Big Trouble

Jack got in trouble at school Monday. With an official three copies colored sheet to bring home for us to sign. He's been rough to deal with at best for the past week. Whining, saying, "_____ is boring" and "ah, man" after everything you say to him. I didn't sign up for Swiper from Dora (cringe) as my kid.

It's so hard to know how to punish him. How hard to punish him. How to say what I mean to say and then stop talking like I can talk him out of misbehaving forever if I just ramble on for 5 more minutes about growing up being hard and listen to me and I had to grow up and I love you and please stop acting like an asshole. All this talking makes him crazy I'm sure. He says things like, "Moooommm" and "I know, I know" in a quiet exasperated voice. Isn't he supposed to be thirteen before he rolls his eyes at me and is bored with my advice already?

We grounded him for the first time over the weekend. Took away the Wii because he was being such a pain. Is that being too hard on a six year old? I have these visions of him bone thin in dirty jeans coming to borrow money for drugs because I didn't discipline him enough, or too much. I'm the softie. I want him to be happy, it's hard for me to disappoint him, to make him do what he should. In my mind I know that letting him off easy just makes it harder for him, but my parents were hard on me and I'm not sure how much it helped. So I often let things slide, try not to make too much out of small things. But at this age, they are all small things. And so who am I helping by easing up when I should be harder, tougher, more mom-like, less pleasing.

You probably don't know this but Jack got kicked out of the first school he went to. A small local "montessori" school. Our experience there was not good. They used to send him home (at two and a half) because he couldn't get "control". He was miserable, so were we. It was not the kumbaya experience we were led to believe it was going to be. For us this school is a scar that still gets rubbed from time to time. Jack speaks quite clearly about that time, how he felt, what was happening. I should have stood up for him, taken him out of that school, realized it wasn't working out- for any of us.

Instead we signed up for another year. (what was I thinking?) Luckily, the directress of the school called me one day and told me Jack was not invited back. Not just for the next year, but for the rest of that year too. Over the phone she told me about how some children need therapy- physical therapy, speech therapy, and that Jack probably needed mental help. Over the phone. I didn't know what to say, so I dutifully took down the numbers she offered and numbly agreed. I should have known a professional would never have severed our relationship this way. When I told her I'd come get Jack's things she told me that she'd just leave them on the porch- I could come pick them up after four. (when everyone was going to be gone.) Oh.

I've wanted to punch that woman in her big fat face more times than I can count.

But, I didn't. For a month I felt like the biggest mom-failure in the world. Then I saw how Jack cheered up, started behaving, stopped being so edgy all the time. He still was over the top dramatic at times- but typical. Typical for a three year old. Typical. The weight started to lift. I started feeling okay again. I stopped imagining him shuffled from one mental institution to another while barely able to hold a job, make friends... get along in the world.

Then things like this happen and I'm right back there again: on the phone while two men manhandle our new dishwasher into place. Mouth slack, heart heavy, wanting to explain about how magical Jack is; how funny, and kind. How he comes up out of the blue and takes your hand, or pats your back and says in his raspy little boy voice "I love you, Mom." How you have to be gentle with him, and wait to confront him about things because he's not listening when he knows he's messed up but if you give him ten minutes he'll come apologize and then his eyes well and overflow and he reaches out for a hug. How it's my fault he's so dramatic- me too. I gave him my freckles and my temperamental patience. Me, two.

The worry I carry as a mother, as caretaker of these small souls- in charge of getting them ready for the world can be such a puzzling burden. Just behave. How hard is that? How hard is that? "Life will be so much easier if you just behave!" I want to scream at him, make him write it a thousand times until he gets it. Please stop fucking up on purpose- you know better. You know better.

Then I remember how I never stop messing up- and how sometimes I do it on purpose. How even though I know better, I don't always do better. And I try to be patient with myself, to not make the mistake of saying to myself "bad, bad mom" and "you should've done better" over and over in my head. Because he will always mess up. And I will too. Sometimes I will have the grace to learn my lessons while he's learning his. Because I'm not a bad mom. I know better.

In the Garden Part Two

We got some luscious dirt and compost from the charming (really, it is) nursery right next door, Stack's. They are so helpful there, and patient with all my questions. My dear friend Jess brought over her husband's tough truck  to help us get all four and a half tons of it to our garden. And my dear husband Jonathan shoveled most of it into our frames.

We got most of our plants yesterday. Now I just need to get out there in between bouts of rain and get them in the ground. Jack and I were going to plant yesterday afternoon, but as we were walking out it started raining, then thundered a bit. We took it as a sign and came back inside to play Monopoly Jr. Did you know there's a game called "Farm-opoly"? (apparently there are lots of "opoly's"- even "Rodeo-opoly" and my new favorite- "Bean-opoloy".)

Garden should be in by the weekend. Funny how it hasn't rained in ages, and now it's rainy like crazy. I keep worrying about our plants out there in the rain and the cold. (I know. Um, hell-oooo. They're supposed to be out there.) For some reason I feel like if the plants are in the ground then they're OK, they're safe. But in the meantime, they're huddled together, waiting.

In the Garden

A big part of this year is growing our very own garden. This is something we've tried and failed; some years more miserably than others. But this year we've done it right. In a lots of sun spot, awesome soil & compost from the folks at Stack's Nursery right next door, research, planning. Planning! No willy nilly dash to Home Depot for a load of plants to toss in the ground and ignore after a week. This year it's for real. I mean it this time. I'm much better at keeping promises to myself than I used to be. 

We're going to grow tomatoes, cucumbers, okra, basil, several different kinds of peppers, parsley, strawberries, and maybe a wild watermelon in a container. Rumor has it that watermelons are like little Hitlers- they just wanna take over everything. Jack really wants that one thing, so of course we'll have one. Mostly because he will not be talked out of it.

Two more to go!

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Day Five- Still Alive!

So, here we are in the middle of day five with no sugar. Aside from the PMS everything is just great. I mean... no one ever craves sugary crunchy danish-y cookie-y chocolate-y treats when their hormones start doing their monthly boogie, do they? Oh, right. YES THEY DO. Really do.

What is it about quitting something that makes that something appear, unbidden, constantly? At work this week there has been extra dessert out the wazoo. A giant box filled with chocolate cake. Key lime pie. More cake. A whole bag of Starburst jelly beans hiding unnoticed on top of the shelf in the kitchen. I almost caved yesterday in the baked goods section of Whole Foods- flaky chocolate croissant anyone? ME!!!! Pick ME!!!!

I got these wheat free fig things that are not chocolate chip cookies. (chocolate. chip. cookie. mmmmm.) They're helping. A lot. Some. Also a smoothie in the afternoon has been a tasty treat- banana, spinach, dark berries, hemp protein, hemp milk. (I don't eat dairy either- but another time/blog for that.) Some coconut milk is yummy in there too. This is helping me not be crazy. That and some blended strawberries and banana that I froze sort of like ice cream. (mmmmmm. ice cream...)

I felt great for the first three days, then yesterday got an all day mild headache, which has continued into today.  I'm optimisitc that by this time next week the mood swings will be less- it's hard to tell if I'm irritable due to lack of sugar or gearing up for my monthly bill. I should have never said "give up sugar" out loud where my ovaries could hear. Here comes the weekend. Hopefully Monday morning there won't be a sign in the front yard: "For Sale. One sugar-free wife and mother. $25.00 FREE."

Damn Sugar

I didn't think I had much of a sweet tooth before I abandoned booze. ( and by abandoned, I mean pretty much altogether, unless we're out to dinner and it's too fun to swirl that glass of red. Or we visit friends and must have a margarita and cold beers by the toasty outdoor fireplace.) But, the actual giving up of booze isn't the real subject here, it's sugar. Oh, honey honey.

Sugar is my very hardest thing to give up. Because once I answer the knock on the door, sugar shoves me out of the way, busts on in, props its' boots on the table, and will not leave. Just like I cannot have just one (how do y'all do it?) glass of wine, I can't have just one cookie. I shovel four in before I've even tasted the first one. I'm certain I'm an emotional eater. And if cake didn't make me feel kind of sick after a whole piece I would have more. Pie? Yes, please. More, please. A pint of ice cream? Sure. Ack. Now I feel nauseous and guilty. Boo, hiss.

The problem is I know what sugar does when it comes over. It's that bad relationship you just keep making excuses for. "Oh, I know. Sugar wrecks me for days. But I really like it. And it said it would never do it again." or "I know I don't need eight Samoas. But I'm hormonal. And I had a bad morning. And I yelled and slammed a meat hammer on the counter to make a point. I deserve eight Samoas. Really. And I don't care." (to clarify for those of you wondering about the meat hammer; it's just a meat tenderizing mallet that Jack uses to crush up granola bars into cereal. I was making a point about finding your own shoes. I know, overkill. But yeesh, sometimes I cannot be mother of the year, sugar.)

The problem is. Well, my problem is: this doesn't happen daily. Or even what I would call all the time. Just as soon as I get all the yuck out of my system and my face starts stopping sprouting a new zit or 4 every day it's like a signal. A call of the wild. Yodle-lay-hee-hoo!!!! Like the old boyfriend/girlfriend that just won't go away. Just when I think it's safe and I'm fine, I don't need you I don't even miss you and I say those magic words..."I can't remember the last time I had sugar..." Whapow!!!! I'm in. Face first into the leftover Valentine's candy. Is this really just self sabotage? Am I afraid of success, or accomplishing an actual goal? I'm afraid I can already answer that with a yes, I'm pretty sure that's mostly all true.

What the real problem is is this: I cannot say no. I don't say it loud enough. Or with enough umph. So I can really hear myself.  I can't have just one piece of chocolate, one cookie, because I'm a people pleaser. And sometimes those people is me. So I've decided that today, March 21st, starts a month long hiatus from sugar. Holy fucking shit. March 21st seems like a good day to start something- it's the first day of spring, my dad's birthday, the vernal equinox (all about balance here) and lord, I'll be forty in exactly one month. Holy fucking shit.

Those monumental front number changing birthdays make you want to do something big. Remarkable. Different than that same old you you've been for the past ten years. Just the thought of turning forty has changed me immensely somewhat. You know how you just know, know that it's time to give something up? You think about it, the idea just nags and nags you, you cannot stop thinking about it. You get sick of yourself thinking about it. This is me and giving up sugar.

 Sugar does bad things to me. It makes me even more impatient than I naturally am. It makes me go up and down, up and down, happy and sad and mad and beating myself up while chomping on another cookie. Ugh. It makes me bloated and makes my skin grumpy. It gives me headaches and anxiety. But *tra laaaaaaa!!!* I love it. And when I'm sinking my teeth into some soft sugary concoction I do not care about all the consequences.

Oh, but I do. Inside my heart of hearts I really, really do. I cry a little on the inside and feel disappointed with myself (oh, how sucky) and wish I could go back and channel Nancy Reagan.

So, goodbye sweet friend. I'm sure your leaving will make me cranky and sad and make my face break out even more, but goodbye. Time to pack your things and go. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

I Give Up.

When I wake up in the morning the negatives start marching in. "Oh, God. It's too early. I'm tired. It's a school day. What am I going to make for breakfast?" You know, that never ending narration of your day that threads through everything you do, even if it's just laying in bed contemplating the day. I want to know when I stopped waking up with a bit of joie de vivre- that whoo hoo it's a new day. Probably around 4th or 5th grade when school became work and not just where I spent 5 days a week playing with friends, singing songs, and eating rectangular pizza. (man, that stuff was really delicious.)

Yesterday was the start of Lent. You know, when people who celebrate Ash Wednesday get ashed, and people who don't wonder why all these people have dirt on their foreheads. 'Tis the season of giving something up, a sacrifice to God. I was doing some reading about Lent yesterday and I truly didn't know that Lent was about sacrifice, I thought it was just about religious folk giving something up since they were going to be chowing a bunch of Easter candy. Suffer for your sins. But sacrifice? Well.

I had this moment yesterday when I realized that sacrifice and honor could be best friends, maybe even family. And they don't have to be a negative. They can be something you do just for you, something you do to honor yourself and/or God. If you give up wine for Lent, when you go to pour that glass thinking about disappointing God can be a pretty good deterrent. We all need someone besides ourselves to be afraid of disappointing.

Giving up. I've been doing a lot of thinking about giving up, what to give up? Especially since I've already given up booze, and dairy, and meat. (Dairy and meat for the most part. I don't say never again (yet) but I'm not going to turn down a cookie just because there's an egg in it.) Then I started wondering...what if I get something, but it's really giving something up? Like giving up a negative habit instead of trying to make a positive one?

Lent is like a group effort to stop having things that make you feel bad. It's nice to think of everyone else suffering in the kitchen after dinner with the death grip on the box of Tagalongs. And for 40 days? (Really 46, apparently you get Sundays off. I didn't know. Here's a link to an awesome page I found: http://www.wilstar.com/holidays/lent.htm  ) Kind of like a kick start for New Years Resolutions. Oh, you forgot you promised to get healthier for New Years? Welp, no worries! Here's Lent! Try it for 40 days, maybe a whole year is a bit much. Pat, pat. It's OK. Even quitting something for a week is hard.

Which brings me back to that negative narrative my brain seems to love. That's what I'm giving up for Lent. Being so damn hard on myself and my day. For these 40 (46) days I'm not going to beat myself up so much. I'll stop trying so hard to be mother of the year, running faster, fitting in books and yardwork and taking up knitting and keeping the car clean...AHHHHH! For this one season I'm going to be gentle with myself and offer kind words of encouragement. "You look so pretty today" instead of "Gee, your hair looks like shit again today. And that zit is really huge. And ugly." Or, "Your butt looks OK in those jeans" instead of "God, I need to lose 10 pounds. My ass is huge."

So, I give up. I'm pretty sure I'll still be hard on myself. This habit will take more than 40 days to change- it's been almost 40 years in the making. Sacrificing the cranky inner dialogue to honor who I really am, who I really want to be. But I'm thinking my inner mean girls might just need a hug and a kind word. And maybe some chocolate.

The Elephant is in the Room

Three things happened this week that made me put myself "out there"- opportunities for fresh starts, new beginnings. Choices. Path changers. The first is signing up for yoga teacher training. The second is getting another dog. (more on this later, puppies are so interesting) And the third is an email I received from an old college friend asking me about running. A new beginning. It's trying to start new things.

My friend Jess and I had a long conversation Friday about why we can't manage to put our gorgeous, creative selves out there- why it's sooooo hard to say, decoupage a flower pot rather than take a 2 hour nap. Why we try to escape the creative goddess rather than run up, grab her pretty hand and run away into the golden fields of artistic glory.

I'll tell you why. I'm lazy. Lazy, lazy, capital L A Z Y lazy. I don't want to always (read ever) have to feel so obligated to fulfill my dreams. I mean, sheesh, I have been up since 6 AM, and I'm tired. BUT (it was coming) I really want to decoupage a pot, or start this blog, or rake the yard- anything to avoid escaping into the comfortable no-zone 2 hour nap afternoon. But...

What's up with comfort? And why are we so driven to seek it- even when the comfort isn't even really comforting, more like just hurting ourselves out of habit? Like why, as I sit here am I fighting the urge to GET UP and quit writing because it feels so kind of good and also like I may be accomplishing something I really want to do? What IS comfort anyway? Is it feeling safe? Is it escape? Is it hiding? Is it 6 chocolate chip cookies, or a whole bottle of wine just for lil' ol' me?

Comfort is one of those things that's just so hard to define. But discomfort? We all know what that feels like. Discomfort socially, digestively, physically. It's just so hard to put yourself out there. Or to stop when you've had a full meal because the cake is soooo good. Or when you're tired, drained, life has taken it all out of you and you've got nothing left to give, dammit. So why do we seem to revel in that discomfort?

Writing is something I've always loved. Which is why I never, ever do it. Well, unless you count my clever Facebook status updates, then I do that at least once a day. I have always, in the back of my head, in the place where dreams live, wanted to be a writer. And then blogging came along and I thought to myself that here was a way to take all the pressure of writing a book out of the way and just writing. No need for character development, or chapters, or cover designs. Just slice of life memoir-like posts that hopefully someone out there relates to, who has some friends that relate, too- and so on.

But writing is hard, much less finding time to write without kiddos interrupting, or I need to fold laundry, or organize my closet, or- or any other excuse I could use. I mean, I could get up at 4 AM and have a few hours to myself to do some yoga, make some tea, clear out the cobwebs, and write. BUT, the bed is comfy, no normal people get up at that hour just for pleasure (OK, OK- some people do. Brown chicken, brown cow. Perfectly normal.)

I'm wondering why we talk ourselves out of things we really want to do. What makes us resist when our inside people speak up, ahem, and nudge us into the right idea. They never yell, damn them, or get too pushy. It's always more like, "Hey. I have an idea. Get up early, make some tea, do some yoga, and write before anyone else is awake. That would be sooooo nice." whisper, whisper whisper. Then I answer, "NO WAY I COULD DO THAT!" Without even trying. Then those inside people whisper at 4 AM when I cannot go back to sleep- "Try it. Just get up. You know you want to." In a gentle little voice that implies "Hey, no pressure. Only if you want to."

Isn't starting something new so exciting, too? I mean, sure there's the scary part, but then there's also that delicious anticipation, that good feeling of rightness when it's going well, and you're thinking "Oh, am I smart or what. This is going great!" Now that's a good feeling.

Starting something new. I signed up for yoga teacher training today. I was soo nervous- What if she says, "Oh, no. You (with disgust) couldn't be a yoga teacher." But, she didn't. She said nice things like "I can't wait to see you" and "Welcome". Oh. Thank you.

Putting yourself out there can be pretty uncomfortable. And that's what starting new things is all about, really. Breaking out of that little cozy mold you've made, your little Gaga egg, and stretching your fuzzy breakable wings. But I highly recommend it. The inner celebration is worth it- even if, even if- it doesn't turn out the way you'd hoped. Taking chances builds confidence. And confidence makes taking those chances seem even more worth it. You know, one of those full circle sorts of things.

So, I guess by getting up at 3:30 AM, sitting my butt down at the computer and working on this blog I'm starting something else new. And maybe I will run into that elephant on the path. But, if you look closely at the bottom of that picture it says, "Together we can make a difference." I didn't notice that until after I'd chosen it for the picture representing the hardest path. I thought the grassy one looked lovely and easy, and a rocky one- well, you get it. But now, I think that elephant might just help block all the obstacles that stand in the way of me starting something new. Or at least help me not study them so closely. The elephant in the room just might not be a secret, but obvious as he should be. And elephants are big, so I'd be willing to bet he'd help you, too. And so I'm going to keep trying to start new things. Spring seems like just the right time to do it.

Sell the Goat

This is the story behind the title of my blog.


A villager lived in a tiny house with his wife, 6 children, mother-in-law, a cow, and some chickens. It was making him crazy. So he went to the village rabbi and asked for help. The rabbi said he could solve the problem: he told the man to buy a goat. Thrilled, the man immediately went out and bought a goat. Now he had a wife, 6 children, a mother-in-law, a cow, some chickens, and a goat. The house was even more chaotic than before. The villager went back to the rabbi and told of the even crazier chaos. Again, the rabbi said he could solve the problem. "Sell the goat." The man went immediately and sold the goat. Suddenly, all he had was a wife, 6 children, a mother-in-law, a cow, and some chickens.Things were much more peaceful without that goat.