The scene of the crime: the day I fell flat on my face in the goat pen while feeding my eager and equally fragrant friends. I was hurried and harried, late for work. I rushed to get everything done before heading out. My pace proved my undoing as I climbed over the fence and landed in a slippery patch of what can only be described as the unmistakable stew of mud and goat poop. Within moments I was face down, spread eagle in this…indignity. Covered. Just COVERED. Head to toe in it. The goats were delighted by my entry, and being male, clearly enjoyed the Three stooges comedy of my situation. I had little choice but to climb to my feet and continue with my chores before stripping down quite publicly on my porch to the amusement of passers by. I was certainly not going to trail THAT delightful mess through my house on the way to shower! It’s fascinating the perspective this gives. Interestingly enough, when your day starts covered in excrement, the rest of the day’s problems seem relatively manageable.
To pig, or not to pig? That is the question before us. I admit to a deep infatuation with the little oinkers, a love of round, snuffly noses and adorably squat bodies. I love a good mud bath. I’m more than a little partial to high jinks and tomfoolery precipitated by their clever little minds. I’m a sucker for a good escape artist and things that finish everything on their plate because those are the kind of compliments my children showered on me, affirming that I was in fact,
both suffocating them to the point of escape with my affections, and feeding them good food (strong indications of parenting success no Lebanese mother can survive without). HOWEVER, that being said, I complied with hubby’s plea for reason and restraint and agreed to research just what I was dying to jump into. I had a willing accomplice in my sister in law. A woman I adore, as impulsive and enthusiastic as I am, ready to bankroll my impetuous flight of fancy. Not an easy thing to resist…But in a marriage, terms must be mostly agreeable to both parties (mostly to me) in order for harmony (and the participation of the household “builder”, aka: said hubby) and peace to abide. Research had both my sister in law and I thinking it might be more work than anticipated, which hardened into a definite resolve not to add other…oder producing pets…after a hot days breeze carried unholy fragrances over to our research area. Nope, nope, NOPE. As fate would have it, yesterday’s 2 1/2 hours spent clearing and leveling our chicken yard enclosure, covered in mud and…not mud…sealed the deal for me. No pigs. The universe does NOT want me to have pigs. The universe wants me to visit pigs that OTHER people have, and then go home.
I am far from saintly, imbued with a weakness for the profane, for excess, and more than my fair share of debauchery. However, when it comes to my health I am the model of good intentions: I exercise mindfully every single day. I eat healthy foods, meditate, pray, and hug people all of the time (which we know thanks to science hugs help you live a longer, happier life. The more the better!). Hell, I even stretch after exercising. I even stretch after sleeping! However there is still the nagging fact that I am imperfectly made in my human design. All those ounces of prevention do me a world of good, but are no immunization for aging and genetics and general “well that’s life-ness”. Still I soldier on cheerfully. Mostly cheerfully. Ok, I get monstrous at times. It makes me appear mysterious and keeps my family guessing. This morning I had 4 more injections into the base of my spine, just four weeks after having the same procedure done, with the same flat on my ass, nausea filled recovery. My kids are awesome. They know mom’s not ever down on the mats like this easily or often and they nurture my peaked spirit with such tenderness and love. They stepped into every role plus their own, and made giving in to a long day of fitful sleep, guiltless and easier. I know my hubby longs to be here to be superman for me but he is currently taking the capital by storm with our 4th son and the entire 8th grade class on a week long field trip. Somehow I feel I got the easier deal, but he really loves stuff like that. So I am curled up with pillows and ice packs, and treated to snuggles and whispered stories of the day in my cool, darkened room while it spins slowly on towards tomorrow, and one more step closer to healing.
“Mamma said there’d be days like this, there’d be days like this my mamma said”. Truth. That’s what just dropped my friends, TRUTH. Every single one of us has had that moment when the fates conspire against you. When you smack your little toe against the table leg of life and before you can call your words back, out they fly like a boomerang that is DEFINITELY going to come back to bite you. Well, when it happens, (and happen it will, I promise you this) just breathe deeply and try to recall these sage words, these pearls of wisdom, these nuggets of gold I am sharing with you now:
1. Unless your rage fueled moment of weakness left a body to hide, it’s going to be fine. It will pass. Probably like a kidney stone, but this too shall pass. Your kids won’t be scarred for life, they probably won’t even need all that much therapy. Your partner may occasionally look at you like they just woke up in the twilight zone, but that’s ok, they’re probably a bit freaky too. Hey, look at it this way, your moment of human imperfection has provided them with a great ice breaker story for later in life at the very least. Probably a bit of fuel for your commitment hearings, but a hell of a story too. If there is a body, you’re on your own.
2. Everyone boomerangs in life. You’re not alone. The entire human race has had their own private Idaho moment where better judgement did not prevail, and that action, those words came flying back. Remember recess? Hell, not a kid on that playground escaped middle school without the requisite poor judgment skills that go neatly hand in hand with the acne and the rapid, awkward body changes. Spilled secrets, terribly chosen alliances all are the hallmarks of our adolescence. It’s probably where they got the idea for “Survivor”. My point is, you and a couple billion unique individuals exactly like you (yes, that was intentional) all struggle in moments of weakness and sometimes we lose. Pick yourself up, dust your self off, clean up your mess and then move on. Leave the boomerang analogy there. Plainly put: don’t keep coming back to your mistake. You got your mess cleaned up? Lesson learned? You’re good.
3. Here I’ve saved the best for last. Be the first to tell your story. Don’t let fear of your past keep you hostage. Be brave. Let others see your strength by seeing that you wade through the same stuff everyone else does. Laugh at your self, at your real person status, and then feel good that you aren’t cloaking yourself in shame at your startling lack of awesomeness at times. That’s what makes you great. You really ARE amazing. You’re messy and lovely, and complexly put together. If you’re going to keep boomeranging anything, let it be your light.
If you still have that body we talked about earlier, give me a call. I might know a guy. Damn. I sure hope that doesn’t come back to bite me…..
This. Just…THIS. This night sky greeted my eyes moments ago when I gingerly stepped outside for a slow, cool, soothing breath. Today I had 4 shots in my spine to abate the chronic pain and inflammation that I refuse to give in to. I thought, with great hubris, that my husband, Dale, would be able to simply pick me up from my work and take me back after the procedure with this small inconvenience only a blip on my screen for the day. I had plans, but hubris, that’s what I had more of. Getting up from the table I was met with the unplanned, the un-allotted for, the how-dare-I-be-human reality. It was more painful than I expected, but I’ve had 5 kids, so this is small potatoes. If hubris is my fatal flaw, perspective levels the field as my dear companion. This won’t take me down, there are much worse things that could happen. I’ll carry this one gladly. However, nausea, deep, sweeping nausea from my toes to the hair in my head, met me. Unceasing, sweaty, dizzying nausea that I know with certainty will be a faint memory in a matter of days, hopefully replaced by a spine that won’t defy me all the time, met me with a desperate intensity sending me home and banishing me to my bed. But this nausea is so overwhelming, and the dull ache in my back and legs cause a restlessness and drive me out of my bed and into the evenings embrace for fresh air and peace. And with that first, slow, cold breath filling my lungs I opened my eyes and saw this beautiful, brilliant sunset. This. Here. Now. Peace.
Our wee little chicks have out grown their kitchen based domicile. Being still quite small compared with those big boned gals in the coop-de-ville, an interim base camp was needed. With hubby away, and the itty bitties bursting at the seems inside, I headed to the local hardware store armed only with desperation and a half baked, hair brained idea taking form. Lacking a working knowledge of the tools in our shed, strong spacial skills, basic math abilities, and solid upper body strength, I decided to rely solely on materials I could tie together and drag around the yard myself. The plan was simple: construct a basic rectangular box out of PVC pipes and 3 way joints to connect them, at which point I planned to wrap the entire thing in old chicken wire, held to the form with the 3 zip ties I found rummaging around the house, a 5 foot length of wire I found stumbling around the poorly lit shed, and a huge pile of twisters I usually reserve for tying Christmas lights to the eves. It was fool proof! A kindly gentleman at the store, blessed with the patience usually required by parents of 4th graders the night before a science project is due, listened while I used wild hand gestures and vague descriptions to communicate my “blueprint”. Amazingly he understood enough of my native language (utter hooey) to help me gather the required supplies, even cutting the pipes to my non specific, arms stretched out to indicate lengths, directions. I was on fire. Upon arriving back home I enlisted the help of the two unlucky children not otherwise engaged, and used the same eloquent articulation to convey the plan. Less than half an hour later, I stood proudly gazing at our handiwork, my hands and arms covered in a multitude of tiny cuts because I refused to use common sense and wear protective gloves to handle the chicken wire (a hellish mistress with a devil of a temper), pride swelling in my heart. The result is a fantastic, inexpensive , light weight and portable “mini coop” that can even fit into the big coop at night, and most impressively, is so simple to assemble, even a team of reluctant monkeys can do it. Success!
*For anyone facing a similar dilemma and as apt at “construction” as I am, the PVC pipes are 1/2″, are sold 10 feet long at less than $3 a length. The one I made is 5 feet long by 3’4″‘s wide, 3’4″s high. The odd measurements are because I had the guy cut 2 of the poles in half (5′ each half), and three other poles equally in 3rds (hence the strange 3’4″ lengths! A side note: you only need 8 of them so you end up with an extra 3’4″ length). I used eight 3 way connectors (4 at each end) to make squares and then connected the squares with the 5’ poles. One roll of chicken wire will cover 4 sides and the top. I HIGHLY recommend coughing up the extra money for a big bag of zip ties, way faster and easier than twisting a million actual twisters all around the thing to hold the wire to the frame!
I am happy I have crows feet around my eyes that tell everyone immediately at a distance that I laugh. I laugh A LOT. Laughter makes everything so much more manageable and the unmanageable stuff, well slightly better. I am happy I have a belly that hangs a bit over my pants, and bulges a bit at the hips like a delicious doughnut that proclaims I break bread with my family and friends on a regular basis. I may not grace the covers of swimsuit magazines, but I happily salute any woman comfortable enough in her own skin that she lets herself shed layers and revel in sunshine and water in a bikini or even a one piece if that’s daring enough for her to manage. It took a while but I made my peace with the silver hairs that sprout by the dozens around my temples. They testify that I have lived long enough and interestingly enough to have earned them. Truth be told, I am more than a little amazed to have made it so far. ❤️
St. Paddy’s day is a pretty huge thing if you live in the Boston area. It’s probably a pretty big deal elsewhere I’m certain but for the purposes of this post I will stick close to what I know for sure. I am not Irish. Not even a smidge. I am entirely certain this is obvious to anyone who lays eyes on my deeply middle eastern visage: swarthy features, proudly arching beak of a nose beneath the thick, dark wings of my birdlike eyebrows, and olive skin tone. You might cock your head, cross your eyes ever so slightly and determine that the mischievous glint in my eyes bespeaks a devilish hint of a potentially Viking gifted drop of Irish blood, but my grandmother has assured me this is not so. The devilish glint is my own. At any rate, my proximity to Boston growing up bred in me a fierce adopted nationalistic pride on this one day each year. It is an excuse to decorate, and I love to decorate. It is an excuse to don fantastically ridiculous themed costumes, and I love to don fantastically ridiculous themed costumes.
I count myself a number of this tribe each year, justifying my claims through marriage to a nice WASP of a guy, and the five children we brought into this world together. I am Irish this day by both proximity and association. It should be no surprise then that on this illustrious day I filled a large pot with water, meat, root vegetables and cabbage and boiled the crap out of the whole thing to serve for dinner. I chose a bright green dress, an understated head band with bobbing antennae topped with four leaf clovers bearing the bold “Kiss me, I’m Irish” on each, and cracked my knuckles in preparation for pinching the bottoms of people not properly dressed to observe this holiday. I proceded to work, ready, willing and able to start mischief wherever mischief was needed. Here it must be noted that I work for a Catholic Church, coordinating education programs for elementary school children, and individual plans for kids with special needs. I am a totally respectable woman. Totally appropriate. Entirely reverent. Most of the time. Ok, SOME of the time. Imagine my surprise this morning when my boss greeted me enthusiastically upon seeing me, and announced with great gusto to the entire office how ironic it was for someone like ME, who couldn’t look less Irish, to be dressed as I was and wearing such an impressive headband “being so lesbian” . He looked deeply mollified and attempted to get the word “Lebanese” out several more times, only to declare me lesbian over and over again to his open consternation and embarrassment, the wild and red faced laughter of the staff, and my complete and utter delight! I eventually supplied the correct word, patting him on the arm as he apologized profusely through a crimson cheeked, pained smile, and responded “It’s ok, father, besides it was just that one time in college.” Yep, this is gonna be an awesome day.
I consider myself a capable woman. I am attentive to my health and wellbeing, ever striving to better the fascinating contradictions of the body I was given, and the body I have made. I exercise and eat healthy, though I am also given to sloth and gluttony on occasion. As I approached my birthday, I renewed my efforts to not lose more ground than is absolutely necessary and so I promised myself to run more miles each week, and added fish oil at the insistence of a friend who swears by its benefits for those like myself given to that sloth and gluttony I mentioned. I have resisted other popular/faddish trends by successfully hiding under blankets with coffee and doughnuts, but this seemed like a doable thing. I was wrong.
These are ridiculously large supplements. I find it difficult to believe the company that makes these could not package the healthful dose in anything, ANYTHING smaller for consumption. After failed attempts to choke these down, I suggest (in frustration) that it’s possible I am taking them incorrectly. It occurs to me that perhaps it was an error in judgment on my part to say this to my husband who is clearly incapable of restraining himself from further commentary on the matter, accompanying his clever witticisms with inappropriate pantomime depicting alternative ways to…ingest them. He is quite pleased by the amount of water passing through my nose, and is essentially high fiving this masterful accomplishment, appreciating as only a guy can, the charmed cause and effect of a well timed bawdy joke. Thankfully, he appears to love me as I am, being an enabler of doughnut consumption , and an enthusiastic hiking companion in equal measure. The absurdity of life continues, so please hand me my running shoes, and pass me a pastry to go.
Dignity. Ever dignity. That was my father’s motto, and like the dutiful children my siblings and I were, we endeavored to strip him of it. Every chance we got. Our good fortune lay in his tireless patience and humor.
My own sojourn into parenthood lead me along much the same path. The eternal lessons in humility, panic, patience, and the art of field stitching wounds, finding lost items, locating public bathrooms for pea sized bladders, and cultivating a level of civilized behavior in my offspring suitable for general audiences. It’s a bumpy road, to say the least. To say the most…well, entire libraries of books on the subject already litter the landscape. I will spare you the unabridged version.
I love my children. I am continually amazed by their brilliance (which they get from their dad) and their keen sense of humor, sliding often into the dark, irreverent side, which I am certain they get from me. At every opportunity I have thrust upon them to become cultured and refined, they have proven time and again that my genetic contributions to their proper sensibilities has won out. Shenanigans and tomfoolery ensue.
I have, maybe, 3 or 4 pictures over the past 20 years in which my children are looking at the camera and smiling nicely. I have thousands more where not a single one of them was able to master the self control necessary for a 20 second photograph.
My albums, the records of my beautiful children, read like a year book for the local insane asylum. Why does this make me ridiculously proud?