In my Cocoon

Yesterday, the kids wanted nothing but to lay with me. To cook with me.  To talk to me.  To be my "special helper."  To sit next to me at the dinner table.  And it was like that the day before, and the day before that.  And, to be truthful, I was probably a bit annoyed, at least part of the time.  I desperately wanted to take a bath in peace, to watch a movie not intended for kids, to clean a room uninterrupted.  But I couldn't.

Because, right now, we live in a little cocoon.  A little nest that we built and rarely venture out from.  We stay within feet of each other, all the time.  Our furniture wears out three times as fast as it should, because we live on it.  Together.  The older boys go to school, but once they are home, it's shoes-off-hugs-all-around-speed-talking.  Because they want to be with me.

But those days are fleeing.  I can physically feel them slipping away.  In one year, Annie will start preschool.  In two more years (maybe three), she'll start Kindergarten,  And my cocoon will start to lose its appeal.  Patrick will be in middle school and maybe tolerating me at best.  (Leo isn't going anywhere.  Leo will stay with me forever.)  Hatch will have probably abandoned me early.  And Annie will eventually follow suit. And I won't be as important in my house as I am now.

And, as I work and I stress about needing to work more, as I over-commit myself to plans I may never follow through with, as I sometimes feel badly about how rarely I leave my cocoon, how I never wear real clothes, how I couldn't even tell you what stores sell what, I tell myself again and again...

Be here now.

Enjoy this now.

Smell them now.

Love them now.

Put them first now.

Because it's not going to be like this for long.

Is Anybody Out There?

I almost cannot believe that it has been nearly seven months since I've posted anything.  Anything.  It's like six months of our lives, completed erased. Undocumented.  Did they even happen?!  (I kid.  Of course they did.  And a lot happened in them.)

In short:

1.) Adam got a new job.
2.) I got promoted.
3.) Leo turned five and started kindergarten.
4.) Annie turned two and is (almost) potty trained.
5.) Little Hatch turned four and started pre-school.
6.) We got a new dog.
7.) We got a new car.
8.) And then another new car because the one above was a lemon.
9.) We lost a lot of money. See above.
10.) We went on a few trips.
11.) We still love hard.
12.) And life is still good.
13.) And I've missed you, blog.

I'm back.

Day after day, alone on a hill,

The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still.
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer.
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.

Well on his way, his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking  perfectly loud.
But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make,
And he never seems to notice,
But the fool on the hill...

Nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do.
And he never shows his feelings,
But the fool on the hill...

Indiana Jones

There are worse things than dying. 

At least, that is what my mother told me hours after I lost my first patient and I couldn't shake the feeling of utter loss. And that single sentence made so much sense, I probably say it to myself at least once a week.

This week, I've said it at least once every few hours. This week, or nearly six days ago, we lost our Indy. Our sixteen-year-old, faithful, intensely-loyal, pain-in-the-ass dog, the one I didn't know meant so much to me. I didn't know I loved him like I did. I didn't expect to feel such a loss. 

But I do. And it hurts. 

At the (most wonderful) vet's office, Adam cradled his sweet Indy until he fell asleep in the procedure room. It was heartbreaking. He cried buckets of tears and I tried, tried, tried (unsuccessfully) to keep mine in. Indy wasn't scared. It was so peaceful. I watched Dr. Sprunger gain venous access and the thick, pink medication go into his system. I held my breath as I held his chest and felt his heart start to slow. I felt it skip. I felt its last few beats and then I felt it stop. I stared hard at Adam's face, willing him to know it was over, hoping he felt the same sort of peace I did. But, I felt my own heart break. I swear I heard Adam's shatter.

And, just like that, our loyal companion was gone. I swaddled his small body and carried him to the car. He was still warm. He seemed smaller. He was still our Indy, but he wasn't there. And the ride home was very quiet.

That dog drove me nuts in his last couple of years. He'd lost control of his bladder and bowels. He shook uncontrollably at night and chewed the floor. He fell down the stairs every morning. That was the dog we had to put down, but that wasn't the dog we knew. 

Our Indy was a part of this family. He had a funny bad attitude and loved nobody as much as he loved his Adam. And, when Adam would leave, Indy would pout and torment me with pure shenanigans until his beloved Master came home again. And I loved him anyway. And he tolerated me and the kids, even when we were intolerable. He snuggled the boys, rolled his eyes when they relentlessly bumped into him or took his toys. He cleared our floors of food. He rubbed his butt against my calves every time I was cooking and nearly tripped me at least 1000 times. 

He had beady black eyes that he would stare you down with when you made him mad, but he's forgive you eventually... and peanut butter seemed to expodite his bad mood. He never chewed on our things. He never snapped, growled, or even thought about being aggressive with the kids. He did get a little salty with me when I'd give any affection to his owner, but he loved us in his Indy way. He was one of us and he knew it.

Now, in the morning when we wake up, I lay in bed and wait to hear his shaking. Every night, the same. But it's quiet in our house. And that takes some getting used to. It's a silent reminder of a fresh loss. 

I hope he's happy where he is, chasing all the squirrels there may be in heaven; that he's met up with St. Francis and his old pal and lifelong partner, Teddy, and that he steals all the granola bars there are to steal. I hope that he understands why we did what we did and that he misses us, too. Even if it's in a sour, grumbly, old man way. 

Rest in peace and know we loved you, you little shit-hound. Your family isn't the same without you. We miss you terribly. 

Run free and fast and know we love you still. 

Stop Being An A$$hole

How To Stop Being An Asshole

by Catherine Hatcher Walden

1.) Think to yourself, "am I being an asshole?"

2.) Stop lying. Yes you are.

3.) Own it. Then think for an second how the person on the receiving end feels. 

4.) Hang your head in shame (but know we've all been there. It's going to be okay.) 

5.) Stop doing it. Stop being as asshole. Stop making excuses. Just stop it. Right now. 

There. Don't you feel better? Now, go to something nice to make up for all that ugly you were throwing around. The world thanks you for being a decent human being. 

I do, too.  

"Spring" 

A poem by Patrick Walden

I am a bunny jumping in the grass.

I am a goat baaing at the sky.

I am a dog scratching at the door.

I Can't Be Your Friend Right Now

That title looks about as bad in writing as it sounded in my head.

Yet, this is where I am.  This is all the truth.  Full disclosure.

I can't be your friend right now.  I want to.  I do.  I want to meet for lunch, have drinks, dinner, go shopping, talk on the phone for hours.  But I can't.  It's not that I don't like you or that I am trying to avoid spending time together.  It's just the time...I don't have it.  And I'm sorry.The time I do have, it's already committed elsewhere.  Sometimes, it's an hour alone in the living room after the kids go to bed, or a late-night bath.  Sometimes, I like to talk to Adam and let him fix all of my supposed problems.  It's just that...I'm needed here.  And I'm already spread pretty thin.  It's not your fault.

I'm on Instagram and on Facebook.  I see all the fun things everyone is doing.  The things they buy.  The places they go.  The people they hang out with.  The things they do.  And that's not me.  Don't get me wrong, I do a lot of fun things.  I have a ton of great stories.  And I have a lot of friends...a select few who have stuck with me despite my polite bow out of my old life.  They know I don't have time for them.  (Most don't have time for me, either.)  Others are new friends, and I'm really good at text relationships.  Sometimes, I do get a couple of hours to get away, and it's more than I can begin to tell you to put on real clothes and properly do my face, shower and shave, and spend a few hours not talking about the kids or work or any number of chores that need to be done.  Sometimes, it works out that I can do that.  Most of the time, it doesn't.  It's not your fault.

When the kids were smaller, life was easy.  Slow.  Casual.  I had time to chat, to meet up, to go for walks and go out for coffee at night.  But all that has changed.  The kids, the four of them, they are all at such different stages.  Everyone needs something.  Everyone needs something all the time, and their needs are drastically different (and exactly the same).  I am always on.  I'm always moving.  I silence my phone, I don't return texts.  If I do, it's much later than it was received.  I know that.  I want to get back to you sooner, but someone just broke the plant and there is honey on the floor and one kid is screaming in the back yard (shit...did he just say he's bleeding??), and one is hungry.  Like now.  Hungry right now.  The doorbell is ringing, someone just climbed over the fence.  Work is calling, I have ten minutes to get out the door.  And there isn't enough of me to go around.

What I have going on here...I'm good at this.  I don't want you to think I'm that exasperated, miserable mom on sitcoms and commercials.  I'm not at all.  We laugh a lot, roll on the ground and play.  We snuggle and read and do homework.   My house is clean.  I do laundry to the point of exhaustion.  My fridge and pantry are always full, I cook hot meals every single night.  I'm usually solo-parenting, so the baths, homework, permission slips, diapers, groceries, appointments, errands...those are all me.  And I get it all done.  I'm always tired, but I get it all done.   And I work every weekend, so I haven't had a day off in, like, months.  But I'm actually really happy.  Just tired. So that time you want to spend, I don't have it.  That time needs to be spent here.  Right now, the five people for whom I am responsible need me.  My husband needs me at my best.  And that means I can't keep stretching myself.  That means, some things have to change. It's not your fault.

I like people.  I'm an introvert, but I like people.  I love to go out.  I love to make plans and keep them, but as I turn down another request for dinner or silence a phone call because I just don't have the time for either, I feel terrible.  Terrible.  My friends, I miss them.  But right now, this is where I need to be.  And, though I could make my life super complicated by really trying to balance EVERYTHING, it's not fair.  My priority is here.  It has to be.  One day, things will be different.  I'll have free afternoons and maybe get a day off here and there.  But for now, I just don't get either.  It's ok.  It's not my fault, either.

It's just where I am.  It's a good place, a temporary place.  A place I wouldn't trade if I could.  So, thanks for understanding, for not judging too harshly.  I appreciate your patience.  One day soon, we'll be friends.  And I can't wait. 

"Hatch, do you think I'm a good mom?"

"Yep. Everyone is alive and you have good snacks in the pantry, so you're fine. Don't worry about it."