Grumpy posts and a busy weekend

Last week I wrote a grumpy post that was supposed to be an encouraging post. I started it encouraging, read it again yesterday and realized I shouldn’t have been writing a blog post when I was tired and depressed. Instead of sounding okay with the fact that sometimes people move out of our lives for a variety of reasons, I sounded like I was whining and complaining. Whoops!

My family does get depressed about those who abruptly moved out of our lives, for whatever reason, and the last year or so have been rough on that front, but I truly meant the post to sound more positive than it did. I deleted it and will try to write to explain again another time – maybe when I’m less groggy (if that day ever comes since I seem to be dealing with a lot of chronic fatigue lately).

I am recovering this week after a long weekend of watching children who were not my own and traveling to visit relatives. On Saturday we watched a couple very active young boys. My 12-year old son was a huge help since they love following him around and digging through his old Transformer toys. In the afternoon we took them to a free church fair and while I usually take more photographs at events like that, I was too busy trying to keep track of two extra children to take very many photographs.

On Sunday we traveled to Guilford, N.Y. to visit my aunt and cousin. I took some photographs for my cousin for her yoga studio and, honestly, I was pretty nervous because I don’t take photographs professionally very often these days. Oddly, my cousin, who is usually calm and collected, was dealing with butterflies during the session, which involved a few of her students joining us part of the time.

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Her studio, Black Horse Yoga Studio, is in a gorgeous location in Guilford, N.Y. If you’re near there, I’d highly recommend her. She also holds aerial Yoga classes. I bet you’d never guess how old she is by looking at these photos – I know it completely floored me when I found out.

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After we visited her we visited my 86-year old aunt. I left a copy of my book with my aunt for one of her nurses to read to her, (She doesn’t see or hear well anymore) at her request.  As I started to leave it I felt awkward because the book is a little bit of a romance. I don’t know what my issue was since I know my aunt knows all about romance. She was the focus of a lot of male attention when she was growing up, according to my dad, her brother. Plus she has three children so there must have been some romance mixed in that life of hers somewhere. In fact, I know there was since I asked her how she met her husband, my late uncle. I won’t divulge that story here, at least until I share it with my cousins because I’d bet they would find it a little bit funny how their parents met (if they don’t know it all already).

How about all of you? How was your weekend? Do anything exciting? Not exciting? Or maybe you have “exciting” plans for your weekend. Let me know in the comments or share a link with me about your weekend.

 

Picking blueberries while gnats fly up our noses

Parents: “Let’s go blueberry picking!”

Almost 13-year old: “Yeah, fine. Okay.”

Almost 5-year old: “Yeah! Blueberries!”

Parents: “We’re here! Where should we pick? Here again? Like last year? Okay!”

Outside the car, all reflecting on how it’s as hot as it was last year and noticing arms and legs feel like licorce that’s been sitting in the sun too long.

Almost 13-year old: “”Och! Man! A gnat just flew up my nose!”

Parents: “Just keep picking! It will be fine.”

Almost 5-year old: “Look! A blueberry!” (eats it)

Parents: “No, no. We are picking the blueberries and putting the in the bucket, not eating them. Okay. Yep. That’s right. In the bucket.”

Almost 13-year old: “There is a gnat in my eye! My eye!”

Parents: “I forgot the bug spray. Wave them away.”

Almost 5-year old: “I’m hot.”

Almost 13-year old: “Can gnats get to your brain from ears?! They are in my ears!”

Almost 5-year old: “Did you bring snacks? I’m hungry.”

Parent: “I told you to get a snack before you came. Besides, you’re eating the blueberries. How can you be hungry?”

Almost 13-year old: “I just ate a gnat! It flew in my mouth! Blech!!”

Almost 5-year old: “Do they  have a potty here?”

Parent: “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Pee in the woods.”

Almost 5-year old: (look of disgust.) “Uh…no.”

Almost 13-year old, eating blueberries and swatting gnats: “mmmm..blueberries.”

Parent: “Put the blueberries in the bucket, not your mouth.”

Almost 5-year old: “I’m going to the car now.”

Parent: “You can’t go to the car now. It’s locked.”

Almost 13-year old: “I need water.”
Parent: (looks at phone) “We’ve only been here four minutes! Are you kids serious right now?!”

Luckily we found a port-a-potty, moved to another spot, and the sun went behind the cloud for about 20 minutes, letting us finish picking with minimal whining. We came home with seven pounds of blueberries, which were gone in less than a week. Not sure what that says about us.

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The Do Nothing Summer

We really haven’t done anything this summer and I’ve felt guilty about it, but part of the time it couldn’t be helped.

This has been a fairly hot, humid summer and going outside to frolic in the fields hasn’t really been an option. Of course, one has to be cautious about frolicking in fields around here anyhow with all the Lyme Disease carrying ticks that our county has. The number of people we know hitting their beds due to Lyme is a bit overwhelming. My dad has been one of them and is frustrated with the exhaustion that often hits him.

We haven’t really visited playgrounds (okay, we’ve gone to two), or gone to the local pool near us (probably because my dad installed a large one at his house), visited the local libraries (probably because I always lose library books and end up paying for them) or had a fancy vacation (because we are poor). Quite frankly, we’ve been slugs.

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We still have a month before school starts, so hopefully, we can pack in some fun days before then. In the midst of trying to squeeze in some fun activities, I’m also researching additional homeschool curriculum since I plan to start homeschooling on August 26, something my son isn’t super thrilled with.

Homeschooling has been a blessing to us so far, even on the tough days. It’s been nice to be able to visit my parents even on school days, instead of visiting them only on the weekends. My son is able to spend days and nights with my parents while my dad teaches him life skills, such as do it yourself projects. My dad is either teaching my son or using him to help complete some projects around the house, either way, it’s a good learning experience for him.

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This summer my son helped his grandfather prepare the ground for a new pool behind the house, work on a shed near the house, and repair a tombstone of a family member at the local cemetery. They have also enjoyed quite a few breakfasts out together. One thing the weather this summer hasn’t allowed much time for is the long bike rides my son and dad usually take.

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Maybe we can all find something fun to do when the weather breaks and we don’t have to sweat through it. Thanks to the flexibility of homeschooling we will be able to do that even if it happens right when classes start again.

So, how about you? How is summer treating you? Have you been able to take a lot of trips, go to the pool, play at the playground (with or without children), or take some long bike rides? Or have you been a slug, like me this summer?

 

 

Four is the new terrible twos

“I’M NOT DOING ANY MORE SCHOOL WORK UNTIL MY BROTHER SITS NEXT TO ME AT THE TABLE!!”

Her little voice pierced my eardrums and grated on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Papers, pencils, and crayons scattered across the floor with a swift move of her fierce little hand. Next, she took aim at the battery for my camera and the charger it was connected to sent that to the floor with a bang.

DSC_3479For the last week, I had been laying my hand against her forehead to see if she was coming down with something, anything, looking for any reason for her Horrid Henry-like behavior. Since no fever was detected next on the list was to call the local Catholic Church to see if they still perform exorcisms in between press conferences to defend their innocence in abuse cases.

She was sitting with her head down on the table, her little feet dangling off the bench, kicking them back and forth as she revved up for her tantrum.

She was wearing the same outfit she’d had on for three days – a long sleeved dress and long pants with a brown leopard pattern. On Saturday she’d fallen asleep before I could negotiate a peaceful ending to the outfit change. On Sunday I knew we’d never make it to church if we stopped to let her pick the ten outfits she normally does before she gets dressed.  I promised myself I’d begin a peaceful settlement when we returned. Negotiations failed and I somehow let it go an extra day. So there she sat, her clothes probably caked to her now, while she started her new tactic of whining instead of verbalizing.

“Your brother is in the bathroom, I can’t make him sit next to you,” I told her, throwing up my hands in exasperation.

“I won’t do work ever, ever again if he doesn’t sit with me!”

I ignored her and went to the kitchen to start cleaning the pan for lunch.

Her brother came down and I asked him to sit with her but now she had worked herself up to a wail, the same wail she’d been sounding for almost a week now – anytime she didn’t get what she wanted, when she wanted, even though half the time she never said what she wanted, but simply cried and whined and kicked her feet.

I burned my hand in the hot water trying to clean out the cast iron pan to make lunch. It made me even grumpier.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!” my screams were now matching her own and for good measure, I tossed a fork, which bounced off the counter and shattered the McDonald’s collection Garfield class I’d bought for my husband to replace the one he’d had as a child.

Now I was mad at her and myself. It was a standoff of uncontrolled emotions and suddenly I realized I had dropped my emotional maturity to the level of a 4-year old. A 4-year old who was still trying to figure out how to navigate her emotions, while I was 41 and supposed to already have it all figured out. I shouldn’t have a fuse as short as a preschooler and I knew it.

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“Let me hold you,” I told her finally, no longer caring what her original breakdown had been about. She climbed into my lap and leaned into me her little body warm and heavy against me. Tears were still rolling down her cheeks as I rubbed her back and absentmindedly patted her bottom as  I rocked her.

It grew quiet and she sniffed.

“Mama?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Are you patting my butt?”

“Hmm….um..yeah, I guess I was. I thought it was your lower back.”

She pulled away and looked sideways at me.

“Okay. That was disturbing.”

She climbed off my lap with her finger in her nose and shook her head.

She’s been skipping naps of late so when she passed out against my chest early in the afternoon, an hour or so after this. I texted my husband and said, with much relief, though a bit of regret, “she’s asleep and I have to pee.”

I held that pee in until my bladder almost burst because I had a plan to enjoy the last chapter of my book in blissful silence.  That hour free of preschool manipulation was certainly welcome.

And then my preteen began to extol the virtues of his latest video game discovery and the silence was broken, but, hey, that’s life.

 

I was never pretty but sometimes I could write pretty words

Scrolling down through Instagram and there is the writer I could have had got to know better but chose not to, for various reasons.

And there she is promoting a friend’s book yet again. I look at her post and I wonder if  that book could have been mine if I hadn’t decided to step away from the author’s group, where I felt she taught people how to manipulate other people into buying things they really don’t need.

A part of me feels sad.

“Look at all the people she knows, all the places she travels, the experiences she has had and the success she’s reached,” I thought to myself.

Once upon a time I thought that would be me. I thought I’d travel the world and meet fascinating people and be liked by many.

I’ve never been pretty but sometimes I could write pretty words and take pretty photos. Sometimes I imagined that writing pretty and taking pretty photos would distract people from the fact I wasn’t pretty. I have yet to see an author or a photographer with a big following on any of the social media sites who isn’t pretty. That’s a deeper issue to delve into on another day.

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It’s weird how I once imagined I would do all these big and grand things but never did and now – it might you surprise you to know – I’m glad I didn’t.

Thank you, Jesus that I’m still just little me in my little house with my kids and my husband and my dog and cat and that sometimes I get to photograph sweet families and sometimes I get to write about neat things

It turns out I don’t need anything big after all.

Big means stress and rushing and running and I don’t thrive on any of that. What I do thrive on are quiet nights at home, a good book, a cup of hot herbal tea, a good, heartwarming show and slow, purposeful days where I can take time to remind myself where I am and who I am.

I’ll take the quiet life any day over all the stress I once thought I wanted.

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Winter wonderland? Not exactly. . ..

I won’t lie, seeing all the beautiful photos of winter wonderlands taken in a rural area after a snowfall always makes me a little jealous.

I live in a small town but it’s not really like one of those picturesque small towns in the movies, at least in the part of town I live in. This isn’t meant as an offense to my town because it isn’t the slums either. The people are nice and the area is quiet and fairly peaceful. The houses are pretty enough but there are also a ton of power lines, a school parking lot and a couple chain link fences around baseball fields interrupting the backgrounds of my photos.

To get to the more picturesque parts of our area I’d have to drive a little and if the roads are dangerous or the temperature is as cold as it was this past week I am limited to what I can photograph.

Before the Arctic cold set in and the heavier snow of this weekend’s storm set in we were able to go outside and Little Miss decided she loved snow. She ran up and down the sidewalk with her arms out, declaring “I love the snow!” I’m glad she does because I’m really not a fan of it. First, it’s cold. Second, it’s wet. Third, it’s slippery. All good reasons to not be a fan.

Since we don’t live in the country where we can photograph lovely scenes of trees and ponds covered in a layer (or two) of snow we are left to photos of the kids enjoying the snow with houses, telephone poles, power lines and the occasional snow plow or garbage truck behind them.

Still, I love the photographs of them enjoying the snow. I will deal with the lack of rural snowy images and hope that someday we move somewhere I can photograph a more attractive scene behind my children.

What’s the weather like where you are? And more importantly, do you have a good background to photograph in?

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Zooma the Wonder Dog takes over to lift the winter blues

It’s been a while since Mom has let me take over the blog. For those of you who don’t know who I am, I’m Zooma the Wonder Dog and from time to time I like to take over the blog so you have something actually interesting to read. Shhh…don’t tell Mom I said that. You can read more of my posts (you know, the good ones on this blog) here and here and even here and oh yeah..here too.

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You’ll notice I’m calling Mom Mom now and not “mommy”. That’s because I’m finally a teenager and my childish ways are behind me. Mom says my childish ways are not behind me since she’s caught me in the trash more than once and chasing the cat more than once, as well, but I ignore her because, well, I’m a teenager. I don’t have to pay attention to what my parents say.

I know, I know. Some of you may claim you saw me running around the yard the other day, being silly and acting like a young pup again, but you’d be wrong. I was simply working out to keep myself young and trim and looking good for the boy dog I saw walking by the other day.

Mom is such a killjoy. She says I can’t be around boy dogs until I’ve been spayed. I don’t know if she has a lisp or what, but I can’t figure out what being spayed has to do with me liking to bark a hello at the boy dogs walking by. I mean spaying is what they do to keep you clean right? With water and a hose? I don’t know for sure but Mom says I’m going to be spayed in a couple of days so I’ll find out then.

I saw a dog get spayed on TV on one of those shows Plaything 2 watches and that dog had soap and warm water so I hope I get spayed like that. I’m not a fan of baths, or soap, but being spayed with water might be fun. I’ll let you know what I think about it all in my next post.

Since moving here I’ve grown pretty fond of – I mean, I’ve grown accustomed to living here with my human family. Mom and Dad are pretty cool. Dad is grumpy sometimes when I wake him up early to pee but then he’s even grumpier if I let him sleep and pee in the living room. It takes a lot to make him happy it seems. Mom doesn’t like when I rip toilet paper up all over the bathroom floor or the backyard and she keeps telling me to leave The Beast alone.

The Beast has started to love me. She has. Don’t let her tell you any different. She misses me when I’m gone – like when I went to Grandpa and Grandma’s for something everyone called Christmas. There was a lot of food there but Grandpa and Mom were the only ones who gave me any. Grandma kept reminding Mom of that time Mom said it was bad to feed me from the table.

Now I know where Mom gets her fun-killing attitude. I can’t imagine why it’s bad to feed me from the table.

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The new human Kim was nice and if I didn’t love my current family so much I’d have gone to live with her. Of course, I decided going home with her wouldn’t be so much fun since the other new human (who Mom called Butthead, but I don’t think that’s his real name), said they live with a beast even bigger than The Beast and that it would rip my face off. I don’t want my face ripped off. Then  I couldn’t sneak food from Plaything 2’s plate when she leaves it down, which is always, because she’s almost like a teenager, like me, and doesn’t listen to Mom and Dad.

Wait, did I say I love my family back there? Um…yeah..well..I know I’m a teenager, but I guess I sort of do love Mom and Dad and my human brother and human sister. And of course Grandma and Grandpa. Mom says Grandma isn’t really a “dog person” but she is now because of me. That makes me proud. I’ve clearly charmed her.

Just don’t tell my family I said I love them.

Talk to you soon.

Can’t wait to tell you about the spay and if it really makes my fur feel better or not.

Keep singing me that song, sweet girl

dsc_0620“Mama, I have something to show you,” you said while I was trying to cook dinner one night.

“Um..not now, honey. I have to cook dinner,” I told you.

“But moooom…” you sighed and rolled your eyes with your head tilted back like you had been doing a lot lately.

I sighed myself, without the eye roll and set the chicken aside so I could sit in the kitchen floor with you.

“Today is a special day to tell you how to feel, in my own way,” you sang with the song on the app and slid into my lap. Your voice was tiny and sweet.”I really want to tell you Mom, I love you so. I love you so. You take care of me and help me grow. When I am sad you always know. When you teach me things I feel so proud. You pick me up when I fall down. You pick me up and keep me safe. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, than wrapped up in a hug from you, ’cause I love you and you love me.”

You leaned against me and looked up at my face as you sang and somehow I think you knew what would come next. Tears. From me. Not simple little …. tears but big, full-on ugly cry tears.

You continued to sing and sway a little in my arms. Supper was later than usual that night but it was worth it. It was even more worth it when your dad came home for supper and you sang him his version of the song. Apparently I’m not the only one who ugly cries.

Every once in awhile, at least once a week you come into the kitchen with the phone and you hold it up to me and push play. Each time we sit next to each other and I hold you close and you sing the song to me.

Sweet girl, please never stop coming to me with that song.

Never stop asking me to let you sing it to me.

Never stop looking at my face to see if I’m crying again.

Never stop waiting for those kisses on the cheek and the gentle squeeze as I pull you against me.

I know I can say it, can ask you to always sing this sweet little song to me and love me when you’re older as much as you do now, but I also know one day you won’t sing to me anymore.

One day you’ll rush off to play with your friends, go shopping, or rush to practice and simply wave at me over your shoulder on your way out the door.

You may one day very well forget how much you wanted your mama to know you loved her, but your mama will never forget it and I will also never forget the feeling of being the center of your world.

May I never take for granted these days that can sometimes seem so long but are rushing by so quickly and may I never take for granted your love for me.

And may you always know the love I have for you.

 

 

Wrestlers, degenerate reporters and a president on this week’s reading list

This post is part of the Sunday Salon, which is a group of bloggers who join together one day of the week to share what they’re reading, watching or simply what’s up in their life, although it’s mainly about what they are reading.

I’m finally finishing some books I started months ago and either wandered away from when a new and shiny book caught my attention (squirrel!) or simply filed away in the Kindle because it didn’t hold my interest.

shawnFirst up this week to finish was something I don’t normally read – the autobiography of a professional wrestler. Shawn Michaels, also known as the Heartbreak Kid, or by his real name of Michael Shawn Hickenbottom (no, really, that’s his real, non-showbiz name), wrote this second autobiography, “Wrestling for my Life: the Legend, The Reality, and The Faith of a WWE Superstar” several years after his first (that’s what you write when you’re too lazy to look up the date of his first autobiography)  and after becoming a Christian.

The book goes into some detail about how Michaels got his start as a wrestler, but not as much as a first autobiography would. Instead, this book is more about how his faith changed him and became the focal point of his life, seeping into every pore of his being, including professionally.  He writes about his struggles to learn what it means to be a man of faith, the stumbling steps he took toward kicking an alcohol and pill addiction and becoming a better man for his devoted wife, a former wrestler herself, and his children.  This is definitely “light reading” but as a practicing Christian myself, I see a lot of depth in Michaels’ words about his Christian walk.

lincolnA book I’m still plowing through, but haven’t yet finished is The Last Trial of Lincoln, which is about – ummm – the last, um, trial, of Lincoln. Hence the name.

But seriously, it’s a book about the final trial Abraham Lincoln served on as defense attorney before running for president. The basic plot is that Lincoln is defending a young man accused of murdering another man during a knife attack. The question is if it was premeditated or accidental. Much of the book is seen through the eyes of scribe Robert Hitt, the real-life scribe to the trial, whose handwritten manuscript of the trial was discovered in 1989 and is the basis of the book.

The full name of the book is actually “Lincoln’s Last Trial: The Murder Case That Propelled Him to The Presidency.” The author is Dan Abrams, chief legal analyst for ABC News and the book is often as wordy as his book titles (according to Amazon his last book was titled, “Man Down: Proof Beyond A Reasonable Doubt That Women Are Better Cops, Drivers, Gamblers, Spies, World Leaders, Beer Tasters, Hedge Fund Managers, and Just About Everything Else.”)

The book is good, but it’s so chocked full of words and legal jargon and flashbacks that help to paint the picture of who Lincoln was as a lawyer, that I’m finding myself needing breaks from it to rest my poor, less-intellectual brain. I don’t want it to sound like the book is so deep it is unreadable, however, because it is actually entertaining. It’s simply that there are so many flashbacks that I am halfway through it and wondering if we will ever get to the end of the trial before the book ends. I’ll let you know if that happens or not.

A book I just started and read when I want something a little lighter, with quick to the point sentences, is the second book in the Fletch series, Carioca Fletch by Gregory McDonald. Technically, according to my husband, who really should be writing blog posts about books, this is not the “second” Fletch book but it is the book that follows the first book chronologically. In this book, Fletch is in Brazil, having escaped from his past adventure with his life and some money (I won’t spoil that book for you) and is confronted by an old woman who believes he is the reincarnation of her late husband, who was murdered. Now Fletch’s new Brazilian friends, if not Fletch himself, want Fletch to solve the murder and release the soul of the already deceased man.

Since I just started the book, I’m really not sure where it’s going to go but I have a feeling, based on the first Fletch book, it’s going to be a twisted tale where Fletch’s lack of empathy and humanity is going to be showing.

The people in it are pretty sad and without feeling so far, but for some reason, I can’t tear myself away, maybe because Fletch is a crooked journalist and I worked with a few of those during my time as a small town newspaper reporter at four newspapers in Pennsylvania and New York.

When I really need light reading, I turn to something very simple and lighthearted that doesn’t require any intellectual capability at all and for the past few months that has been the Paddington Bear series. Thank you, Michael Bond, for transporting me into a second childhood late at night when I’m trying to take my mind off of the screaming outside word. I’m currently on my third Paddington book – Paddington Abroad.

x400Writing this I am now realizing I’m, again, reading about a British bear, though the other book (Enchanted Places, the autobiography of Christopher Milne) wasn’t necessarily about the “bear” but the boy who was a friend of “the bear” (Winnie the Pooh). I guess there is something comforting to me about bears and the British, maybe because I still have the Teddybear I had as a child and … I have no idea about the British thing since I have no British family members.

So how about you? What are you reading this week? What’s inspiring you? What’s comforting you? What’s making you think?