Little Miss, 3, 1/2 is back to calling me “mom” instead of “Mama” and saying it like an annoyed and spoiled teenager. “Oh Moooom.”
“Mooooom, watch me.”
“No, I don’t want that for dinner, Moooom.”
It’s seriously like she’s 3 1/2 going on 15 some days. And boy does she have my moodiness tendencies, much to my disappointment. One day last week she made a mess with water by pouring it all over the living room floor in what she said was an attempt to pour it on Zooma the Wonder Dog to stop her from pulling on her clothes.
I asked her to clean up said mess and she informed me, first, “No. I won’t. That’s not my job.”
Trust me, that little comment did not go over well with me.
Her second excuse was: “I just got comfortable” as she lounged on the couch watching a cartoon.
I promptly turned off the cartoon and this resulted in long sighs as if she’d been mentally transported into the future as her 15-year old self. Somehow my demands that she clean up the mess she made by herself became a completely overblown toddler crisis and she ended up hiding behind our couch, in a small area near our front door where we keep our shoes.
She had thrown all the shoes out, was crying and in between sobs was saying “but it’s not my joooob! I don’t want to do it! I just want to be lazy and not clean it up!”
I know exactly where her demands to be lazy are coming from and when my 11-year old son got back from camp we had a serious talk about the days he declares “I don’t want to do anything today! It’s lazy… (insert whichever day of the week it is). Eventually the entire drama came down to her saying she would have cleaned up the water if only I had used the word, “please.”
She said all this while still nestled in the space behind the couch and when I added the “magic word” of please to the request a slightly muffled voice informed me: “Well, I can’t do it while I’m crying and I can’t stop crying!”
Eventually, the water did get cleaned up and the drama was abated with a cartoon and cuddle but the attitude bordering on full-blown teenage angst continued off and on throughout the day, with most of her responses coming at me in irritated and impatient tones.
I liked my mom’s suggestion when I told her this story, which was that if she says again “it’s not my job” I turn the tables on her by refusing to do various tasks she would like done and saying flippantly “Sorry. It’s not my job.” Mom and I were fairly certain this effort will one day backfire on me, however, since I am a mom and it actually is my “job” to take care of my kids and Little Miss will most likely inform me of that. one day.
She was standing in her wet bathing suit in the laundry room dripping all over the floor and I was digging in the unfolded laundry wishing I was organized. I needed underwear. Why was there never any clean underwear for me? Piles of clean underwear for my husband my son and even my 3-year old daughter but none for me.
“I just wanted to swim more!” She was working her tearful voice up to a wail and it was grating on my already frayed nerves. Also, she wasn’t swimming, anyhow. It was a plastic kids pool and she could really only splash in it.
“You need a nap,” I told her.
“I don’t need a nap!” she was almost at full wail pitch.
I grabbed a pair of stretchy yoga pants, my normal outfit. I was still sitting with her during naps which meant for almost four years I had been immobile for at least an hour every single day of the week. This was both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because I had an excuse to sit and write blog posts, read a book, or (almost never) take a nap myself. A curse because it often meant dinner was late and laundry was left unfolded and afternoon appointments couldn’t be made or kept.
“I don’t want those!” She yelled and threw the pants I held out to her on the floor.
I handed her a pair of underwear and in five minutes she was sitting on my lap wearing only them and listening to the only thing she’ll listen to when it’s time to sleep, Frank Sinatra’s “In The Wee Hours of the Morning”, one of the most depressing albums I have ever heard. Based on this album alone the man needed a therapist and one less mistress.
I started playing it at nap time over a year ago because I found it soothing and relaxing. I didn’t listen closely to the lyrics until my 11-year old son said one night, “This album is severely depressing and I’m going to need therapy just listening to it.”
Another night he sighed and snarled, “I don’t care if she left him. He can scratch his own back. Suck it up, dude.”
Now after listening to it at least twice a day for seven days a week for over a year I’m concerned my daughter might end up telling her future therapist how I emotionally abused her by repeatedly allowing her to listen to an album where a man crooned : “What good is the scheming, the planning and dreaming that comes with each new love affair. The dreams that we cherish, so often might perish and leaves you with castles in air. When you’re alone, who cares for starlit skies. When you’re alone, the magic moonlight dies. At break of dawn, there is no sunrise. When your lover has gone”
In my defense, I’ve offered her a variety of alternatives, including Dean Martin’s “Sleep Warm” and anything by Diana Krall, who could sing a list of names and still knock me out. She’s rejected them all, stating firmly “I want Frank.” So she gets Frank because I’ll do almost anything for a little break to be able to think about something other than what food might be asked for next that we don’t have or what activity can be attended happening in five minutes more than an hour from our house.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate being a stay-at-home mom but after awhile being the personal chef and travel planner for the human beings I birthed from my body grates on me like Cyndi Lauper’s voice. I would add personal maid to that list but I’m a horrible housekeeper. My husband is the housekeeper and he sees a puppy pee puddle from six feet away while I could walk right by it and never know it was there because my mind is contemplating dinner, the curriculum for my son’s upcoming year of homeschooling, my next blog post, that rash on my daughter’s arm, my parents’ health, the state of politics in our nation today and the meaning of life – all at the same time.
I don’t do simple and I don’t think simple either. I wish I didn’t have the brain the speed of The Flash chasing down The Reverse Flash in the Speed Force but I do and I may need the Black Flash to slow me down up there a little. If you aren’t grasping these comic book laced references, I apologize. I live in a house that runs on the creative power of Marvel and DC (though mainly Marvel). If the reference to Marvel and DC threw you for a loop too then you’ll have to make Google your friend.
Working from home with a husband that works two jobs and two fairly dependent children is almost impossible but not completely impossible. Blog posts are written in small blocks of time carved out while someone is sleeping or watching a cartoon or when the bathroom door is locked with a tiny little creature on the other side insisting she HAS TO PEE RIGHT NOW!!! even though there is another bathroom upstairs.
Photos are edited in between getting up and down to start or finish dinner or get someone (who is old enough to feed themselves already! Good grief! ) a drink, a snack, or a towel to wipe off the water their sister just spilled on them again. Pitches for stories are sent on a whim the moment the kids wake up and stagger down the stairs to look for daddy and ask to be fed while eyes are still trying to come unglued and brains woke up.
When I worked full time at the newspaper and then came home to take care of our son I thought that was tough and longed for the relaxing days where I could stay-at-home and set my own schedule. Then I got there, or here, just where I wanted to be, and I realized that being a parent is difficult whether you’re working outside the home or in it.
When you are a parent, more days than not you are going to find yourself without any clean underwear.
You’re going to be asked questions you don’t have the answer to. You’re going to wonder why you know so much about Comic Books and so little about make-up. You’re going to wonder why your daily outfit usually consists of some sort of soft pants a t-shirt with a juice stain in the middle of it. You’re going to wonder why your 3-year old loves a depressing Frank Sinatra album so much.
And if you are very lucky, you’re also going to wonder how your mind hasn’t completely melted within your head from the overload of love you have for your life, even when it isn’t as glamorous as you once imagined it would be.
If you’re very, very lucky you’ll also find a pair of clean underwear.
One day last month God told me (in so many ways and with various hints) that I needed to go to my war room and pray about all that has been leaving me stressed and tied up in knots inside. The problem was, I didn’t have a war room. I’d never established one.
For anyone asking, “what in the world is a ‘war room’?”, in modern Christian terms a war room is a small, quiet place without distractions, reserved to meet with God about specific issues you are facing in your life.
In all honesty, God has been laying this whole “war room” idea on my heart for months, after I watched the movie War Room, but I’ve been ignoring the prodding because this Mom can’t even use the bathroom alone most nights, let alone lock myself in a closet to pray.
Yet there I was one day, anxious about so many things and scrolling through Instagram, when I should have been praying, and two posts hit me full in the face. They were both written by women who were also struggling with anxiety. One wrote about withdrawing into her war room during the difficult times.
A half an hour later, this time while I was avoiding life by wasting time on Facebook, the word was in front of me again in a post by blogger, Roslind Jukic.
“When you find yourself soul-weary, the first place you need to go is to your war room,” Roslind wrote. “And here’s why: Satan will take advantage of your weariness. He will whisper lies to your heart. He has already been creating a strategy for your demise. He wants to use your weariness for his purpose, to steal your joy, to rob you of your purpose, and to destroy your testimony. When you are weary, you need to get in your war room and begin developing a strategy against the enemy….a war plan for victory!”
So I made a war room in my bedroom closet. I cleaned it out (tossed clothes and stuffed animals to one side), taped a piece of paper with some pressing issues written on it on the wall and sat in there to pray.
My 11-year old son, who I had practically forced to watch War Room with me one day, found me there and looked bewildered for a moment but then had a moment of realization and said “You’re making a war room aren’t you?” And then he crawled inside with me and I held him for a few moments before he left to make sure his sister wasn’t pulling knives out of drawers to cut open her yogurt tubes.
I came out of my bedroom closet ten minutes later having difficulty breathing because of all the dust in there, but I did it! I had established a war room.
“We pray because our own solutions don’t work and because prayer deploys, activates, and fortifies us against the attacks of the enemy. We pray because we’re serious about taking back the ground he has sought to take from us.”
― Priscilla Shirer
Now I just have to be more consistent about going in it and actually praying about issues facing our family instead of worrying about them.
Do you have your own war room? Or have you thought about creating one? If you have one, how has it helped you and how do you keep yourself consistent in entering it during the tough and stressful moments of life?
Even though he was using a smile to greet his visitors when he came out from the back of the barn his face showed the stress of the morning.
“Is it broken again?” his sister Melissa asked and he nodded, and shrugged.
It wasn’t anything new. Equipment had been breaking down at the Walrath family’s dairy farm for months. Scott, owner and main operator of the farm can’t seem to keep up. He is the farms mechanic, vet, accountant, milks the cows, cleans the barn and plows and plants the fields.
Scott’s shoulders dipped slightly, revealing much more than physical exhaustion.
Days off don’t exist when you’re running a family farm and most people would have given up years ago based on the pay alone.
Melissa and Scott Walrath are no strangers to the challenges farming brings. They grew up on the farm, with their father David, now retired, and their mother Gail, who passed away a few years ago.
The main farm, called Snowcrest Farm, started as one barn and several silos and has now been extended to include David’s property, Melissa and her husband Wayne’s property, and Scott and his wife Lydia’s property, located in succession about a mile apart from each other on Ballentine Road in East Smithfield. All together, the three farms, all under the umbrella name of Scowcrest, includes 542 acres and 265 head of cattle on the three properties. Out of the 265 cows, 120 are milking cows and are milked twice a day.
Scott and Melissa have been fighting to keep the family tradition alive their entire lives and they aren’t ready to give up, even though many others would have. The farm was started in 1951 with Scott and Melissa’s grandfather Albert Walrath, who was a full-time school teacher and part time farmer. David took the farm over after graduating from SRU and the farm became Snowcrest Farm in 1973 when he married Gail.
The piece of equipment that broke this day is used to feed the cows their silage of corn and hay. The feeder has been breaking down a lot lately, Melissa says. In fact, a lot of equipment has.
The siblings looked at each other thoughtfully for a few moments, both too worn to even suggest a remedy. Finally Melissa asked if Scott has called someone who has helped in the past. He said he did and the man would stop by the farm at some point that day. In most cases it’s Scott who fixes the farm equipment, but sometimes extra help is needed.
Farmer Scott Walrath works on farm equipment at Snowcrest Family Farms, which his family has owned and operated since 1951.
“We are stupid – Stupidly in love with farming,” Scott says with a tired grin when asked why he continues to work the farm even as the challenges grow each day. “Pride, passion, stubbornness and stupidity all play a part of why I am still farming. I have pride in my craft and ability to still make this life work even with everything working against me. I have passion for my animals and my crops.”
“Getting a heifer calf, a litter of pigs, watching my corn come up, or even at 11 at night after being up for 20 hours and stacking the last round bale in the shed before rain comes,” he continues. “The smile on my face should say it all. I have stubbornness to make this life style work for my family as well as my community. I want my family to be able to grow up on this farm and I want my community to be able to drive by and see my farm prosper. Nothing makes me sadder than to see fields that used to be in production and growing wonderful crops turn into weeds because there is no one left to tend to them.”
Scott knows other farmers are giving up, selling, and in worst cases, ending their lives from all the pressure.
“I don’t know what else I’d want to do. There is nothing else I’d want to do,” he says.
“I want to be able to provide for my family doing this but right now I’ve got Kelsey (a young girl from the local Future Farmers of America) I’ve got two other high school boys who will be here later. I don’t have any full time help. It’s me and Melissa is working herself to the bone helping out right now.”
Ten years ago the Walraths had two full time helpers, both parents and Scott.
“That was a lot of help and it still seemed like a lot of work,” Scott says.
Now Scott does the job of four people and recently when a back injury flared up the tasks on the farm fell to the rest of the family. Melissa and Wayne also work full time as elementary teachers in the Troy Area School District.
In addition to the cows, Scott houses pigs, a horse, goats, chickens and a turkey in his recently rebuilt barn at the top of the hill. The barn located at the house, where he lives with his three children and Lydia burned two years ago and took 100 animals with it. All six of the breeding pigs, all of which had just had piglets, and the family dog also died.
“Although we got insurance money it was not enough for the rebuilding, so we had to take out a loan“, Melissa says. “When we tried rebuilding the first time the barn collapsed and we had to start all over for the second time. Luckily it was summer by then and cattle could be in the pasture because we were running out of room without the barn. I think rebuilding was more of a new beginning. Scott designed the barn just the way he wanted it.”
The new barn became a more friendly place for a more modern farm. It’s available for tours by local 4-H groups or local schools and it’s also a great location for meetings and the small office even provides a place for Scott to crash when his pigs are in labor and he needs to keep an eye on mom.
Scott appreciates those who encourage people to go out and buy a gallon of milk or a block of cheese to support the dairy farmer but in the long run that won’t help much, he feels. The people who are actually benefiting from the sale of dairy are the middle men or larger corporations. The profit isn’t trickling down to the farmer.
“The biggest challenges in farming today are the big farms pushing out the little farms,” he says. “I call it the Walmart effect. There used to be a lot of little mom and pop stores especially here in the Valley. Now you go to Walmart. Same in farming. There are more 1,000-40,000 cow farms and they can make more milk, cheaper that we can at 100 cows or less.”
Dairy farming is not regulated in the United States and that lack of regulation means the people doing the hardest work are getting the least benefit, Scott feels.
“We are at the bottom of the food chain so we don’t get it. It’s always the middle man,” he said. “So if you want to go out and buy a gallon of milk I’m sure they appreciate it but it’s not helping me.”
Nothing is helping at this point, he said.
“As far as I am concerned, the dairy industry is not regulated – like, for example, Bill Gates goes out with Microsoft, they let him get so big but they don’t let him corner the market you know..he’s got to sell off or whatever,” Scott said. “The Dairy Farmers of America controls 80 percent of the farms and a couple other small farms are co-ops but Maryland and Virginia right now they are losing money because they’ve got too much milk. They’re trying to sell it at lower costs but then they don’t have operating capital. I was forced last October to sign with DFA or [I] don’t have a market. I didn’t have a choice. So they say ‘you want to sell all your cows and your livelihood or do you want to join with the DFA?'”
Scott gets some help on the farm from members of the Athens Area Future Farmers of America and his nephew, Simon.
Scott credits the Athens Area High School Future Farmers of America with helping to not only keep area farms in the area running but keeping young people interested and up to date on the changing face of farming. In addition to learning about farming, these students are also learning a work ethic that has already shown to benefit them in future jobs. When a potential employer looks at a resume and reads that a young person has worked on a farm, they know they are a hard worker, Scott said.
“Every one of the kids that have used me as a reference has been hired at the post high school job choice,” he said.
“Pride, passion, stubbornness and stupidity all play a part of why I am still farming. I have pride in my craft and ability to still make this life work even with everything working against me. I have passion for my animals and my crops.”
– Scott Walrath, farmer, East Smithfield, Pa.
Scott doesn’t want to give up on farming. He wants his children to grow up the same way he did – getting much of their food from their backyard, climbing tress and milking cows and splashing through the mud and catching fireflies in the summer.
“I want to raise my kids here ,” he said, as he turns his tractor into an empty field to spread manure and prepare the soil for planing later in the season. “The joys of raising a family on the farm is the closeness we have. The kids can ride in the tractor with me, go to the barn with me and when there is hay or other work to be done there is nothing like all of us pitching in and getting the job done, even if it’s until the middle of the night.”
His children, like many children who grow up on a farm, will always know the value of a dollar and what hard work really is, he said.
“They get to experience so many of God’s wonders from the birth of the animals, to animal husbandry, to building things, to growing our own food,” Scott said. “My kids never say that they are bored and don’t need video games to keep them entertained. One of the biggest things I teach them is common sense, which is very lacking in society today.”
Scott knows continuing to farm doesn’t look like the wisest choice to some.
“Stupidity also plays a role – a big role,” he says about his determination to continue the farm. “My body is breaking down early, I rarely get time off, and my stress level is at an all time high. I am sure a 40 hour a week job would be better for my sanity and my health, but I am not made that way. I don’t think I would know what to do with myself if I didn’t have something to pour my mind, body and soul into.”
Photo by the Wall Street Journal digital artwork by Lisa R. Howeler
I’d had a crappy night of sleep with two sick kids and I had reached for my phone to see what time it was. There it is was on my screen- a note from my sister in law expressing shock to the obituary story she had attached.
“No. It isn’t possible.”
I thought this over and over in my bleary-eyed, not fully awake state.
The man who had taken me around the world so many times without me even having to leave my house was dead. I typed out the word “nooo!” to my sister-in-law, as if that word would stop it from being true.
I felt numb and sick to my stomach. It must have been his heart, I thought.
Or something he ate.
He was always eating weird things and something finally got him. Or a car accident or his plane went down while they were traveling to somewhere exotic.
My heart sank when I clicked the link. I was in shock when I read the words.
Suicide?!
Suicide?
Suicide.
It’s like the word wouldn’t even make sense to me.
Anthony Bourdain had committed suicide.
I follow him on social media and recently I had noticed he was looking thin and tired but he travels a lot so I figured he was exhausted. It had been a stressful couple of years. A whirlwind break-up followed by a whirlwind romance and then all that traveling.
Now all that traveling I loved to watch him do was over and the only trip he’d most likely be making was a one-way flight back to the states to be buried.
Suicide.
I still couldn’t wrap my mind around the horror of it all and the horror for Eric Ripert, his best friend, to find him that way. And his daughter. Oh, my heart ached and my head felt funny at the thought of her being told.
I’ve never been a traveler – partially because of finances and partially because I’ve lived a life of fear. Tony made me want to live a life of courage in my small world and if I couldn’t go to all those fancy places just yet I could at least watch him visit them. My son learned about much of the world from a very young age while his dad and I traveled with Tony.
We let him watch episodes we probably shouldn’t have at 4 and 5 and he was introduced to death on an episode where a pig was slaughtered. Granted, this was the age when “No Reservations” was already streaming so we could fast forward the scene, but my kid is wise beyond his years and he knew what was happening despite our attempts to shield him.
We haven’t been able to shield him much these last couple years – not from heartache and anxiety and death. First, the big loss was our dog of 14 years, the dog that had always been his. Then it was a 17-year-old cat, again there all his 11 years. Then the worst blow came four days after Christmas this year when he lost his great-aunt, who had lived with his grandparents since he was four. His head was spinning. School pressure was mounting. Panic attacks were becoming the norm.
We’ve walked through it with him with every loss, every question, every tear, and every crying storm. All the advice says you have to tell your child directly and bluntly about the person who has died so they don’t feel they are being lied to or misled.
When I told my son about his great aunt I was apparently too blunt. I was so nervous because I’d never had to tell him something so hard – not even the death of his dog could compare to this. I blurted out “Dianne died.”
Died. I used the word died because all the articles I found on Google told me to. “Don’t use the words ‘passed on’ or ‘went to a better place,’” the proverbial “they” said. “It needs to be clear to the child the person is dead and never coming back.”
I was so numb from the sudden loss I really didn’t think it through because that advice was for young people, not 11-year olds who clearly know the meaning of the word “dead” but would also understand the term “passed away” would mean the same thing.
He clearly knows what death is and here I was that morning knowing I needed to rip the news of Anthony Bourdain’s death off like a band-aid but, ugh, crap and darn it all to hell, I simply didn’t want to. Especially because I had to add the word “suicide” to the ripping.
“For a little while today I’ll shelter him,” I told myself. “We don’t have cable so he won’t hear it there.”
And all the traditional advice says the news of death must come from someone the child loves so I knew I couldn’t shelter him for long.
The ripping started with the lifting of the edge and then just one fast, hard pull. When I told him he said “oh that’s sad,” but he didn’t take it as hard as I thought. He did, however, express the same denial I did when I told him they thought he’d taken his own life.
“That’s just not possible,” he said. “I don’t believe that part of the story.”
We both agreed it wasn’t possible and we comforted ourselves in our denial of it all.
The continuing adventures of Zooma the Wonder Dog, our newest family member, a five month old Cockapoodle/Shetland Sheepdog. As you can see, she likes to tell her own story, from her own perspective. She calls my husband and I “mommy” and “daddy” because we are her adoptive parents and she calls our children Plaything One (my 11-year old son) and Plaything Two (my 3-year old daughter) because she sees them simply as her playthings. I hope you enjoy this latest installment from her.
A couple weeks ago we went to a place Mommy and Daddy called Wall-kings Glen or something like that. The lady in the little building said I wasn’t allowed on the trail so Mommy and Plaything One and Plaything Two stayed with me in the place they called a park and another place called a playground.
The playground was full of creatures that were the same height as Plaything One and Plaything Two but some looked like Mommy and Daddy only with less gray. Mommy called them college students and then did this weird thing with her eyes, sort of like they rolled around in her head. Then she smiled. It was weird.
At one point Mommy thought we’d never get to Playground because everyone kept stopping to love on me and give me attention. They kept asking “what kind” I was. I don’t know what that meant, but I didn’t care because I learned the best way to get the pets was to wiggle my rear sideways at them and lay on my back so they would rub my belly.
I was just laying on the charm, Mom said. I don’t know what charm is, but I sure like the sound of that.
“Oh look! How sweet!” people kept squealing at me and then my belly was being rubbed and my ears caressed and I was being told what a good girl I was.
I was glad none of them saw me the week before when I was nipping at Plaything One and Plaything Two to try to get them to play with me.
I rolled right on my back every time someone asked to meet me and showed them the belly so they all said “aaawwwww”. I also wiggled my fluffy butt and little tail when an entire group of college boys and girls swooned all over me.
What power.
If only I could figure out how to harness that for more of those cookie treats Mommy and the playthings got me the other day.
Are you a blogger, advertiser, or in charge of advertising at your church or another organization? Maybe you are in need of some faith-focused images for your project. If so, you can find some great images at Lightstock.com. *disclaimer: by clicking on the link you are supporting me as an affiliate and I will receive a small payment for that referral.
She takes care of her stuffed animals and our pets and other people’s pets. Sometimes she takes care of me and once in awhile her brother (though she’s usually bossing him around). What she really enjoys taking care of, though, are worms and bugs. I don’t get it, but she likes rolly pollies and worms and wants to put them in containers to keep them safe whenever she finds them. I try to explain that they are safe outside because that’s their home, but it doesn’t always work.
We had filled the pool in our backyard one night this week and for some reason the water on the grass drew a huge worm, one we country folk call a “nightcrawler” right out of the mud. My toddler was delighted. She was delighted to show it to her brother and make a video for her dad, who was at work, and she was delighted when I said she could keep the worm in a plastic container from the kitchen if we added some wet soil to it for it to live in for awhile.
She most likely wouldn’t be delighted that yesterday she couldn’t find the worm so I took it all outside to look myself and discovered the worm was indeed gone. My closest guess is that our very large, moody cat ate it.
I think we’ll have to be a little more careful about taking care of our worms in the future.
This post is part of a monthly blog circle that publishes the 10th day of the month and features 10 photos from the previous month on either one day or throughout the month. To continue the circle please click over to Shea Kleundler’s blog
Are you a blogger, advertiser, or have you been put in charge of advertising at your church or another organization? Maybe you are in need of some faith-focused images for your project, whatever that project is. If so, you can find some great images at Lightstock.com. I’m a photographer contributor and simply a supporter of the site. While I am a contributing photographer I wouldn’t expect you to feel obligated to use my photos from the site because there are some amazing artists who you support when you purchase from Lightstock. *disclaimer: by clicking on the link you are supporting me as an affiliate and I will receive a small payment for that referral.
“[When I die], I will decidedly not be regretting missed opportunities for a good time. My regrets will be more along the lines of a sad list of people hurt, people let down, assets wasted and advantages squandered.”
― Anthony Bourdain
I’m not sure how healthy it is to cry off and on for two days over the death of a person you didn’t even know but this week I have done that.
Cutting myself a little slack, I know some of the emotions from the death of writer and former “chef” Anthony Bourdain stem from the still raw loss of my aunt, and the unsteady feeling I now live with that my world is tilting a bit off kilter. Bourdain was a man who called himself simply a “cook” when others called him a chef and became well known after writing an essay about working in the cooking industry and even more well known from a show on the Travel Network called “No Reservations” and his recent TV foray on CNN called “Parts Unknown.”
I don’t like change. I never have. I’m a creature of habit and like my routines. I don’t like things to be different, no matter if it’s a change in my toothpaste to a change in who is in my life. I don’t mind spontaneous moments or last minute plan changes, within reason, but I don’t like when that change of plan includes the removal of people from my life.
Anthony Bourdain wasn’t really part of my life, yet he was. He was who I listened to when I needed to be reminded the world was bigger than this small town I lived in. He was who I went to when I needed to remember I may have had a cruddy day but there was always great tasting, delicious food available to be cooked and sampled to make it seem a little better.
My family watched reruns of No Reservations on Saturday nights and I cooked while the dishes Tony ate inspired me to try harder to create something worth eating.
When I say Tony reminded me there was food to help my day seem better, I don’t mean it in that unhealthy “using food as a crutch” way. It’s simply that food is good and good tasting food is even better. We are humans and we need to eat and if we are going to eat we might as well eat food that tastes good. Good tasting food doesn’t always mean processed, crap food, either, as Tony showed on his shows.
Yeah, sure he featured scenes of him gorging on some of the most disgusting processed, chemically-laced food you’ve ever seen more than a few hundred times over the years but he also showcased some of the most simple, divine and flavorful dishes on the planet created with some of the most delicious and healthy ingredients known to man.
To be honest, I didn’t see Anthony Bourdain living much beyond his 60s. I always thought he would die from a heart attack induced by some of the garbage he shoved into his pie hole, as he might call it. The thought of a day when he wasn’t around to watch do crazy things and eat even more bizarre things was always unsettling to me so I tried not to think about it. I knew it would come, though, but I thought it would be years from now and from a plane crash, a diving accident, food poisoning, a shark attack, not from his body hanging from the end of a bathrobe belt.
Anthony and I didn’t agree when it came to the spiritual world. He was an outspoken atheist, maybe sometimes an agnostic, and I have always been a Christian. There are lessons he taught with his life that I don’t want to learn from, nor or they lessons I care for my children to heed. By his own admission, he did too many drugs and drank too much (though he had been drug free for many years before he died) and he frequented places I never would have. Still, I learned a lot from Anthony Bourdain, and not just what not to do.
For one, he taught me to live fully and ironically he taught me this one even more so by his death.
Anthony definitely knew how to go out and experience every bit of life he could – traveling to every country you could think of, eating meals and meeting people wherever he went. I don’t experience every bit of life and it’s a change I hope I can make in the future. I want to experience freely and fearlessly, while recognizing the need to shield body and soul from things that could steal the joy of life from me.
Anthony showed me how to taste fully, breathe fully, feel fully, laugh loudly and immerse myself wholeheartedly in life. He did that and I wish I knew what made him forget how amazing that could be.
With all that traveling, much of it without his family, it’s clear that Anthony probably faced some very lonely nights. Lonely nights where he was trapped with his thoughts, fears, regrets.
Maybe he regretted not seeing his daughter more, of leaving two wives, of drinking too much, hurting too many. We don’t yet know what drove him to end his life the way he did but it’s really no surprise the demons he battled with finally overtook him and drowned out the voice of reason and hope and the love he’d always had for life. Some don’t believe in real demons, but I do. I believe in servants of the devil who whisper lies in our ears.
“You’re not good enough.”
“You will never realize your dream.”
“You’re a horrible mother.”
“You are unloveable and indescribably impossible to care about.”
“You’ll never be worthy of love.”
Who knows what lies were whispered in Anthony Bourdain’s ears that night. Whispers that grew to deafening screams that he only knew one way to drown out. I can’t save Anthony Bourdain. I wish I could. Oh, how I wish I could. But maybe we can save someone else. Maybe we can drown out the whispers with words of life. Words of hope. And the word of truth.
For we are all wonderfully made.
We were created out of love by an ultimate creator to be loved and to show love.
And you, and I, were created to life fully alive.
So let’s do that until God decides it’s time for us to live fully with Him.
I don’t know if living life fully is what Anthony Bourdain would have thought his life, and even his death, would have taught someone, but both were worthy lessons for me to learn.
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It’s not WHAT she said that drove me crazy, it’s WHEN she said it.
It was midnight.
Bedtime had been stretched out insanely long for months now, something I hoped to remedy soon, and my last straw was being asked to get a snack at midnight.
By a 3-year old.
By my 3-year old.
Right then I acted like a very mature, 40-year old woman and flounced out of the room and told her if she wanted a snack she could go get one BY HERSELF!!!
I was done with dealing with hungry toddlers whining at me in the middle of the night. I was done with 11-year olds staying awake way past when they were supposed to be and being grumpy the next morning. And for that moment I was done with never seeming to have a break and dare I say it? With being Mom.
I shut the bathroom door and pouted in the dark for maybe two minutes before she opened the door and I remembered we still hadn’t got a lock for that blasted door.
She was whimpering at me in the dark and looking pitiful and of course I felt even more guilty about it all so I led her to my room where I knew there was one of those applesauce squeezable packs, tucked away in my purse for those days we are out somewhere and she says she’s hungry (this child is always hungry). I gave it to her, reminding myself she’s just a little girl and she can’t help it if she gets hungry at midnight. Even I get hungry at midnight sometimes.
It also wasn’t her fault that her mom hadn’t stopped her and her brother’s playing and told them it was time for bed much earlier in the evening than I had.
I took her to bed, telling her I loved her, and then I laid in the dark after she was asleep and felt guilty for yelling at her and her brother right at bedtime. I kissed her head so many times I’m surprised I didn’t wake her.
Then I tiptoed into my son’s room, where he had already fallen asleep, and kissed his head. Suddenly, in that darkened room, a sliver of light from the street leaking in, he wasn’t 11 anymore in my eyes. He was still five and innocent and little and all I wanted to do was scoop him up and hold him against me.
But he’s too long now and I knew if I attempted to scoop him up I’d fall over backwards and drop him and I on the floor, cut open his head and we would have to call an ambulance. That’s how the brain of a mom works – we take a simple idea and blow it into the most scary outcome we can imagine.
Being a parent is hard. Harder than I ever imagined. We all have tough days and boy do we blow it sometimes. Even when we blow it we love them and they love us. We all make mistakes and fall right on our faces in this parenting journey.
Maybe you feel you have failed as a parent too. We know we are not alone, yet we often feel we are alone because parents fear sharing their fails. We fill our social media feeds, and even our personal interactions, with images and tales of our children’s accomplishments and our successes. We rarely share about our blunders.
No one wants to admit when they have made a mistake and certainly not to other parents who we think have it all together. The truth is, no parent has it all together – no matter what their highlights may show. Maybe as parents we need to be a little more public with those moments we fail in, be brave and show other parents they aren’t alone in their struggle.
What makes us good parents is that we recognize we are not perfect, we apologize when we need to, and are not afraid to admit our mistakes. In fact, maybe not being afraid to make those mistakes makes us even better parents.
When our children know we can admit mistakes then they know that, yes, mistakes are always going to be made, but we can always learn how to improve from them.
And when we admit our mistakes to other parents we can learn from each other.