The Weather Outside is..... Iffy

I was born to a city known for a carnival of seasons. Summer can be hot and definitely humid, complete with mosquitoes and flies. Fall is beautiful, with crunchy colorful leaves and a regular infestation of lady bugs. Cool, cool weather leading to a cold, cold winter. The fact of global warming had caused the frigid winters of my youth to become only memory. Until this one, where we've had below zero temps in December. Then on to spring, with green grass appearing just after the tree buds pop.

So on January 30 the season's promise of snow and cold has brought snow. Regular dumps of it. Today is no exception. The thawed liquid of days prior has frozen into icy sheets. Treacherous on sidewalks and roads. Fat yet fluffy flakes make driving visibility poor to medium-poor. I am supposed to drive the car with four kids 1.5 hours home. Through this delightful mess.

The kids are at a nearby civic center playing all forms of ball in a large gym. I am searching for lost socks and toys. Figuring out how to protect our car's floor from the guaranteed onset of german shepherd puke which starts about 45 minutes after we've been driving. I even prepared by packing extra paper towels and wet wipes (for hands and for cleanup.)

I miss my home yet I wish we could stay here. Why is it I make friends with people who live far away from me? So my decision to drive is a lukewarm one. We have hockey practices and clothes to launder and two dogs which have caused slight damage to Padda and Kingpin's house. (Who knew the dogs would chew on a rolled spool of 15' sun cover half-buried in snow?) The house is vacant, giving me room to procrastinate and blog rather than pack the car as I am supposed to do.

So we will see. Go home or not today. Will I?

Holiday Rush

Last I wrote was December 16. Although nothing hit the blog, I've started several posts in my head, which moves the braincells around but not much else. Indeed, the mental soap box comes out and my brain and I climb up to share ideas with ..... no one.

In recovery we talk about the value of writing. Ideas run from the brain down into the arm and on to paper. Writing frees the brain from the burden of carrying the regrets, to-do lists, rants, thankfulness. For the addict in recovery, our paper acts as addendum to our souls. A convenience and action by which we can start to be freed of what ails us. But the change from THINKING about blogging or "journaling" takes commitment. Not will power, because that for the alcoholic is a concept which has 'kept us tied to our addictions. Not "I plan to" or "I should", because they are as meaningless as "I'm sorry" to the one who cannot grasp the concept of making amends.

So here I sit, about 1 1/2 hours from the big city in which we live. Not in Sappho's kitchen but in Padda's kitchen. My partner has left me and our four kids, plus our two big dogs, for a short visit. Padda and her partner KingPin, have 9 children (birth and adopted, ages 20 something to 8 something.) They also care for two 1 1/2 years old kids who are temporarily theirs through foster care. Only 7 of the 9 reside here, but having 13 kids ages 14 to 1 1/2 years could be considered chaotic. By some.

I am glad the holidays are over for now. Christmas was a big deal, with pageants and dinners. I volunteered at the last minute to make 5 shepherds costumes for the play our kids were in. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but trying to make up 5 tunics and vests with scraps from home and a few linens from Goodwill turned out to be more daunting than planned. My sewing machine needs help, so I had to figure out why the thread tension in the bobbin area was too loose. I sewed everything in white thread and went back with a brown marker to cover the exposed whiteness against the brown fabrics. (Note to self, no more last minute costume rushes unless I know for sure the machine is working.)

Dinner is ready. The kids are seated 10 at the table with the oldest downstairs watching football on TV. They are asking for the chocolate pudding pie for desert and my 2nd kid is attempting to get around eating his hot dish (Midwest lingo for cassarole.) I and am not alone in this parenting and the kids are going to bed in around 1 1/2 hours. So life is good. And I can cross blogging off my to-do list for now.

What I am Reading - Mudbound

Yes, I do read! I rejected two books this week before moving on to this novel, set in Mississippi at the end of World War II .

New book is Mudbound by HillaryJordan

What I Am Reading - Child 44

New book for me, set in Stalin's Soviet Union

Child 44, by Tom Rob Smith

Dear goddess above, please don't deliver a snow day for Monday!

I have plans for tomorrow. Presents to wrap. A meeting to attend if the roads are OK. So I am BUSY BUSY BUSY and my plans do not include entertaining and directing the activities of my four darlings. I cannot, will not, please don't make me endure a snow day!

They won't sleep in, ohhhhh no, that would be too easy. One generally awakens early, making enough noise to rouse a sleeping regiment, quickly alterting the dogs who feel ravenous and need their outdoor toilet. If our daughter awakes first, she begins her Yoko Ono imitation while sitting on her princess throne (the toilet) for 20 or more minutes. (She keeps her nighttime pullup on, even if it drips with rancid PM pee. If we don't catch her, she will pull said pullup back over her butt and sit in the pee stew until forced to remove the pullup.) If our second son awakes, we hear a loud stomping announcing his surrender of sleep and entrance into his special bathroom time. He turns hall and bedroom lights on. Our youngest awakes early, expecting fruit snacks or other sustenance before even leaving his bed. Our eldest, before he has his morning Concerta, is an all fire crabby bitch on wheels. (Once he has his medication he needs about 20 minutes for the druggy goodness to kick in and he acts like a responsible 11-year-old.) Last week he accidently set his clock to the wrong timezone and had the whole heard up at 5:45 am. Fun fun, all around!

Once awake and fed, these kids get bored. Really really bored when they are not in school. They ADHD, ADD, and naughty me right up until they've reached my last nerve. They want to watch TV, then fight over who sits where and what is watched. They say they are bored, I give them stuff to do, which lasts maybe 5 minutes, until once again they are BORED. The begin spinning and dancing to any music or musical toy they hear. They break stuff. On accident. Every day. While I yell, and threaten, and deliver punishments with the grace and dignity of an insane banshee.

If I am lucky, they will go outside for play. But goddess help us when they return, cold and hungry. Even 10 minutes after lunch they will want hot chocolate. Hot cookies. All the things the TV commercials promise but life never really delivers. Neither do I.

I will light a candle to the weather gods and goddesses. I will promise never to complain about a long winter, or short summer, or crappy fall and spring. I will love, honor and obey the weather. Just please, please, please don't give me a snow day tomorrow.

Note to Self, Re: Reading Labels

Dear Self,

I am happy you allow yourself to create original, wearable art for your children. After all, this idea of art being worn is the premise upon which you've based your (now sleeping but soon to be re-awakened) business.

However, when you've expended time, effort and materials to transform a plain, white pair of sneakers into sparkly fun footwear, you must pause before declaring them finished in a cloud of spray enamel. Had you done so, you would have preserved your "flames-racing-from-heel-to-burning-toe" design (in shades of red, fuchsia, neon orange, yellow, all done upon a base of shimmering gold) as originally intended.

A moment of pause, complete with reading the can in adequate light, would have allowed you to say "Oh, my, no. This will not do". You would have thought: "I've mistakenly picked up the high gloss blue enamel spray paint!" You would have concluded: "If I quickly spray this blue paint upon my carefully painted design, it will turn from sparkly fun to oddly, cloudy, oh-that's-so-nice-how-you-dabble-with-paint-but-don't-quit-your-day-job muddy blue." Then you would have attempted to compensate for the one-shoe-blue and one-shoe-not by turning both into previously described canvas.

But you didn't pause. You didn't read in adequate light. You did mistakenly spray one shoe. Realizing your error, you tried to pretend this was artistic and sprayed the other. Then the other. Then back to the first, until shoes and hands were thoroughly blued. Although your five-year-old will be happy to receive the shoes, they are not the best representation of your abilities. See illustration below:


You have my permission to think these self-pitying thoughts and castigate yourself for one more day until getting over the whole mess and moving into another personal "crisis".

Please remember to be more careful in future.

Sincerely,

Myself

What I'm Reading

What I'm reading now (on CD).

The uses of Enchantment, by Heidi Julavits

Chicago Center for Literature and Photography describes this book as a "delightfully twisted and surprisingly complex."

Proposition 8: The Musical!

FABULOUS short play/video written by Marc Shaiman. Stars Jack Black as Jesus. "The video also boasts an array of theatre and stage stars: The 'California Gays and The People That Love Them' are played by Jordan Ballard, Margaret Cho, Barrett Foa, J.B. Ghuman, John Hill, Andy Richter, Maya Rudolph, Rashad Naylor and Nicole Parker" - quoted from the blog video page.

"Prop 8 - The Musical" starring Jack Black, John C. Reilly, and many more... by Jack Black

I wonder how they were able to gather my relatives for the performance on such short notice!

Enjoy!

Dear Birth Mother

Being a woman in recovery, I understand how your issues with alcohol and drugs. I know how the bonds of chemicals hold you down, control you so you cannot feel what is inside you. I know alcohol is not a problem for the addict, it is a solution. I know illegal or prescription drug abuse were the next logical step for me as it has been for you. I know the chemicals cover a multitude of emotions, blocking the ability to feel and heal and deal with what is underneath the chaos.

I am a mother because you could not care for your children. Your chaos and chemical use pushed your children out of your life and into mine. I am so grateful for the lives you bore into existence. They are beautiful.

Yet I am angry with you for how you treated your/my/our children. Conflicted because I understand the prison of addiction, yet cannot understand how you continued to poison your/my/our children even after you knew, YOU KNEW, you were pregnant. You were taken into custody to preserve the lives of your/my/our children, yet you found a way out and continued to use. Again. Again. Again.

I want to tell you how your/my/our children suffer from fears of abandonment. How they scream at night against imagined or remembered fears. How they feel worthless, terrified, angry, rejected. How they've learned everyone makes promises but no one keeps them. How they were affected by therapy they should have received but did not, by medical procedures which should have been received but were not, by education intervention they were due but did not participate, by nutritional food which they should have received but was replaced by sugary and weak substitutes. How love for them is just a word you say to adults to make them happy.

I want to tell you how hard your/my/our children struggle in school. How we've spent hours and thousands of dollars on testing and evaluation. How we meet with teachers and therapists and counselors to help your/my/our children cope with having brains that cannot, will not function properly. How fetal alcohol spectrum/affect has made them different from their peers. How we weep for abuse done to them before they breathed real air. How this was not their fault, but they have the consequences just the same.

I want you to understand you were both a victim because of the abuse done to you before pregnancy was an option. I want you to admit you played in a serious game with unchangeable consequence. I want to stop hearing how you love them and miss them so much, because love from afar and without accountability is easy. Parenting with accountability is harder. Being a child who deserved to be loved and cherished from the start but was abused, neglected and abandoned again and again is by far the hardest.

You ask if you can see them again. I say not now. Not until you show an effort of recovery. (Remember, I am in recovery too so I will not fall for your attempts and disguises which are poorly hidden manipulations.) Not until I send you the letter which tells you the truth, mother to mother. Not until I can let go of this anger and can find forgiveness.

What I am Reading

Minneapolis-born author Arthur Phillips.

Angelica, published 2004

When Life Hands You Feathers

None of this "New Year's Resolution" crap for me. I am calling mine the "47 1/2 Years Rules for Living the Second Half of My Life". The shorter version needs to be thought up but not right now.

First rule, implemented in November, was "I will have fun, no matter who I am with or why."
We were on our way to the last big Thanksgiving hurrah at my parent's home. The good, the bad and the baptist would be attending. Rather than dreading the occasion and counting the time we HAD to spend, I threw bad vibes to the wind and decided "I WILL HAVE FUN". And, I had fun. A really good time. I laughed like a hyena. I joked. I told people I loved them (and meant it!) I even used this rule for sitting through a few LONG church sermons. So the having fun rule works!

Second rule, which I started also in November: "I will do my best and accept my best as best". Take for example finding a black Sharpie pen has made it through the laundry cycle from washer to dryer. And shared it's permanent goodness. Now, you must know I: sort by color; check front and back pockets for contraband; pull up zippers, because pants and tops are less wrinkly that way; pretreat spots with my gallon of Shout or Zout or whatever; and even wash something twice or thrice to get out stains. But, thanks to Hermes, who put the pen in one of his seven "cargo" pockets, we had a streaks of black on my carefully cleaned laundry. I did my best, but stuff happens. Either I chastise myself, or yell at my kid, or accept my best is my best. Flaws and all.

I recently asked a friend who had 9+ kids how she managed to sort laundry. She said "Sort? I just open the laundry shoot, which by the way is right over the washer, and wash whatever fits in the wash bin." I like that attitude! Let's hear it for gravity!

Third, rule I invoked today is "When Life hands me feathers, I'll make a pillow". I realize this doesn't make much sense without an explanation. But keep in mind, I always explain. (And this is my resolution, so if you don't like it, go make your own!)

I just spent the last 1 1/2 hours cleaning the garage. (In the spirit of sharing, I will tell you we had around 6" of snow last night and the temperature is around 20 degrees.) I was looking for the still-lost christmas tree stand. While I looked, I took advantage of the "organizing" buzz and cleaned enough so my partner can park her care in the garage. Bikes are put away, trash and broken toys ready for pickup, garden tools grouped, etc.

I was feeling very good about my accomplishments (see rule #2!) when I came inside to a horrifying sight. Our delightful dogs had shredded a feather pillow. All over the living room. Into the hallway. Feathers were on top of, underneath, and one with just about every object in the LARGE room.

Lest you think I am perfect (HAH!), I did call the dogs a few nasty names before sending them outside. I'd been up late last night cleaning this same room! I tried feeling sorry for myself (is this how I am rewarded after all that hard, cold, late work) but didn't have the energy. Sighing and complaining to no one, I grabbed our vacuums and began to clean.

One vacuum has a bag, which I filled twice into two "vacuum bag" pillows. (Hence the post name.) The other is bag less and has best suction for the feather coated rug.

I am happy because I cleaned and conquered a messy garage. I had more, unexpected cleaning to do. But I have the ability to clean (I'm not dead yet!) , the tools to clean, and the maturity to understand a mess is just a mess. Thank the goddess, feathers are not puke or poop (with which the dogs and children have presented me on other occasions).

The pillow, may it RIP, has been transformed. Somewhere, at the garbage dump, the rats and mice will find a new, soft bed in the filled vacuum cleaner bags


. Ms. Rat says: "THANK YOU!"

When Illness Follows A tiring Routine

Parents aren't supposed to get sick at the same time. Tag team parenting is the best approach, where one is strong should the other be weak. But if both are weak, by unexpected illness, the kind of which places one in the bathroom for 10-20 visits a day. The kind which helps you lose 10 pounds by purging with no binge.

Coming at the two-year anniversary of the "new kids" moving in, our family's illnesses should expected. Although while I was in pain with rising fever and wish for some form of oblivion the thought did not readily come. In our family, significant anniversaries bring significant illness. So January/February illness is next. Then late spring. Late summer. Finally, late November and early December. Our children have experienced terrible loss during these times (before meeting us). During each of these yearly milestones, one child gets sick. Then passes it on to another child or parent, until we all share the fun. I hate it.

Maybe part of me wants the anniversary of our forever family's move-in to be joyous. Look at what joy we find in December! The anniversary of merging our families, then Christmas. But children have "cell memory", just like adults do. The merging of families was difficult, causing great strain between parents, the "oldest" child, and our three new kids. Maybe I just feel we've had enough already. I am doing the best I can, but my best cannot combat sneaky little germs and viruses which seem to know when and whom to attack.

I am exhausted, because whether or not illness plagues our home, chores must be done. So I've tried to clean counters, do dishes, put away projects. Yes, I am guilty of not insisting more is taken on by our children. Sure. But how to proceed so in future the laundry doesn't have to pile up, the counters remain cluttered, the rooms messier, the groceries un-bought..... I don't have the energy to address.

Finally, the little part of me that wants to feel sorry for myself thinks I brought the illness upon myself. I'd been to confident in my ability to sterilize surfaces. Too happy that I'd accomplished hanging outside christmas lights and redoing old flower arrangements into new outdoors cheer.
Too unaware that life happens while I am busy making plans.

Off to bed. As Scarlett O'Hara said "Tomorrow is another day!" Scarlett O'Hara sucks.

Reading

I love to read. I have fond memories of my mom taking me to the library where I checked out 20 books at a time. Some what is now called graphic novels, but then to me were cartoon stories. Books on stuff I wasn't supposed to know about, like witchcraft. Or things "secular" that I couldn't hear about at home. (We were not allowed to listen to non-christian radio and are TV shows were screened for appropriate content.) The library was and still is a sacred place filled with voices from all over the world (and beyond!).

I've carried this love into my adult life. I don't have time to sit and read books so I listen to books on tape. I usually have the head set earbuds on and the CD player or tape player stuffed in the back of my jeans. Sure I look silly, but I'm able to "read" 10 or more books a month. While I do laundry, cook, walk the dogs, drive my car, or simply tune out the family. I READ. And books on tape count as READING.

Twilight Zone Parenting

Thanksgiving is a tough time for queer folk. Unless you are fortunate to have a family of origin who practices tolerance and unconditional love, you are apt to be dropped into the twilight zone of reality. Take mine, for instance. (OK, you really can take them!)

You can't bring my extended birth family together without one or more members reminding me why I stay clear of religion and politics as a discussion point. For example, my one siblings is a baptist missionary. We'll call him Bwana. Complete with his spouse, they've rode the fundamentalist christian train I was born on all the way to Africa and have raised their (several) children across the world. (Fortunately, I jumped the christian freight somewhere between here and my 1st or 2nd hetero marriage.)

Bwana's wife mentioned how a US christian friend of theirs became pregnant after many years of infertility. Seems they adopted the embryos of a woman who had a few extra sitting around. (I envision tiny, teeny creatures in a petrie dish, reading the paper, watching TV, when the phone rings.) The embryos were from a US donor christian couple who were similiar in coloring (and I assume enthicity) to the infertile couple. One of the embryos completed gestation becoming a beautiful baby girl.

"What a blessing", said brother Bwana's wife. "The baby found a home," completing the wonder of it all by describing how the donating (birth parent, no not that, the donor didn't give birth, no parent, no not that, no parenting was involved) woman agreed to the donation by legaling being a part of the embryo/baby's life. Visitation, pictures, all would be part of the package.

I know families are made, not born. I know every parent needs to choose the pathway to parenting which best suits them. I made this point to those listening at the family gathering and was greeted with silence. No response.

I've endured the "shunning" of family for my choosing a woman to partner and raise children with. I know my brother and his wife well enough that they do not give glowing reports of the joy of my parenting. My family's existance is an embarrassment to them, because who I am is what they preach agaisnt in their pulpets. (James Dobsen is one of their idols, by the way.)

Maybe I am too cynical. Maybe I should just be happy the waiting eggs had the phone call which turned them into a living being. But I am a lesbian parent who has parented by adoption rather than giving birth. I've experienced the agony of children waiting homes who are alive right now waiting for their own phones to ring.

Cooking for Children

I like cooking. Really like it. My relationship with food borders on love. I consider cooking an art form, because the media is constantly changing and affected by the tools and ingredients used. Meatballs are such an example of the ever-changing possibilities offered by my craft.

I'd purchased a 7 pound package of ground chuck from Costco. Having the two slabs of meat offered some simple dinner solutions. Crock pot roast (yawn). Perhaps my version of Korean beef? (say bulgogi) Nope, I was out of time and needed to figure out something that would be fast and pass the "what are we having for dinner.....do I have to eat THAT" test. So out comes my secret food fetish tool. MY MEAT GRINDER!

Now, before we make this not G rated, I don't not THAT kind of fetish. The kind Webster defines as "an object believed to have magical power to aid or protect it's owner". My kitchen tools are just that, and the grinder enables me to turn food from one form into another. I love pulverizing meat. There, I said it. And I am not ashamed.

In goes the meat. Grind Grind. Watch it come out the feeder end. Need some binding materials, so in goes the bread. Grind Grind. Need the holy objects of onion and garlic. Grind grind. Run a raw egg through for additional binding. And just to watch it goo out the end. Need some more binding, so run carrots through. Grind Grind. Add another holy object, Costco's organic no-salt seasoning. And salt and pepper. Mix with hands.

In comes Pan, my second son, and spying the meat mixture, proceeds to tell me his is officially "helping" me. Two attempts to wash hands and he dives in. I am not certain if he really understand I've tried to hid carrots in the meatballs. But he gets the meatballs in the pans and we successfully have dinner started.

Meatballs on backing sheets at 400 degrees for about 15 minutes. I use the drippings in a roux as gravy base. Add beef broth. Boil some noodles (some leftover needle pouch from "Suddenly Salad a.k.a Suddenly MSG" and we are good to go. Oh yes, don't forget the canned vegetable designed to give us built-in "yell factor" for the kids who dislike all things green.

The verdict? A hit. Even though everyone could spot the "orange" flecks of ground carrots, they overlooked the hidden vegetable in favor of all things gravy. Even Pan, the ever present food critic, had 3 helpings. And yes, we argued with Pan and Artemus (our daughter) over the "real" vegetable consumption, which was canned peas.