Category Archives: Uncategorized

Apr23

Confessions of an eMOM

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Confessions of an eMOM

airport1There are so many places I want to be, but curled in the corner of a crowded Las Vegas airport on a Friday evening isn’t one of them. Yet, here I am.  My plane is delayed and I am aching for home. I can feel the strings that hold my heart together straining against the weight of my longing to be in a different place—my place—home. My heart strings are beyond frayed. As my work calendar fills up, I am increasingly aware that my ability to maintain a healthy balance between work and home is being taxed.   Being a mom is a hard job. Being an eMOM is in its very own category of sucking.

It isn’t like my family needs me; they are extremely competent people and can fend for themselves. I am quite sure the way I imagine they fumble around without my motherly anchor to buoy their lives into some sort of organized chaos is probably not at all the case. However, there is some internal piece of me that rattles around like loose change in a dryer when I am away from home. Nothing rattles my heart more than knowing one of my kids needs me and I am not there. No matter how I spin it, twist it, turn it upside down eMOTHERING is just another word for failure.

What I have for the next four months is the equivalent of a shitty visitation schedule awarded to the non-custodial parent and weekend conjugal visits with my husband. I try to fill the interim time between brief visits home with texts, Facetime, and phone calls.

airport2

Me trying to Facetime with Piper.

The dogs act so sad when I get my suitcase out and they always act so frantically glad to see me when I return. However, neither mutt will Facetime with me, so I am starting to think they are just fake assholes. I find myself looking online for results from track meets that I did not attend and waiting for text updates from other parents about basketball games I am missing. I have texted my daughter’s primary care provider and written her notes regarding serious matters that warrant me being there in the flesh. I get pre-recorded calls from my daughter’s school informing me that she has missed part of the school day and I need to call the attendance office with an explanation to which I never respond. What am I supposed to say, “Hi, this is Sophi’s mom and I haven’t actually seen her in several days, so she could have overslept or was not feeling well, but the truth is I am not sure why she missed part of the school day.” What I can’t do is bring myself to make the call and switch the automated call system to my husband’s number. To do so would be admitting that I am this century’s version of a mom of a latch key kid.

I often see the inspirational quote, “It’s not about the number of breaths we take, but the number of moments that take our breath away.” Well, I call bullshit. The way I look at it, I have a limited amount of moments to spend with the people I love and I am doing a piss poor job of managing those moments. I have been afraid to ask myself about the potential repercussions of being the absent parent a large part of the time. It is infinitely sad to be scared of the asking the hard questions, simply because I know what the answer will be. Besides, it isn’t like I am off overseas fighting for liberty and freedom. There isn’t going to be a viral video of me returning home and surprising my unsuspecting kid at a packed sporting event with a tearful reunion. Most of the time I will arrive home to an empty house or “Hey, Mom, we are out of milk.” In the big scheme of things, I am not that special. But they are and that’s what keeps awake at night. What kind of mom doesn’t know when there is no milk? Seriously, when I am at home I know when we are out of milk and have a choice. I can make a list and go to the store and restock on essentials or I can choose to respond with, “I don’t care. I am pretty sure you can put water on cereal.” When I am away, I have no options.

If one was to scroll through my Facebook page, you would see me tagged in cool places like Las Vegas, Dallas, San Antonio, and I have, in fact, been able to see and do some pretty neat things. What I don’t post (because it is completely uninteresting) is the majority of my time away is comprised of activities which don’t even register as being remotely cool. Fighting crowds and long lines at airports, sleeping in strange places in an unfamiliar bed are just some of the uncool things I get to do week after week. I also get to lug huge computer cases that weigh almost as much as I do (or the weight on my driver’s license anyway), spend long days in nursing homes training people on medical software, and then grabbing dinner. I usually try to workout on shitty hotel fitness equipment and then review data until I am forced to switch to Netflix and binge watch until the wee hours of the morning. It’s damn near a glamorous life. Be jealous all you moms out there who know when you family is out of milk, because I am standing in front of a hotel vending machine debating with myself the nutritional value of animal crackers vs. Cheez-Its™.

The upside to my frequent travel is that sometimes I get to travel with my oldest daughter, Riley. This is probably the only thing that keeps me going. We don’t have to, but we room together on the road. We have laughed together and someday we are going to perfect our twerking skills. This time with Riley is a gift. I am not sure she feels the same. Riley requires a minimum of 10 hours of sleep, which is in complete contrast with my ‘four in a row and I am ready to go’ sleep requirement. She doesn’t like to chat in the mornings and she really hates it when I try to get my face as close to hers while she is sleeping and she wakes up and freaks out. Here are some of the frequent conversations we have had:

Riley: Are you about done with the light?

Me: Not quite

Riley: “Well I am.” Switches off light.

——————————————–

Riley: Mom?

Me: What?

Riley: Shut the F up.

———————————————-

Riley: I brought my workout clothes. Do whatever you have to do to make me go.

Me: Hey, Fatass, let’s go to the gym.

Riley: I hate you so much.

Me: You said to do whatever to get you to workout.

Riley: How are you even a mother?

———————————————

I get out of the shower and the mirror is steamed up. I scrawl in my scariest handwriting: REDRUM. Riley gets in the shower and the mirror re-steams revealing my ominous message…

Riley: Red Rum??? What the hell does that mean?

Me: Are you kidding me? It is from the Shining. You know, ‘murder’ spelled backwards and I gesture with my finger acting out the scene, “Redrum, Redrum, Redrum.”

Riley: Blank stare.

Me: I can’t believe you have never seen the Shining.

Riley: I can’t either, considering you forced me to watch Cujo when I was like 8! Who does that?

————————————————

Me: Riley, if I were you I would never go in our hotel bathroom, ever.

Riley: What have you done?

Me: I ate fresh fruit plates the entire time I was in Vegas. Let’s just say, what you eat in Vegas doesn’t necessarily stay in Vegas.

Riley: Oh, God. This is horrible. You are rotten or something. OMG!! This is killing me!

Me: Here, put this washcloth over your face and breathe through it.

(Fifteen Minutes Later)

Me: I think it’s clear now. You can stop breathing through the washcloth now.

Riley: (inhales deeply) OMG it is NOT ALL CLEAR!!!!

Me: (laughing uncontrollably)

Riley: Lucky me. My mom has the same sense of humor as a 12 year old boy.

——————————————————–

So, perhaps my remaining kids at home aren’t exactly missing out on much with me being gone so often.  My mothering skills seem to be marginal at best. I guess I am feeling anxious about how close I am to being an empty nester. What I want most for my kids is for them to be happy with the person they grow into. I want them to treasure people over things. I want them to lead with kindness and never forget how to laugh at themselves. I want them to love someone so deeply that their heart strings get frayed when they have to be apart from them. I want them to marry their best friend and Facetime with their dogs (even if the dogs are fake assholes). I want them to stand up for the underdog, love God and America. I want them to know that I love them unconditionally and forever. I want them to know that I never check my guilt when I travel; I carry it with me always and it is by far the heaviest burden I have.

Aug31

FAKEBooking-Mastering the Art of Omission

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My mom asked me three questions, when I was 16 years old, to which I answered honestly. Subsequently, this left her standing in the kitchen sobbing into a dishtowel.   Her response ultimately being, “Why can’t you just lie like other teenagers?” Okay…that went well. I should have used my filter. The greater part of my adult life has been trying to tame the wily beast that is my tongue. Sometimes I am able to remain silent, at least in the time it takes to reformulate more socially acceptable responses. Most of the time, this requires the firm use of my teeth on aforementioned tongue and walking away, but progress is progress. With all of my attempts to be authentic without the use of blunt force emotional assault, I sometimes still lose the battle. War is hell and my tongue hurts.

 

There is a place I still struggle to remain authentic and that place is on social medial. It is a fine balance between sharing too much (which I often do) and cutting loose without abandon with every shitty thing happening in my life. Teetering on the virtual tightrope between TMI and Debbie Downer all the while trying to avoid getting to sucked into the dark abyss of ‘my shit is perfect’; the struggle is real and my shit is far from perfect.

 

My newsfeed is alive and well with posts ranging from folks’ fun-filled summer vacations; good times spent with great friends, the proud moments of sports parents and last but not least, the selfies. I have posted numerous times in each of these categories. How authentic are my posts? How well does the life I portray on Facebook reflect the life I actually live?? Not even close. I am living a lie, virtually.

 

Classic examples of my Facebook Omissions:

sophi fist day

Fact: Sophi’s first day of her junior year.

Omission: She was totally Pi$$ed that I asked her to take this picture because she was running late. She was not very nice about it and I wasn’t very nice back.   It was an ugly exchange.

Patch

Fact: Hanging out with Patch, the new horse on the farm.

Omission: I was supposed to be on a run, but I stopped and played with Patch, because I am out of shape and I was dog-ass tired of running.

 

cornhole

Fact: Sophi got out of the shower and played corn hole in her towel. Things like this really do happen in our home.

Omission: I can’t beat Sophi at corn hole and it makes me crazy. I can’t beat Kevin either. I can beat Riley, but she doesn’t count. She is horrible.

magic12

Fact: Kevin coaching his Magic girls in a rare moment of spirited coaching in response to the team not playing well at all.

Omission: Briley, the center, hurt her back early in the tournament and with her mom’s permission I gave her some muscle relaxers. Kevin hurt his back last week and took the same kind of muscle relaxers and was groggy and couldn’t stay awake for a couple of days. Yeah..maybe that is why Briley was having trouble getting up and down the court. Ooops!

 

I think there is a part of my life that I vehemently try to hide on Facebook.   If I had to put a label on it, think it would be vulnerability. What parts of my life can I reveal and not be judged by my Facebook community as a shitty mom or crazy wife or horrible person (I have been called all three).

There is nothing virtual about my reality.

 

I am blessed with good kids and they are basically happy and healthy, but they drive me bat-shit crazy sometimes. They fight. They can be hateful as junkyard dogs to me and each other. I push Sophi too hard, haven’t pushed Evan hard enough and Riley has basically co-parented herself, so there is that.

 

My house stays clean for exactly 2.3 seconds and then the chaos erupts. The cute little dog, Piper, whom is adored and treated like a baby, won’t pee in the grass if it is wet.   She sneaks into the kitchen and pees in the floor. I cover for her and tell Kevin she is sorry. She is not sorry.

 

Kevin really is the mild-mannered, cool-headed voice of reason in the family. He did say he wouldn’t love me if I lost both of my arms, because I wouldn’t be much good to him. I am pretty sure he was kidding though; sort of kidding.

 

I can’t take a selfie that is worth posting. If I try, it takes me 37 tries and by the time I get one that is halfway decent, the moment has passed. Actually, my selfie ship has passed. Perhaps, being a woman of a certain age, I don’t feel compelled to see my mug daily on a newsfeed. Honestly, I don’t want to. I require a lot of makeup, low-lighting, and numerous filters to pull it off. I have a scar on my chin, crow’s feet, and ain’t nobody want to be looking at all that (see the horse picture above…I am the one on the left). I am not that cool and I know it—affirmations through comments be damned.

 

I am flawed. I am not the matriarch of the Sunshine Family. Sometimes I am sad, scared, and stressed. My kids aren’t beauty queens, top athletes or anything extraordinary, but they are unequivocally loved. Our home is filled with more laughter than tears, but laundry is more abundant than either. There always seems to be more wants than money, more things that need to be done than there is time and more places to go than gas in the cars. We sing, we dance, we wrestle, and we laugh. I love to share the moments of my life, but the life I share is often a watered down version of the real thing. The watered down version is never as good as the real thing. Live your life—love your life—no filter.

 

Jul14

The Epic Tirade Over Bleepin’ Wet Socks

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The Epic Tirade Over Bleepin’ Wet Socks

Every once in a while, I completely flip my $hit. I have scaled down my grand meltdowns and while I have no specific data to back up my bold claim, I am confident the number of Richter scale measurable come-a-parts has been on the steady decline over the last several years. I am uncertain of the reasoning behind the lengthening of my fuse and the rounding out my sharp edges. Perhaps arriving in the fourth decade of my existence has brought about a shift in the hormonal tide.  It may be attributed to a heightened awareness of the struggles of those around me and a growing appreciation for mankind. Truth be told, it is most likely that I just don’t care enough to work myself up into an emotional lather… well that and I am slightly medicated.

 

The push to take ‘don’t sweat the small stuff’ to a new level hasn’t always been easy. Laundry thrown haphazardly next to the hamper on most days is met with a sigh and a quick deposit into the receptacle. Other days, I can just ignore it. There are those days, however, when I feel the adrenaline surge through my veins, and I have visions of lighting the whole damn pile on fire and walking away. I have found that visual imagery helps alleviate my stress and seems a viable imaginative alternative to a verbal assault on my family and/or acts of arson. I am learning to self-soothe, which I am counting as a sign of progress.

 

Nothing seems to validate all of my hard work, like witnessing a colossal screaming crazy rant of another. While staying at the historic (and haunted-another story) Congress Hotel in Chicago my husband, Kevin and I were audible witness to the tyrannical verbal hurricane of a neighboring guest. As we were leaving our room late one evening, we were halted in our tracks (okay we stopped and eavesdropped outside the door) of a man who was coming completely undone, specifically because his socks were wet.

 

HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO BLEEPIN’ TELL YOU TO WIPE UP THE BLEEPIN’ BATHROOM FLOOR WHEN YOU BLEEPIN’ GET OUT OF THE SHOWER?? YOU BLEEPIN’ LEFT WATER ALL OVER THE BLEEPIN’ FLOOR AND NOW MY BLEEPIN’ SOCKS ARE WET BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO BLEEPIN’ LAZY TO WIPE UP THE BLEEPIN WATER!! NOW I HAVE BLEEPIN’ WET SOCKS!!!! GET YOUR BLEEPIN’ ASS IN THERE AND WIPE UP THE BLEEPIN’ FLOOR!! AND DON’T USE A BLEEPIN’ CLEAN TOWEL EITHER. YOU USE A BLEEPIN’ DIRTY TOWEL!! THIS BETTER BE THE LAST BLEEPIN’ TIME I STEP IN BLEEPIN’ WATER AND GET MY BLEEPIN’ SOCKS WET!!!! DO YOU BLEEPIN’ HEAR ME?

 

Actually, Sir, the entire 14th floor heard you. That was some powerful rage over wet socks. I thought about tapping on the door and sharing my visual imagery techniques, but I figured he probably wasn’t to the receptive stage in his development and decided against it. Then my heart started to imagine the receiver of that powerful verbal pounding. Of course, I imagined a little lad of 8 or 9 standing there in his PJs with wet hair and big sorrowful eyes. I pushed that image out of my head, it was too much. I started leaning toward the battered and abused wife, but that wasn’t any better. I settled on the recipient being the madman’s adult unemployed sloth of a brother, who drank all his beer, sleeps on his couch, and is still favored by their mother. One thing I am sure of, he wasn’t berating himself for not wiping up the water in his bathroom floor.

 

I haven’t thrown too many sticks or stones around, but I have tossed some pretty harsh words at the people I love most in the world and I am pretty sure some of them left a mark and probably even a scar or two. The scars on the hearts of the people I love are permanent. I cannot erase them with a million apologies or cover them with platitudes. My only hope is that my moments of tenderness, my smiles and laughter, and unconditional love can patch the holes I may have made. Love can’t float with holes in it, but a good sturdy patch may be just the thing to keep it from going all the way under.   I can’t guarantee things will always be smooth sailing. I am 100% human and a continued work in progress.

 

If you ever find yourself standing in the bathroom with bleepin’ wet socks, remember somewhere I am standing in my own bathroom sitting fire to a pile of laundry in my mind. Life is too short. Be kind. Be real. Be careful what you scream in a hotel room…

May26

A Fist Full of Poppies and a Heart Full of Shame

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hatSometimes I get tired, frustrated and homesick during my seemingly long stints away from my family, while traveling for work. May has been one of those months with a lot of travel and an equal amount of homesickness. Fortunately, the majority of my time working this month was spent in the Missouri Veterans Commission in their homes for veterans and it was here I met an old soldier. It was he who reminded me that I have no actual concept of what being tired, frustrated or homesick really is.

He sat close to the nurses’ station, where we were training the staff on how to use the electronic medication administration software. He was sitting in a wheelchair. He asked for a warm blanket, which a staff member tucked around his stooped shoulders. He thanked the young lady with sincere gratitude and then I overheard him reciting lines from the poem, The Golden Years: “I cannot see, I cannot pee, I cannot chew, I cannot screw, the golden years are here at last and the golden years can kiss my ass.” His laugh was infectious.

Later that day, I had returned to the nurses’ station to check on the progress with the electronic medication pass.   He was sitting in his wheelchair. His US Navy cap had fallen to the floor and I watched as he strained in vain to reach it. I excused myself from my trainees and retrieved it for him and returned it to its rightful place. He thanked me with the same gratitude he had expressed over the warm blanket. I said, “I believe it is you who deserves the thanks. Thank you for your service, Sir.” His skin was thin and nearly transparent beneath the bill of his cap, but his eyes were shining.

He told me he served in the US Navy during World War II. I shared with him that my grandpa had also fought in WWII, but that he had served in the Army. He smiled and said he wouldn’t hold that against him and once again—that laugh. He shared with me that he loved the men he served with, but many of the names he has forgotten; the faces he never will. He grew quiet and

Vernon Thomure WWII Veteran, Hero, and Awesome Grandpa

Vernon Thomure
WWII Veteran, Hero, and Awesome Grandpa

I thought maybe he had fallen asleep, but when he looked up, his shining eyes were filled with tears, and he continued, “There are some things I wish I could forget. Our ship was hit in April, 1945, and there was so much water and so much blood. It seemed like more blood than water, if you can believe that. We were in the middle of the ocean with a hole blown in the side of our ship. You would think there would have been more water, but it sure didn’t seem like it. I still see all that blood and all those faces of men who were my brothers.”

The tears had made their way down his cheeks and the lump in my throat occluded me from speaking, which was a blessing, because I couldn’t find words to fill the space between us. I tentatively reached out and covered his vein-streaked pale hand with mine. After a few moments, he looked up and said, “I am sorry, young lady. I didn’t mean to start crying.” I told him I didn’t mean to make him so sad. He smiled and said, “Some things are just sad. I think what would be even sadder is that if nobody remembered.”

Today I followed two 30-something men out of Wal-Mart and they were chatting and talking and a veteran with the Buddy Poppies was standing at the exit. He buddypoppolitely asked if they would like to make a donation. These men didn’t even acknowledge the veteran or his request. One gave him a sideways glance and then turned his head and they both kept talking and walking. I stuffed a few dollars into the donation can and accepted my Poppy, trying to reflect as much gratitude as I had seen in the eyes of an old soldier when he was given a warm blanket. I thanked him for his service and I headed to my car. Once in my car I placed the poppy on the seat beside me, along with the several others that have accumulated over the last several days. I tried to stamp down the anger I was feeling for the two men who had nothing to offer, even in the way of a thank you and I wondered how many times I had failed to recognize the sacrifices made on behalf of my freedom and my anger dissolved into shame.   Because there are things that are just sad, but what would be even sadder is that if nobody remembered…

In the spirit of the Golden Years Poem, I wrote a few lines for the guys that blew off the veteran at the store today:

He cannot see, he cannot pee, he cannot chew and he cannot screw,

But he is more of a man than either of you.

The golden years don’t discriminate, and you can bet your ass

They show up without warning and they come on fast.

To you he may be an old man with poppy on a stem

But even for jerks like you, he would do it all again.

So enjoy your long weekend, your beer, and big toys

He knows what it takes to separate the men from the boys.

 

May7

A Mother’s Day Wish List-Revised Edition

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A Mother’s Day Wish List-Revised Edition

As Mother’s Day approaches, I have been making a gift guide for my sweet children to utilize, in the event they want to borrow money from their father and purchase me a little sumthin’-sumthin’.   The following is the first edition of my Mother’s Day Wish List:

  1. Fitbit Fitness Band (in black)finch
  2. Converse Monochrome shoes-Size 8.5night vision googles
  3. Atticus Finch T-Shirt and the Preorder purchase of Harper Lee’s Novel Go Set a Watchman, to be released in July (the T-shirt will keep me happy until the book release).
  4. Yukon Night Vision Tracking Binoculars
  5. Conceal and Carry Compression Tank (in black)
  6. A very tiny monkey.

After reflecting on the likelihood of my Mother’s Day wish list ever coming to fruition, I decided to make some revisions. As I attempted to whittle the list down and refine the focus to practical customary wishes, it was apparent the list, while authentic, was not representative of the true spirit of Mother’s Day. I dug a little deeper and explored what my true wishes were for Mother’s Day. The following is the compilation of my revisions:

  1. For my oldest daughter, Riley, I hold these wishes for you. I wish you could embrace the amazing young woman you are and hold tight to the beauty of your soul. Each morning, when you wake and you look at your reflection in your mirror, I wish you no longer sought out your perceived imperfections, but instead focus on the gifts God has given you. My hope is that with each passing day, you will learn to love yourself. The many ways you guard you heart serves you well, when done so for the right reasons. Hearts are made to be broken and human beings rarely escape a life without some degree of heartbreak. A heart that has been broken beats on, but a life without love is just a beating heart. May you always know how much of love being your mom.                            Addendum: I wish you would someday in the future reconsider your decision to opt out of motherhood. I cannot be a Nana to a batch of rescued cats.
  2. For my son, Evan, these wishes are for you. Looking back on the long journey that has brought you to this moment, I wish you to know how very proud I am of you. I know that the things that are so easy for others were not so easy for you. I want you to know that the mistakes I made along the way were my attempts at helping you the only way I knew how. There were many people who might have given up on you, but that was never an option for me. It is my hope for you that you will remember to give more than you take, lift others up, treasure the little things, and don’t be afraid of failing. There is something great inside of you, Evan and I pray each day you have the courage to discover what it is, the resilience to carry on when you fail, and the graciousness to appreciate those who help you along the way. Don’t let a day go by without fully knowing how blessed I am that God chose you for my son. Addendum: I wish you would please stop teasing my sweet old Cooper. He is over 70 years old in people years!! Please be kind to my crabby geriatric furry friend.
  3. To my baby girl, Sophi, I wish these things for you. There will never be more minutes in an hour, more hours in day, more days in a week or more weeks in a year. I know of no other who crams more living in a space of time than you. It is my wish that you are able to make the most of each moment and give yourself some space to breathe. The only thing that ever gets in your way, Sophi, is you. It makes me proud that you are motivated to set the bar high, but don’t forget that you don’t have to be perfect. All that you have to do doesn’t have to be done today. It is my wish for you to find balance and understand that if you always stay true to God, yourself, and the people who love you, the life you make will be successful. You are forever and always my bonus baby.                                     Addendum: I wish you would PLEASE put the lids back on your makeup and quit leaving it all scattered on the bathroom counter!! And for the love of all that is holy, you only need ONE towel for a shower

kidsThe truth is the greatest gift is one I have already been given. It cannot be purchased at the store or ordered online. I have been blessed with the privilege of being a mother, and this is simply all I could ever want (except for a very tiny monkey, that would be freaking AWESOME)…and maybe the night vision goggles. Seriously, this nest is going to be empty someday. I really should start planning ahead.

Apr11

Cookin’ with Jesus

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There is an unwritten rule that one should refrain from discussing religion or politics. I have never been much on rules, written or otherwise. The bolstered political push in support of business owners’ rights to refuse service to same-sex couples has made headlines in the media recently and has me flirting with crossing that proverbial line drawn in the sand. I will be the first to tell you that my spiritual walk has been wrought with potholes, detours, and occasional meanderings in the wrong direction. The person reflected cakein my mirror each morning is one plagued with imperfections and always thankful she has another day to try to be better than she was yesterday. This isn’t written from the perspective of a scholarly theologian, to say the very least.   It is just my attempt at sorting out what I have learned from Jesus about serving others. If a same-sex couple moved in next door to Jesus, would he bake them a cake and welcome them to the neighborhood?

Being raised in the Christian faith, I have struggled immensely with reconciling the life and teachings of Jesus with the actions and attitudes of a good number of his followers. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention in Sunday School, because I must have missed something. I remember the story of Jesus teaching to a crowd of 5000 people and he managed to feed them all with five loaves of bread and two fish. I must have completely missed a big part of the story; the part where Jesus instructed his disciples, “Hey, guys, make sure not to give any to the homosexuals. This miracle is only for the straight followers.”   Jesus fed everyone, folks.

Jesus knows that we are all human. A woman who was being charged with adultery was brought before Jesus. This was an open and shut case. She was literally caught with her pants down (or her robe off, or whatever the case was back then) and was to be stoned to death. Jesus agreed with the conviction of the woman, but he added, “I want the person here who is without any sin to throw the first stone.” NOTE: I am not comparing homosexuality to adultery or classifying it as a sin, I am just illustrating how Jesus teaches us to examine our own humanness, before we go chucking stones at someone else.

It is so easy to point fingers at others who may act, look, or live differently, but even as a very young child, I perceived that this is directly opposite of what Jesus wants me to do. Jesus was always asking the hard questions and they were usually loaded with implications on how people screw things up. Jesus wasn’t one to beat around the bush or sugar coat things either. He posed the question, “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?”

no perfect peopleI don’t know about you, but I am in no position to throw stones and if I ever get this plank out of my eye, I better take a good hard look at myself.

Matthew 5:43-48- Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? …  

Matthew 12:28-31, Jesus answered, “The most important is this… you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”

This is what I know Jesus has taught me about loving people. I would like to clarify that he specifically emphasizes ALL people, even my enemies. (Just so you know, I have a super hard time loving my enemies and sometimes I fantasize about shoving my enemy down a set of bleachers or stabbing him in the eye with a fork. God is aware of this and He knows I am working on it). I am flawed. All the perfect people can officially scratch me off your ‘approved patron’ list. Jesus said I should even love people who hate and persecute me and to love my neighbor as I love myself. He did NOT say to only love my HETEROSEXUAL neighbors. If Jesus expects me to pray for people who hate me, I am quite certain he would want me to bake a cake for my neighbor regardless of sexual orientation.

So, I have to ask myself, are these business owners going to examine ALL their patrons with the same vigor they are imposing on the gay and lesbian community? Are they going to refuse service to all members of society who sin or live a life in which they consider ‘wrong’? Will patrons have to complete an in-depth questionnaire to ensure they are worthy of goods or services?

Please answer the following questions to ensure we are not providing services to anyone whom is not completely aligned with our beliefs. Have you ever:

  • Told a lie (any lie, big or small)
  • Taken the Lord’s name in vain
  • Had sexual relations outside of being married
  • Been divorced
  • Stolen anything that did not belong to you (if you are wondering if those cool pens at work count…they do)
  • Gossiped about someone
  • Coveted anything belonging to your neighbor
  • Ignored the Sabbath
  • Dishonored your parents
  • Had impure thoughts
  • Murdered someone (1st or 2nd degree, if manslaughter, please provide more information in the space provided)

It is without question or judgment that I respect private business owners’ rights to refuse services to anyone of their choosing. It is my right to choose a different path entirely. My life is too scarred, my sins cake2are too plentiful, and I am too flawed to do anything other than strive to serve others, love others, and accept others. Jesus knows I am a mess and most of the time I am a poor example of what a Christian is supposed to be. However, the Jesus I know wouldn’t turn his back if he walked in my kitchen and found me making a cake for a same sex couple. My Jesus would put on an apron, mix up the batter, and I am pretty sure he would let this unworthy soul lick the spoon.

Mar27

Life Hits Hard, Lead with Your Left

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box1A badass, I am not. I have never been a fighter and my considerable lack of bad-assness, would render me basically useless in a physical altercation.   Occasionally, I will work over the heavy bag to burn off a few calories and a little steam, but more often than not, the darn bag wins.   As with nearly all things in my life, I have trouble following the rules and boxing is no exception.   The biggest problem I have is with the weak-arm lead. I am DOMINANTLY right handed. My left hand is special and not in a good way. I was a decent basketball player, but I could have been pretty darn good, if I would have had a little more control of my uncooperative left hand, instead I had opponents’ parents yelling “Force her to go left,” from the stands. It is the cross I bear.

The boxing instruction of leading with my quirky left hand and keeping my right arm in the low-ready position seems very awkward to me, so I went seeking the answer to my favorite question in the universe—why? www.expertboxing.com provided me with the answer:

In the traditional stance, a boxer has his weak hand in front as the rangefinder that sets up the strong cross from the rear. In this scenario, the boxer has 2 effective hands: one to open the opponent, the other to inflict massive damage on the opponent. If you place your strong hand in front, this means your back hand will become useless because it doesn’t have true power which is its main purpose.You will be tempted to fight purely on the front hand which diminishes the purpose of the back hand since it is weaker and farther away from the target. It won’t be long before you become a one-armed fighter. (April 30, 2011).

This sums me up perfectly—going at life leading with my strong arm.   It is a pattern. When life gets tough, I start swinging wildly with my strong arm (figuratively speaking, of course) and I usually just end up worn out and defeated. My mouth is my strong arm. It is always cocked and ready. It is that weak side I need to develop. The one I am not used to using as much. It is the arm of patience, kindness, and self-control. My weak arm needs work. It needs a lot of work.

Nothing brings my strong arm front and center quicker than seeing one of my children hurting. Kids fall down and get bumps and bruises and those hurts I can kiss away. It’s the other kind of hurt that draws the one-armed fighting maniac out in me– the heartache, the heartbreak, the emotional growing pains of finding his/her place in this world.  As my kids transition from childhood to young adults, it is often hard to determine when it is appropriate to step into the ring on their behalf and when I should support quietly from my ringside seat.

It was so much easier when they were little, when I was their voice. I was up on the ropes doing a Jimmy Superfly Snuka on whomever or whatever, in order to right the wrongs in their world. The world is a tough place.   Resilience is hard to foster when you have a crazy mom jumping into the ring swinging with her strong arm. On the other hand, it is hard watching your child take it on the chin.

I like to give most people the benefit of the doubt, especially those who actively influence the growth and development of children. With that being said, there are adults who forget the enormity of the responsibility in shaping young lives. More importantly, altogether discounting the significance of ensuring the influence is positive. Just as there is no substance in false praise or unmerited advancement, confidence is emaciated by the unwillingness to look for that which can be cultivated. Often young people are not aware of the capabilities hidden inside them.   There are even times when young people have great things to show the world, but no one is willing to look.

This is the real world. There are things I can change and things I cannot. As a parent, I try to instill simple truths to which my children can cling to: Love God and love others, be kind, work hard, study hard, play hard, laugh often, smile, do your best, forgive, say please and thank you, be honest and humble. I want them to know that they will make mistakes and there will be times they will come out swinging with their strong arm. They will face hardships. There will be defeats, losses, and tears.   Sucker punches from life hit hard and fast and they will be knocked down.   I want them to be able to get off the mat– to get to their knees—to stand—regain their balance—lead with their weak arm and finish with a mighty swing from their strong arm. I want their swings to have purpose.

I am never going to be a boxer.box2

I am going to be a MOM forever.

I will never give up on them.

I will always be in their corner.

Feb26

Living the Simple Life Status Update…It’s Complicated

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Living the Simple Life Status Update…It’s Complicated

 

Whoever said living in the country is the ‘simple life’, obviously never lived in the country. Country living takes grit, resilience, and emotional fortitude. It has been just over two years since I said farewell to the city limits and embraced my tougher rural side. The transition has been filled with a multitude of learning opportunities for me and I am woman enough to disclose that I sometimes lack grit, resilience, and emotional fortitude. Sometimes, I am just an idiot.

My first faux pas was made with good intentions. Spirit is the resident matriarch horse on the farm. She is a beautiful Morgan Paint, which loosely translated for town folks means she is BIG and looks like Tonto’s horse from the Lone Ranger. Each morning before leaving for work, I would take Spirit an apple or handful of carrots. Her forelock (loosely translated—horse bangs) was always hanging in her eyes. My attempts to use my hairclips to pin it up out of her eyes didn’t go well. She lost every single one of my hairclips. I decided to give her a trim. Spirit ended up looking more like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber than a beautiful horse. As it turns out, the forelock is important for keeping flies and other debris from irritating the horse’s eyes. Who knew horse bangs were more than a fashion statement??dumb

In addition to the acceptable grooming practices of horses, I have had my eyes open to other farm animal maintenance. If a baby calf gets stuck in her mama cow’s vagina, it is customary to hook chains to the calf and help pull it out. The boy cows don’t have it easy either. If you are unfortunate enough to be born a boy cow and you aren’t given immunity status to continue growing into a bull, a routine circumcision would be a welcome trade for what is in store. The little boy baby cows are rounded up and their little baby cow balls are cut off and tossed into a bucket. Chains in a vagina and a bucket of cow balls…all in a day’s work.

As luck would have it, I am not involved in the day-to-day operations of the farm. It is probably a good thing, because I am a little too emotionally high-strung to be of much use. One of the baby donkeys got stuck in the mud near the pond and drowned. All the Animal Planet viewing in the world did not prepare me for this travesty! While tuning into Animal Planet, I fully expect crocodiles to leap out of the water and snatch up little water buffalo, but this isn’t the Serengeti! We are smack in the middle of America’s heartland. Mother Nature’s bitch-slap is far reaching.

donkeyI don’t cut off baby cow balls or get near the vagina of a cow birthing her young, but I do have animal responsibilities on the farm. I am the caretaker of the barn-cats. Barn-cats are an integral part of country living and I do my part to make sure they are fed, warm, loved and cuddled. According to barn cat protocol, barn-cats are not to be named, as there is a high turnover among the resident barn-cats and thus, I have been advised not to get attached. I seldom follow sound advice (heavy sigh).

LuLubelle was one of the initial barn-cat residents and the beginning of my cat wrangling adventures. LuLubelle was born with a hole in her diaphragm, which resulted in her not being a candidate for spaying. Contrary to popular belief, her breathing difficulties did not eliminate her from lifting her tail for the first Tom Cat who came along. LuLubelle’s transgressions led to a small but robust barn-kitty boom. I had my hands full trying to keep up with finding homes for adoptable kittens, foster mothers for the shitty-kitty moms’ kittens, and keeping up with sterilization for the youngsters coming of age.

LuLubelle tired of the mother (and now grandmother) grind and headed off to take up residence in the solitude of a quiet, not so crowded, barn (this is what I tell myself anyway, because recognizing the fact that she may have been a late night snack for a coyote is just too horrible). Finally, all the kittens had homes, LuLubelle had moved to her retirement home, and our barn was home to one small kitten named, Yellow Cat. My work schedule had been rather hectic and I knew I had several months before Yellow Cat would be mature enough to have kittens, but evidentially some kitties mature faster than others…and now we were suddenly back up to six barn cats.

**WARNING: This is the point in the story, where things take a tragic turn and cat lovers and the squeamish should probably bail out now.**

I found yellow cat with her new brood in the hay manger in the barn. It was early morning and I was headed to work. The light in the barn was dim and she wasn’t really keen on me poking around. I could still see that several of the kittens weren’t cleaned well and I was worried that she was going to be a shitty-kitty mom. I gave her some words of encouragement and headed off to work. Returning that evening, I went out in the barn to check on her. I brought a flashlight so I could get a better look at how the situation was progressing and I was totally unprepared for what I was about to encounter. There were three kittens nursing and two seemingly piled beneath them. I started moving them around to get a better look and I saw what looked to be a placenta, which Yellow Cat should have gobbled down long before this point. Confused by the mangled ball of kittens, I reached in and picked one of the kittens up, and instead I hoisted up four tangled kittens. They were all still attached to one placenta and completely entangled in a web of umbilical cords.

The act of me picking up the intertwined kitten-placenta ball caused one kitten’s umbilical cord to pull off and I couldn’t control the bleeding. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to save that little guy, so I reluctantly turned my attention to the other three still mangled together. With hands shaking, I was able to tie off and cut the cord, freeing one kitten from the mass. The remaining two were in a pitiful predicament. It was obvious that the kittens had been tangled long before they were born. Their little legs had been cinched together with an umbilical cord so tightly and for so long, their little tiny paws hadn’t formed. There was just rotting dead tissue where little paws should have been.

One of the kittens was visibly smaller and looked as if it was already succumbing to the infection that was no doubt raging. I had to get them apart. I went plundering for medical supplies. Running back to the barn, I had discovered that the weaker kitten had died, but was still hopelessly tethered to its sibling. Using every ounce of courage I could muster, I carefully snipped the rotten leg off of the dead kitten. I surveyed the situation; I had one living kitten, which was not a part of the original tangled mess. I had one living kitten that I had been able to successfully free, two kittens that had not survived, and one kitten with a rotten leg, still attached to both the placenta and the severed rotten leg of its sibling. Kitten farming is REALLY hard.

kittySadly, even after a successful amputation and antibiotic therapy, little “Stumpy” kitten wasn’t strong enough to make it. I buried him in a sunglasses case under the tree near the barn, where yellow cat likes to sun herself in the afternoons. Sweetie and Dot are the surviving twin brothers of the ordeal and have grown into a handsome loving duo. Sweetie, Dot, and Yellow Cat have decided to leave barn-living behind. Mama and her two sons have moved into the garage, where my husband has built them a two story insulated and heated condominium. They often join us in the house and stretch out the furniture or curl up in a lap, before retiring to their kitty-condo.

It has been hard for me to convey the situation I encountered in the barn that day, even to my family. When I arrived at the house bloodied, panicked and carrying Stumpy still attached to the severed leg and nasty placenta, my family questioned my sanity (this is not the first time my sanity has come into question). Several days later, my daughter’s friend commented that her throat was hurting and my daughter replied, “Don’t tell my mom, she might cut off your head.”cattwins

I read somewhere that tough old farmers don’t cry, but I know better. This country way of living is still pretty new to me, but I have seen enough to know that tough old farmer also have the biggest hearts. I am not sure if having a big heart is a prerequisite for the job or rather something they acquire along the way. I assume if it is okay to sometimes cry in the barn, perhaps I have some farmer potential. It is probably better to look at my potential as a farmer more objectively and as my dad would tell me, “You aren’t tough enough to make a scab on farmer’s ass” and I am pretty certain he is absolutely, 100% correct.

farm

 

 

 

Jan27

The Maddening Voice of Maggie the Nav-Hag

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The Maddening Voice of Maggie the Nav-Hag

Jeep1My Maggie is hard not to love, although sometimes she is hard for me to handle. She is strong, beautiful, and almost as much fun with her top on as she is with her top off. From the moment I saw her, I loved her. She is my Jeep and she is special.   Last week, my husband had a navigation system installed into Maggie. This brought about some changes. Not only can Mags and I find our way back from any adventures we may take, but now she can talk!

I have little patience for technical configurations which require a great deal of detail and/or time, so I hit the highlights. The only setup option I gave careful attention to was the voice selection. A female voice was the obvious choice. Maggie is a badass, but exclusively in the feminine sense. Listening to each accent and language choice, I settled on a soft voice with a pleasing British accent. (Please apply a soft female voice with a pleasing British accent to Maggie’s dialogue in the remainder of this story).

The next day, I decided to drive Maggie to work in St. Louis, a jaunt I usually reserve for the smaller economical and nameless Chevy Cruze.   I didn’t want to have to listen to Maggie’s directions the entire trip, so I dialed in just a short portion of the journey, so I could test out her new vocal capabilities. Just as I had anticipated, thing were off to a splendid start:

Maggie: In two miles, please turn left.

Me: Why thank you Maggie, you are very helpful.

Maggie: Please turn right and continue on this route for 26 miles.

Me:   You got it, Mags, whatever you say.

 

After her test run was complete, I settled in for the remainder of my drive to work. As I merged onto the four-lane highway, I set the cruise control to my customary 6 miles over the posted speed limit and hit the music shuffle on my phone. The music suddenly cutout and Maggie piped up in her pleasing British accent:

Maggie: You are over the speed limit.

Me: Excuse me, Maggie, did you say something.

 

Silence. I continue driving.

Maggie: You are exceeding the speed limit, please decrease your speed.

Me: Okay, Maggie. I appreciate your concern. Thank you.

 

I continue driving and several miles pass.

Maggie: You are over the speed limit.

Me: Seriously, Maggie, I know. It’s fine, really.

 

I turn the music up, reduce the cruise to 4 over the speed limit and continue driving. Surely she wouldn’t bitch at me for going four miles over the speed limit.

Maggie: You are over the speed limit.

Me: OMG, Maggie. You are really pissing me off. Shut up!!

 

Maggie: You are exceeding the speed limit. Please reduce your speed.

Me: I swear to God, Maggie, I am going to rip your throat out if you do not shut up!!!

 

I wasn’t familiar enough with the controls to reprogram her while I was driving, and so we continued down the highway; Maggie relentlessly nagging me about my speed in her soft voice with the pleasing British accent and me stubbornly refusing to comply with her polite suggestions. Eventually, I reverted to arguing with her in an unpleasant and hostile British accent:

 

Maggie: You are over the speed limit.

Me: And YOU, Maggie, are a daft cow.

Maggie: You are exceeding the speed limit. Please reduce your speed.

Me: Ahhhhhhh! Bloody hell!!!

 

After my trip with the Maggie the Nav-Hag, it occurred to me that I am the sort of person that might benefit had God thought to equip me with an automatic audible warning system. A backup system for when my mouth is over-riding my ass or my sound judgment system fails. Even the backup system probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference when I was younger. I am also pretty sure that it would not have been at all effective when I was in full ‘mama-bear’ mode NOTE: Mama Bear Mode is known as a state of being when one perceives that someone is being unfair or hurtful to one’s offspring, and mama-bear claws come out, fangs are bared and attack is imminent. However, I think I am at a certain age where it might compliment my developing restraint.FullSizeRender

There will always be situations which will try my patience and cause me to question the motives and authenticity of others. It seems that when human beings completely miss opportunities to positively impact the lives of others and go out of their way to tear individuals down, I find my checks and balances system failing. An internal audible warning system may be just what I need so save me from beating the proverbial dead horse; Maggie’s soothing voice in a pleasant British accent intervening in my head:

Maggie: You are exceeding the emotional limit. Please calm down.

Maggie: Your emotional reaction to his/her/their actions will not impact the current situation. Proceed with caution.

Maggie: Navigating the intentions of others is impossible. People have to be willing to change course.

Maggie: Please proceed to the route… stay the course… focus on the positive… repair the damage… be kind… be fair… be honest… be genuine… and SIT YOUR BLODDY ARSE DOWN AND BEHAVE!!

 

This really does seem like a novel idea to keep me in check. Perhaps if this was a standard feature we were all equipped with, life wouldn’t be quite so messy. I haven’t reprogrammed Maggie to keep her gob shut about my driving. It isn’t so bad having a reminder when I am not acting in my best interest or the interest of others. Besides, it is just a matter of time before Kevin Thurman, silences Maggie for good. He has two speeds, stop and fast; Ride or die, Mags. Ride or die.

Dec27

Not a Creature Was Stirring, Except for One Little Mouse

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Not a Creature Was Stirring, Except for One Little Mouse

‘Tis the season for all God’s creatures big and small to find refuge from the harsh elements. Evidently, there is a tiny mouse-sized blinking neon sign flashing “vacancy” and pointing at our house. We have three excellent outside mousers. These little guys are always leaving their trophies on our doorstep (thank you excellent mousers for your continued spirit of sharing your headless rodents with us). However, it never fails that when the weather turns cold, a couple of industrious little critters manage to slip past the feline Gestapo and setup residence in our already fully occupied residence. Heavy sigh.

Our first cold season on the farm we were cat-less. The mice took full advantage of the city dwellers as we transitioned to farm life. We are learning the game. Armed with our feline front line of defense and traps locked and loaded, we have battled back. Mouse hunting is not for the faint of heart.

As the Christmas holiday winds down, be advised that the soldiers in the mouse army have no regard for the spirit of the season. With reckless abandonment, these beasts rape, pillage and burn with the brutality of seasoned Spartans (and by rape, pillage and burn, I mean they ate all my Rolos and left little bits of gold foil in their wake). And what is with all the little mouse turds they leave behind!! Do these tiny ninjas feast on Metamucal and FiberOne bars all summer long or is leaving their shit behind a part of their modus operandi? If you eat my whole pack of Rolo candy, I expect at the very least, a thank you. Nope, just a pile of shredded gold foil sprinkled with turds.

01mouseIt goes without saying that I have a healthy dislike for my unwanted winter guests, but even with the pent-up resentment I harbor, I tend to balk at engaging in the hands-on portion of the mouse wars. I leave the dirty work to the man of the house. Kevin is in charge of any and all prisoners of war. This includes disposal and execution as required. I feel no shame in being second in command of our little platoon. It is a perfect role for me. I can scout out the territory, mark the trail, bitch and complain and damn them all to a cheese-less hell; but I wasn’t designed for hand-to-hand combat, even if it is with a mouse.

Our battle plan was going well, until I found myself ALONE behind enemy lines faced with a snared captive. I heard the faint squeak of distress before I saw him. I turned away to reflect on the ruthless deeds doled out by these thieving shitting rascals and this seemed to bolster my resolve. Channeling my best Xena Warrior Princess, I turned to boldly face my enemy, prepared to deliver his demise. I marched over to the trap, and there entrapped on the pad of industrial sticky glue, WAS THE CUTEST LITTLE BABY MOUSE ON THE PLANET!

The little guy was straining in vain to free his tiny little paws from the glue…and that pitiful squeak. The entire scene was heart wrenching. Picking up the glue pad to get a closer look, his little nose twitched and I swear I saw a tears welling in his big sad eyes. I tried to regain my focus. I mentally went over my options: roll him up like a mouse burrito and toss him in the trash; whack him in his baby mouse head with a boot; scrape him off the pad with a putty knife and turn him over to the trusty mousers??? Every ounce of Xena the Warrior Princess drained from my being and I grabbed a bottle of vegetable oil and headed outside.

Walking about 50 yards out into the field, I proceeded to tell the mouse that according to the rules of engagement, I was pretty sure I had to spare the lives of women and children, not to mention pitiful little mouse babies. As I poured cooking oil over the mouse to free him from his snare, I explained in great detail that my superior officer wouldn’t be so inclined to show mercy on him. Finally, the glue gave into the oil and he slid free and scampered into the distance. “Keep going, little guy. Run far and fast and never return or surely you will die.”

Walking back to the house with my cooking oil and empty slick glue trap, the weight of what I had done hit me. Kevin must never know. I stashed the cooking oil in the cupboard, threw the empty trap in the trash and headed to work wearing the cloak of a traitor.

That very evening I found myself in the kitchen with Kevin and my daughter, Sophi. There was no talk of mice. As we chattered about our days and the upcoming holidays, the thoughts of my aiding and abetting our enemy started to fade. Then, without warning, Sophi drops a bombshell, “So, did we catch the mouse?” All of our eyes went to where the trap and been set and now was just an empty corner.

Kevin says, “I didn’t” and they both look at me. My attempt at a smile failed and I casually said, “Oh, yeah. I caught a mouse this morning”, hoping this translated into “I AM XENA THE WARRIOR PRINCESS AND I SLAYED THE MOUSE LIKE THE BADASS I AM.” It did not, evidently, translate quite the way I had hoped. The remainder of the conversation went as follows:

Kevin: “What did you do with it?”

Me:        “With what?”

Kevin:   “The mouse.”

Me:        “Oh, I just put it out there,” and I gestured toward the door leading to the garage.

Sophi:   “You let it go, didn’t you?”

Me:        “It was a baby! I looked so sad and pitiful! I didn’t know what to do.”

Kevin:   “You… are…. the…. dumbest….. thing.”

Sophi (to Kevin): “Well you married the dumbest thing. What does that make you?” (Thank you, Sophi…sort of).

 

Now we wait for the predicted return of the exiled mouse.   So I gave a little mouse a break. It made me think of all the posts on Facebook about holiday donations of toys for needy being returned to the stores by the parent or sold to get money to buy beer and cigarettes. Does that make me the dumbest thing if I choose to still give? Is the spirit of giving snuffed out by the actions of the receiver or is the act of giving with sincere intentions the real heart of the matter? I choose to stand on the latter. There will always be those who exploit the kindness of community and there will always be those children who will suffer at the hands of those who are supposed to protect them. But I know in my heart of hearts that there are those dolls, Legos, and clothes that make it under the trees each Christmas season.   I don’t know if what I am able to give will end up as a treasured gift for one with little or a pack of Pall Malls for a shitty parent and if my spirit is right, it shouldn’t matter. A gift is no longer a gift if there are any strings attached other than those tied around the package. There is a good chance that my greasy mouse will return to gorge on my candy and shit on my counter. But there is also a good chance that it won’t. Either way, sometimes being the dumbest thing isn’t the worst thing. Sometimes, it’s just who I am.