out.

When tattling occurred, we held court. The accuser and accused each had an opportunity to state their case. Then both would examine their part and judgment levied.

Personal property was held with the utmost respect. Sharing was not demanded from the authority, it was given. If BoyA broke BoyZ’s toy then it was replaced by BoyA with his own money or effort to earn the money.

Friendship and equality were heavily enforced. BoyA, BoyZ and GirlyK were best friends. That friendship came first, above everyone else, because someday The Mutant and I would be gone and they would need each other.

 

Today as I consider BoyA-a high school graduate and beginning his next move- and BoyZ-a high school senior-I feel peace. I am not sad because I like who they are. I have few regrets because I savored every moment I had with them.

They were God’s greatest gift of tangible redemption to me.

Mommy Nugget: Sweet and Sour

Photo taken by pjhudson

They found my last nerve. After riding it for a week, I was sure the neighbors were going to call the authorities on me. It was a field trip that saved their lives.

Half way through the drive to LA, I tuned into a game they were playing. One of their friends started it. If they waved at a car and the people inside waved back, the car was sweet. If the people in the car did not wave back, it was sour.

As we toured the Queen Mary, I watched those delightful children of mine explore with their friends. I took a step back to observe. They were really good kids: Ase was considerate of others. Zany on the constant look out to make someone laugh. Girly was at my side quietly observing everything. Each had their strengths and somehow I had lost sight of it while doing my job.

The tide needed to change. I mused on the drive home… sweet & sour.

Photo taken by xandert

Photo taken by sssh221

Next day found me digging through the recycling for glass jars. Finally, under the bathroom sink, in a dark corner, the perfect receptacles were found. The local craft supply provided white and red pebbles. I mixed them together in a large glass dish with a glass jar on each side. A family meeting was called and the rules were explained:

Sweet and Sour

Each kindness, word or obedient action receives a red pebble in the jar.

Each unkindness, word or disobedient action receives a white pebble in the other jar.

At the end of the day, the pebbles are counted:

IF there are more red than white, a sweet treat is the reward. A small bucket was filled with bits of paper with fun choices: dessert, extra TV time, an extra story, a game…

IF there were more white than red: NOTHING. Life went on as usual.

Photo taken by southernfried

Over the next few weeks, the mood of our family changed. I was forced to notice when they did ANYTHING right. The kids spoke kindly to each other. They worked together more and argued less. Our whole focus shifted to notice the good in each other instead of the negative. Ase no longer was the control freak. Zany wasn’t the science experiment gone wrong and Girly was not the informant. Harmony was achieved through listening and solving problems instead of interrogation and turf wars.

After a few weeks, the count was shifted to Fridays. The treats became a little sweeter: a movie, playing at the park, a friend over…

The game didn’t last much longer. Our behavior was changed and the pebbles lost their luster. We all liked each other and it became natural to get along. Believe me, conflicts still happened  and rules were still broken, yet they were resolved quickly and without much conflict.

Photo taken by jdurham

BUT

My perspective was forever altered. I realized it was possible to like my kids. In spite of the madness it was my point of view that mattered. Whenever I felt the grasp on that perspective slipping, the jars would come out again for only a few weeks to realign us all. 

Walk with Dogs- Virtuous Sleep

I am reluctant to fall asleep at night. Cultural Christianity teaches Proverbs 31 as a Godly Woman litmus test.  According to King Lemuel’s Mother, a wife of noble character never sleeps. As a result, we women show up to church or Bible Study with perfect hair, make-up flawless, wearing fashionable yet modest clothes. A smile on our face and a twinkle in our eye we project flawless contentment.

We. Are. All. Liars.

Photo taken by loneangel

The Virtuous Woman starts out the day with the best of intentions. Shegets up while it is still dark for a Quiet Time of scripture and prayer. Family stirs and breakfast is cooked with a smile as ordered in Proverbs 31:15. She begins checking off the Virtuous Woman boxes.

The business of the day: house, work, kids, husband’s needs, community. The sun sets with the dawn of reality.  Over a sink full of dinner dishes, she pants with exhaustion.

Toys and clutter fill the living room. Laundry covers the bed, overwhelmed she musters her last bit of strength. In a sweet siren voice she sounds the call for bedtime.  

Kids’ shenanigans are the final strike. Pushed beyond her limit, her image of perfection slips away and she turns into a drill sergeant harpy. 

There is no fun in Mudville.

With the kids are tucked in she turns on her overdrive. The day is not over until she falls asleep. There is still time to complete the missed household chores while husband sleeps. When he wakes up, he will be amazed. She will hear the praises of her husband just like Proverbs 31 says. Dinner dishes neatly placed in the dishwasher. A whirlwind pick up in the living room. Fueled by a feeling of victory she walks through the bedroom door to attack the laundry monster. 

Photo taken by Alvimann

Husband is laying in repose upon the laundry. The dulcet sounds of a show waft from the laptop.

Does she wake him? Does she ask him for help?

No.

A deep sense of failure, with a chaser of shame, sets in as each piece of laundry is brought into submission, Husband’s comfy bed shifts. He awakens. Unaware of her Virtuous Woman burden, he turns off the computer.

“That can be finished tomorrow. Come to bed.” He moves to push the rest of the laundry onto the floor.

That wife looks into the eyes of her lover.

A Virtuous Woman demand rings in her ears:  “She sees that her business affairs go well;her lamp stays lit at night.”

Her defeated reply, “You go ahead. I’ll be there as soon as I finish this.”

Proverbs 31 has been twisted into a burden of legalism. Within this Cultural Christianity application there is no room for grace, love or laughter. God does give us tasks to keep us occupied; but they are never to become a litmus test of worth. Ecclesiastes tells us that we are to eat, drink and enjoy the good that results from those tasks; it is a gift from God. Part of that good is rest and sleep. The Psalmist says that unless God is our center focus, we get up early and put off going to bed in vain, for God “provides for his beloved, even when they sleep.”  

Photo taken by hotblack

When I trust in divine rest, my soul is renewed. I am no longer weary; God clothes me with strength and dignity. I am able to be patient in the face of a determined child. My arms are strengthened for the day's tasks. I have energy to serve my won family along with attending Divine Appointments that interrupt my plans. I am able to laugh at the days to come.

Ethics of Motherhood

The Counting Mutant sent this to me today. With these words, "I thing you have accomplished most of this."

My heart skipped a beat.

Someone had read my mind. I was not the only one with this ethos fighting the battle of perception.

I honestly thought I was alone in this. 

Struggling to conform to a Cultural Christianity version of mother and wife kept me feeling like a constant failure. Dichotomy waged its war in my head, yet these criteria led a charge. Because of this code, I felt a measure of success. 

My kids are now 18, 17 and 12. It is true what they say, Childhood flies and before you know it, they are gone. As I look at the backend of this season where time is not my own, I am a little sad. I will miss the chaos. 

Let these rules free you up for lots of laughter, a heart full of possibilities and above all joy.

Thank you Lisa-Jo Baker:

Repeat after me:

1. I shall not judge my house, my kid’s summer activities or my crafting skills by Pinterest’s standards.

2. I shall not measure what I’ve accomplished today by the loads of unfolded laundry but by the assurance of deep love I’ve tickled into my kids.

3. I shall say yes to blanket forts and see past the chaos to the memories we’re building.

Amazing Blanket Fort Ideas

4. I shall surprise my kids with trips to get ice cream when they’re already in their pajamas.

5. I shall not compare myself to other mothers but find my identity in the God who trusted me with these kids in the first place.

6. I shall remember that a messy house at peace is better than an immaculate house tied up in knots.

7. I shall play music loudly and teach my kids the joy of wildly uncoordinated dance.

8. I shall remind myself that perfect is simply a street sign at the intersection of impossible and frustration in Never Never Land.

Photo taken by alisha

9. I shall embrace the fact that in becoming a mom, I traded perfect for a house full of real.

10. I shall promise to love this body that bore these three children out loud, especially in front of my daughter.

11. I shall give my other mother friends the gift of guilt-free friendship.

12. I shall do my best to admit to my people my unfine moments.

13. I shall say sorry when sorry is necessary.

14. I pray God I shall never be too proud, angry or stubborn to ask for my children’s forgiveness.

15. I shall make space in my grown-up world for goofball moments with my kids.

16. I shall love their father and make sure they know I love him.

17. I shall model kind words to kids and grown-ups alike.

18. I shall not be intimidated by the inside of my minivan (or Durango) this season of chip bags, goldfish crackers and discarded socks too shall pass.

19. I shall always make time to encourage new moms.

20. I shall not resent that last call for kisses and cups of water but remember instead that when I blink they’ll all be in college. 

Daughter and the Dead Cat

Originally posted November 28, 2009

I pass a hedge of Oleanders on my morning walk with dogs. Tucked under one laid a beautiful white, orange and toffee colored calico cat. It looked peaceful resting in the shade but as the dogs began to investigate, it did not move. The cat had ceased to be.

As the days passed, the cat composted. I assumed the gardeners would pick it up. I walked in denial of the cat’s existence. Weeks later, a glimmer of white caught my eye; all that was left were bones.

I heard a whisper in my heart, “That’s for GirlyK.”

That thought was lunacy-what 8 year old girl would want to look at a dead, gross cat skeleton? I walked in the door.

“Girly.” Shaking my head NO like Subliminal Man, “You wouldn't want to go see a decomposed cat, would you?”

Eyes brightened and she squealed, “YES!”

We jumped in the car to drive around the corner and I explained the event. I parked. She floated to the cat. After some encouragement the scientific study began. After a while, I said, “We need to get started on school work.”

Reluctantly she walked back to the car with me.

A voice came out of my mouth. “Would you like take the skull home?”

GirlyK erupted in dance, “YES!”

I cleaned it, glued the jaw and skull together then put it in a plastic peanut butter jar.  GirlyK proudly displayed it among the fairies in her room.

Not many days later, an adolescent gray tabby lay in repose under the Oleanders. I heard a voice, “It is for GirlyK. If you ignore this one there will be another.”

Thoroughly perplexed and not wanting to add to the demise of another cat, I told GirlyK. Big green eyes sparkled. We went to look at the new kitty. At first she was timid. With an uncomfortable sigh, I picked up a stick and stepped close. GirlyK shadowed. We talked about the process and I asked if she wanted to keep a journal and check it every day.

Next morning, I came in from my walk and met eyes sparkling with anticipation. The daily observations began. I stayed in the car as GirlyK lilted to her cat, Fluffy. After 5 to 10 minutes of exploration, she danced to the car. Singing at home, she drew in explicit detail.

 

One day, as she was drawing, she asked, “Do I have to draw all the maggots? The stomach was full of them and they are so little.”

I needed a reality check and called my sister. That was a failure.

Sis, took a forensics class which involved a field trip to the coroner. She became excited. My trip into the twilight zone was spreading.

That Saturday, Sis and GirlyK ventured off together with textbooks to explore Fluffy together. When they got back, Sis said, “You know, at the coroner’s office, they put bodies into a crock pot to clean off the bones.”

I told her to shut up and thank you for coming over.

After 3 weeks the cat was pretty well cleaned. Only toes and a bit of tail flesh were left. Sea Green eyes pleaded, “It would be SO nice to collect the whole thing and put it in my room as a decoration.”

I was very clear: the skull. That was all. I didn't know how to process the whole thing and put it back together. She talked me into shoulder blades.

I was never more thankful for ignorance.

The idiot that I am shared my escape from bringing the whole thing home on Facebook. A sweet friend- biology major and fellow homeschooler- responded if I had she could have helped us.

Somehow, someway, GirlyK would find out that Friend could have helped and then those eyes would have turned with disappointment to me. Woulda, coulda, shoulda….

We went to collect Fluffy. Wearing latex gloves, SHE picked all of it up and put it in a large ziploc bag I held open. At Friend’s house we carefully placed Fluffy into a camping pot, placed it on the barbecue to boil off what remained.

After an hour, we checked on Fluffy, my heart sank. As much as Friend wanted to help, the project was too big. I cleaned off what I could, put it in a container and brought it home.

I called Sis whine about the failed attempt. She sweetly replied, “You know, at the coroner’s they…”

“Shut up! I am not putting a month long dead cat in my crock pot.”

I looked at the thing. It was not ready to put together and not fit to be called a cat. I looked at her pages of beautiful journal drawings. I snapped.

I pulled out the crock-pot, plugged it in outside. GirlyK put Fluffy in with a splash of water. I turned it on and walked away.

The next three days I sat outside with GirlyK. Crock-pot in between my knees, I scrubbed bones with a toothbrush. She, with a cat skeleton map, cataloged bones and labeled their zip lock bags. Never was a little girl more in her bliss.

Update: The cat still sits, waiting for re-articulation on a table in the kitchen. Maybe this summer Fluffy will be put together and hang peacefully in GirlyK's room

AND the crock-pot? A month later, I was desperate and a new one was not in the budget. After a scrubbing and through the dishwasher twice, I chucked dinner in it. When everyone sat down, I put it in the center of the table. The Counting Mutant looked at me.

My eyes threw daggers and acid dripped from my voice, “I don’t want to hear it! Dinner needed to be cooked and this was all I had.”

“Well,” The Mutant paused, “It is meant to cook meat. Meat is a dead animal, so… I see no problem.”

An Idyllic Day

Originally posted on November 12, 2011.

After living in a ski resort town for a year, I was accused of having an idyllic life. Shortly after the accusation in 2001, this day happened. Grab a cuppa, buckle up and enjoy the ride.   

Sunrise. I raised blinds to reveal Mammoth Mountain, bathed in a rosy violet with a pale gold snowcap. Opening the south blinds, the Minnerets glowed with sapphire and lavender. My favorite time of the day, the house was quiet and all mine. 

Sleepy BoyA, six years old, came dragging out for breakfast.  BoyZ, five, came bouncing after him.  I went to retrieve GirlyK, ten months, from her crib. We were sitting at the breakfast table as we said goodbye to The Counting Mutant.  The morning ran like butter; gardening, Martha Stewart and kids’ imaginary adventures. 

I packed for a picnic lunch with The Counting Mutant; I went into the bathroom to gather the last few things together.  Stepping onto the sandy brown carpet I felt odd pinpoints of wetness.  Bewildered, I stepped carefully as droplets sent odd shivers into the bottoms of my feet.  I surveyed in wonder.   The toilet, shower door, cabinets and wall glistened with shiny yellow dewdrops.  Restrained, I found the boys. 

"What happened in the bathroom?"

BouA gaped, "I don't know."

BoyZ shining with pride, "I put out a fire."

Dumbfounded, I took a deep breath and sternly informed him, he was to clean it up as soon as we got back from lunch.  Dad was expecting us now.  

Three kids channeled and lunch transported into the car, we headed up the Mountain.  Once parked, I kept track of the boys as they raced around the car. Their concentric circles creeping further into the path of traffic; with one eye on their orbit, I seized the stroller, lunch box and GirlyK out of her car seat. The Counting Mutant arrived just as the boys turned into meteors and guided them to Mammoth Mountain’s Adventure Center.

We found our place on emerald grass.  In the winter it is covered in snow and training runs for small children.  In the summer it is a hub of fun. Mountain bike rental booth and a thirty-foot climbing wall fill the space.  The dulcet tone of different languages around us was a delight as the tourists took pleasure in the richness of the outdoors.

GirlyK’s feet were danced to a tune in her own mind as I opened her lunch.  Carrots, rice and a bottle chaser, was her lunch menu for the day. The Counting Mutant and boys started their lunch.  I debriefed The Mutant on the escapades of the morning when, out of the sweet little bow shaped mouth, the scream of a demon. GirlyK’s appendages hit the bowl of carrots in my hand with an explosion.   My shirt, face and hair were the casualties of the anti-carrot warfare. People around us turned away with sheepish grins. I took a deep breath and coaxed her through the rest of lunch. 

After their food was consumed, boys played on the climbing wall.  GirlyK crawled on the grass and visited with tourists.  Lunch completed, The Counting Mutant said goodbye and returned to his office.  For BoyA’s last turn on the climbing wall, he asked in a rush,

"Mom!  I am going to push myself today and be brave.  I am going to climb ALL the way up to the top." 

I rallied a cheerleading spirit and told him to go for it.  He found his favorite instructor, who geared BoyA up and he began his assent.

 Carefully he picked his grips and pushed himself up the 30-foot face.  Once at the top, he turned around and beamed with joy and pride. The instructor and I!  BoyA faced his fear and conquered it.  

The instructor said, "Ok, A, now let go of the wall, hang onto the rope and I will bring you down." BoyA took one glance at him, one stare at the top of the wall and finally frowned at me.  

"No,” was his calm but defiant answer.

 Encouraging began.  It quickly turned from cheerleading to drill sergeant. After twenty minutes, a sizeable audience gathered, a different instructor free climbed up. As he reached the top, all eyes glued to rescuer as he began to coax BoyA from the climbing holds.  All held their breath as the two of them eased their way down the wall.  Once at the bottom I awkwardly helped BoyA out of the harness.  

Quietly, I heard the rescuer say to the instructor, "That was the scariest thing I have done in my life!  No support and the kid pushed against me the whole way down.  I didn't know if I would make it."

Humiliations galore set in as I rushed all to the car.  The whole ride home the car was quiet.  Once home, I put the sweet girl down for a nap, set BoyZ at the table to await bathroom cleaning instructions. BoyA and I discussed in another room about bravery and trust. 

BoyA excused to his quiet corner. I attended to BoyZ and his firefighting in the carpeted bathroom.  

While waiting for me at the table, BoyZ found Bullfrog Sunscreen. After squirting half the bottle on the table, he created beautiful renditions of wax-based lotion art.

I began to feel my sense of sanity melting, a sponge was handed to the boy. 

We cleaned the table and moved onto the bathroom.  “Here is a bucket and sponge.  You need to wipe walls, sink and toilet.  When Dad gets home he will help you clean the carpet with the carpet cleaner.” I instructed.

“COOL!”  BoyZ’s eyes glittered with pride.   

Bathroom cleaned and BoyZ in a neutral corner, I called The Counting Mutant and suggested picnic dinner.  

Horseshoe Lake was known as the “locals’ dog lake”   Some years earlier, the area experienced a volcanic burp.  Gasses escaped through fissures and killed acres of trees around the lake.  We had never been. I thought it would be a way to finish off our day well. An attempt to turn the tide.

The Counting Mutant came home. We all piled into the car, complete with dog.  Pulling up to the lake, giant gray leafless toothpicks filled our visual plane as we walked across the pumiced earth to a picnic table. A breeze chilled our skin and kids shivered a bit.  I realized we had no jackets.  As I opened the basket, I realized to my horror, I had forgotten plates and utensils.  The Mutant laughed and we ate with our fingers. This day was going to end well even if it killed me.

 We started to prepare for a hike when, We noticed BoyZ only picked at his chicken.  He complained about the fat.  I volunteered to stay behind and help him.  The Mutant, BoyA, GirlyK and dog started their hike.  I began to peel off the meat and feed it to him.  He bit my finger.  We struggled through every bite.  The chicken leg finally consumed; I packed up. 

We met at the car. I gave BoyZ his nectarine for dessert.  On the drive home, I vented. “I tried to be flexible all day and I am done!  I need a moment away.”

  The Mutant agreed.  As we unloaded the car, Zachary walked to me with the uneaten nectarine.  He looked up at me with liquid blue eyes and stated, "I wanted the one with the sticker." 

I snached the sticker free nectarine, walked into the house and handed it to The Mutant, “He wanted the one with the sticker!”

The Mutant took the beautiful boy by the hand, “You should stay very far from Mommy right now.”

The two of them retrieved the carpet cleaner for the bathroom.  I tidied the kitchen. BoyA asked if he could help me. I set him to putting away the spilled books on floor in the family room.  He placed them onto the bookshelf in a boyish manner.  I snapped at his messy method of cleaning.

The Mutant came out to defend this gentle son.  "You need a walk or a bath.  Choose one and go now.  I will take care of the kids."  I chose a walk.

The Mineretts were a deep royal purple and stars were just beginning to peak out as the sun set on my day.

With a deep breath, I walked toward the bike path that ran through our neighborhood.  I walked downhill for half a mile and then turned around.  I was just beginning to feel relaxed. The steep uphill climb would be a perfect finish.  I was close to home when I heard a rustling of leaves to my left.  I slowed and looked.  Bambi stood 10 feet in front of me.  Velvety brown eyes looked deep within my soul and I swooned.  I lived in a miraculous place.  A few bad moments couldn't ruin this magic. After living here over a year, I see my first deer. Nothing could be more perfect. 

We gazed at one another for a moment, then  Bambi turned and bound up the embankment.  I watched his glorious dance as he leapt over bushes.

Then… from the corner of my eye I saw a shimmer of headlights.

My breath caught.  I watched Bambi bound onto the road.  The car was in full view. 

Bambi reached midline. The car was ten feet away.  I began to relax, he made it. 

In the last few moments of breath, the passenger's side headlight caught Bambi’s hind quarter.  Back legs flipped over stately antlers and he landed on the opposite embankment.   My soul wailed as I raced through the Manzanita bushes, leaving pieces of my own flesh behind, to check the people in the car.  As I reached the road and they were looking at the deer.  He tried to scramble away from the car and up the embankment.  His delicate front legs feverishly worked to drag the hind quarters.  I destroyed this beautiful animal.  It was my fault.  I apologized and offered my phone to call for help. 

I walked into the house with two strangers; The Mutant’s eyes blew out of their sockets. 

He asked, "What happened?" 

I said, “I killed Bambi." 

The cute couple called 911 and reported the deer.  The operator informed them that a CHP would be there to take care of it.  We sat and marveled at the oddities of mountain living and speculated what the CHP would do with the venison.  I wondered if we could have some too.  All laughed.  

They left to meet the CHP and I looked at The Mutant.  I was completely shattered.  He looked at me softly, “Go take a bath.  You can’t hurt anything in there.” 

After my bath, I asked Scott, “What would you do after a day like mine?”

  He said, "Get drunk. But, you should call your sister." 

I called my sister and in tears, told her about my day. She laughed.  In sage wisdom she observed, "You experienced all of mountain living in one day: firefighting, rock climbing, picnicking, hiking and hunting."

Divine Mother's Day

This was originally posted on May 7, 2011 after a girlfriend and I discussed the challenges of Mother's Day. My hope is that hearts will be opened and those who struggle with the day will be welcomed.
Enjoy.

Her name is Nurture.  She risked life to birth a person. She corrects those under her instruction.  When advice is needed, it is her counsel we seek.  Mother is who she is.  The intention of Mother's Day is to take a moment and honor the gifts of this woman.  For some the day is filled with laughter and joy.  For others, it is a day of regret, filled with duty or loneliness.

 My heart is pained for those who struggle with Mother's Day.  Women who have experienced abortion or loss of a baby, face the emptiness.  Those whose mother has passed on, gaze into loneliness.  Others who have a strained relationship with their mother, practice the duty of honoring her station. These people stare blankly at the thousands of cards in the store. They painfully weed through affectionate declarations for a simple factual card; a needle in the haystack. For those looking on, what should our response be?  

God is referred to as a loving Father.  Scriptures support and help define what a loving Father should be. God takes that place for the Fatherless.  The New Testament calls Jesus, the Son.  He is our example of what we, as children, should act like. Those who struggle with the spiritual example of a mother search those same scriptures and wonder; who is the Mother to the Motherless?

In Genesis 1:1- the creation narrative- God decided to create, then he spoke.  In John 1:1 we are told that Jesus embodied His spoken word.  The Spirit hovered over the waters. The word used for Spirit here is Ruwach, a feminine noun.  The Spirit was the application of thought and word to physically create.

In Proverbs 4, Wisdom is referred to as a woman.  She wants to teach right ways of living.  In the New Testament, Jesus tells his disciples he will send Holy Spirit to exist with them. The word for Holy Spirit is the gender-neutral noun, Pneuma.  Jesus described Holy Spirit as comforter, teacher, counselor and nurturer: these are same roles as Wisdom in Proverbs.  In our quiet moments with the Loving Creator we find the example of a loving mother in the person of Holy Spirit.   

            Jesus was teaching one day when he was told that his family was outside to speak with him.  His response:

 "Those who follow the will of my Father, they are my brother, sister and mother."  Matthew 12:50

In Jesus, we are all family. No one should be alone or neglected. The great comfort for those who find themselves with out a mother or child on Mother's Day is the Divine. God is the complete and perfect parent. To those who feel loss in the day we should welcome them in as family to our celebration. For those who find the day empty; consider a woman who has filled the void and honor them. Her loving support should be recognized. This way all will experience the Divine Family Jesus was talking about.