Not so funny

Who’s fault is it when things don’t work out in a marriage?  You hear the stories about the breakups (which seem more and more frequent lately) and everyone scrambles to take one side or the other even though you never really have ALL of the information.  When did the trouble start?  Was it there from the beginning?  Or was it the stress of being together, raising a family and fighting about money that finally got them?

I often wonder if the vast majority of people out there are happier than I am.  I wonder if they’re having more fun.  I wonder if they feel that their children are loving and well-behaved and whether or not they are best friends with their spouses.

Are men happier than women or is the reverse true?  I once saw an article which listed the “order of happiness” with the happiest being listed first:

1)      Single Women

2)      Married Men

3)      Single Men

4)      Married Women

Do you think it might be true?  Are we allowed to talk about it?

With the holidays upon us, things seem to be more magnified for women.  The stress, the pressure, the busyness.  Most men I know tend to retreat from the family around this time as well which only compounds the stress of the woman. What to do?

If we aren’t allowed to ask these questions in polite society or discuss them with honesty then where does that leave us?  Can the women who went before us tell us the true tales of their struggles without “sugar coating” it to steer us one way or the other for sake of family?  If not, how can we expect things to change for the better?

What do we want to teach our daughters and sons about love, marriage and family?  We certainly can’t preach that it’s a life of wine and roses but can we set some minimum requirements for them?  Can we give them guidelines to determine the things that are acceptable and unacceptable to them?

Divorce is so sad.

Full of questions today.  No solid answers.  Sigh.

Barnyard Medicine

There aren’t many vets that will consider treating a chicken.  Nor are there many owners who would consider taking a chicken to a vet.  Chickens are considered, I suppose, somewhat disposable and easily replaceable.  Not true in the case of my chicken “Fric Frac”.  (Actually, she’s either “Fric” or “Frac” and her sister is the other.   Since they’re always together I never have found it necessary to differentiate.) Until today.  Let’s call the chicken I’m about to discuss “Fric”.

Today I heard Joe calling me from the front yard.  I went out to see what he needed and found him kneeling on the ground next to “Fric”.  He had on rubber gloves and was staring rather intently at her rear end. 

“Uh, what’s up?” I asked.

“There's something sticking out of her,” he replied.

I knelt down for a closer inspection and found that, indeed, there was something sticking out of her that shouldn’t have been.  I kind of knew that it might be a prolapse because I had heard of that happening, but it really is something entirely different to see it for real. Pretty gross actually, but confusing too.  You can’t quite figure out what’s what and where things belong and the chicken wasn’t exactly happy about the situation either. 

Joe and I, with our wealth of veterinary knowledge, eventually decided to “shove it back in”.  So happy that we keep rubber gloves around because you just never really know what you could be asked to do on the farm. The chicken appeared not to mind too much and went back to eating as soon as we released her.

Of course I headed to the computer to Google “chicken prolapse” (you wouldn't believe my list of crazy search topics: How to Kill a Hamster, How Long Does a Llama Live, How to Train Your Pig Not To Be Such a Jerk, etc.).  Based on what I found it looks like we actually did the right thing which is pretty cool and somewhat surprising, to be perfectly honest. 

For now I’m just relieved that my pretty, little “Fric” is alive, well and thriving.   

Sweet, Sweet Honey

I just love honey. Don't you? SO yummy, so tasty, so natural. So you'd think, with my fondness for the sweetner, that I'd be elated when Joe announced that we now have honey coming through our walls. Not so much.

We have had a hive of honey bees living in the far wall of our house for about 4 years now. The hive is thriving and we've already seen it "swarm" twice. Swarming is what happens when the hive gets too full and a new queen is born. She leaves the hive with a bunch of other bees and they go off to find their own new location. The bees are always very busy and industrious. Lots of activity.

With the news of "Colony Collapse Disorder" all over the world I just haven't had the heart to kill the bees what with them doing so well and all. But honey coming through the walls is kind of another matter altogether, isn't it? I mean really, where do you draw the line with something like that? I've been a gracious host, I haven't harassed them and I've never asked them to leave but this is too much.

I sat here this evening, staring at the window frame and watching the VERY slow drip of honey onto the window sill. It is moments like this that make a person. I could have chosen to have some sort of a sugar induced breakdown but instead I decided to just put a bowl under it.

Fresh Start....Tomorrow.

I awoke today with purpose.  I was ready to get my life back on track.  To get my health pulled together.  To start fresh.

I got up a little late - not too big a deal. Slightly rushed but not panicked.  I started to make myself some breakfast.  Hmmm. Bagels but no cream cheese. Cereal but no milk. Ok, ok, some days are like that. No big deal.  I decided that I was going to take my vitamins to get a good start on the day and to renew my health.  

Twenty minutes later I was throwing up in the library parking lot next to my car which, coincidentally, has the name of our business emblazoned all over it.  Nice.

I can't really recall the last time I threw up - thank goodness.  It's just awful, isn't it? When I was pregnant with Max I threw up ALL the time. I mean like 20-25 times a DAY. I got to the point where I could throw up anywhere at anytime and just keep moving.  I also got to the point where Joe would refuse to take me out to dinner because it was "a waste of money".  

But enough about that. I am not deterred. Still a little woozy, but not deterred.

One of the vitamins that I, ahem, relieved myself of this morning was a fish oil pill roughly the size of a baby's arm. The reason that I was taking a fish oil pill was because Joe suggested it. That conversation went a little something like this:

Joe: "Ok, here are the turnip greens I told you about. You can take them to her whenever."

Julie: "Turnip greens? Who am I taking them to?"

Joe: "Seriously? We talked about this yesterday. How can you not remember talking about this? I think you may have early dementia or something. Maybe you need to go to the doctor for help with this or maybe you should take some fish oil."

Let me clarify. My brain is at full capacity and yet more information (that I'm expected to retain) comes in every day. I need to remember to review homework, pack the lunches, make dinner, pick up the house, feed the animals, set up the MD appointments, go to the MD appointments, send out birthday cards, buy birthday gifts, pay the bills, balance the checkbook, worry about Christmas shopping, figure out Halloween costumes, remember where I'm supposed to be for Thanksgiving this year, watch the kids put on yet another trampoline "show", mow the lawn, clean the front porch, deliver produce, give the dog a bath (while she tries to bite me), go to the bank, get the groceries and cook dinner.

Joe has to take the garbage out on Fridays and sometimes he forgets.  And I need the fish oil?

Whatever Happened to Laura Ingalls Wilder?

I am a winter person. I'm at my happiest when the air is crisp, the leaves are falling and the smell of a bonfire is in the air. The other day, when I didn't have to work, I stayed at home all day. I got the house clean (ish), I had fresh bread baking and I had some chili on the stove. I had a nice fire burning in the wood stove and the house was warm and fragrant. This is my time of year.

Though I am prone to place Ms. Laura Ingalls Wilder on a pedestal every now and again I can't say that it's totally without warrant. And, to be fair, I'm really placing the idea on the pedestal and not the actress and TV series. How cool would that lifestyle have been? Nobody rushing out the door to get to work on time, no cell phones, no TV. Just time to keep your house in order, cook good food for your family and spend time together. No, I am not forgetting the fact that they could have been eaten by wolves or bears or some other creature at any time, I'm just not talking about that right now.

I get that it would have been hard. Really hard. That little log cabin could NOT have been warm. And why did they always have to sleep with those bonnet things on? It couldn't be related to the vanity of how their hair looked because I never saw them bathe. Not once. Ewww.

But still...I would've been cool with riding the horse drawn wagon to town. I would've been good with the one room schoolhouse as well. The kids always looked so happy as they trotted off to school with their little, tin lunch pails (I'm going to check Ebay for one of those - how quaintly nostalgic). I never did understand how they got to school on time seeing that it was like a 10 mile trip one way, but whatever, it worked.

Even the dresses were cool. How nice would it be not to have to worry about what to wear all the time. They had all of two dresses and one for fancy stuff. That along with the one pair of shoes would have gotten me out of the door a LOT faster. Still, I think I would leave the bonnet thing behind...

Homework

With the return of fall, homework is upon us once again.  I’m 41 years old and I still hate homework.  How is that possible?  And it seems like its harder now than it ever was.  Zoe came home last night with two books on bottlenose dolphins and said that she needed to do a report.  When I asked a few more questions I realized that she actually WANTED to do the report - it was not assigned, she just wanted to do it. Huh.

Max is a totally different story.  He had math homework last night that was just plain unbelievable.  I’m not sure who was more frustrated – him or me (although based on his screaming and writhing on the floor I'll assume it was him).  I have never liked math and I’ve never been good at it.  Unfortunately, Max ended up with that “bad at math” gene.  Last night’s homework was weights and measures.  Seriously?   My mind just does not comprehend that stuff nor do I see a real need for it. I mean really, we all have calculators now right?  We even have solar calculators so we won’t be lost during a power outage.  Not sure why I’d need to do calculations during a power outage but the fact remains that I could.

The night before Max brought home his math homework and it was all story problems.  I could feel all the breath whoosh out of me when he set it down in front of me.  “Mom, I just don’t get any of these", he said.  I turned the paper towards me, took a deep breath and started making crap up.  Really I wasn’t making it up so much as forcing him to figure it out by “pretending” that I didn’t understand it.  My pretending is VERY convincing, by the way.  Last week he asked for help with his math homework and it was fractions.  My absolute nemesis. Who does anything with fractions anymore?  If I ever have the need to utilize fractions it’s for cooking or baking and I can usually add ½ + ½ pretty well.  I actually had to Google “common denominators” and “fraction tutoring”.  Not exactly a show of confidence for a kid who is struggling.

Now my beloved husband, who is actually good at math, was no better with the homework.  You either get math or you don’t.  He does and I don’t.  Putting those two types of people together is a BAD idea.  I asked him to help Max the other night and when I came back to check on them he was yelling at Max, “HOW MANY TIMES DOES 42 GO INTO 53?  HOW MANY TIMES DOES 42 GO INTO 53?  How can you not get that???” 

Much like speaking to someone who doesn’t speak your language, speaking more loudly truly doesn’t help.

Is That a SPOT?

Ah the first day of school. Excitement is high, parents are relieved and everyone is packed and ready to go.  Zoe took the time to lay out her outfit the night before the first day of school.  She had the shirt, the pants, the socks, the shoes and even the hair accessories.  Max simply shoved a pair of shorts in my face and said, “Do these stink?”

In the morning all was going according to plan until… I heard a shriek coming from the bathroom and instinctively ran towards it thinking that someone was hurt. Upon entering the bathroom I found Zoe, near tears, staring at her shirt. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Don’t you see it??” she asked, incredulous.

“See what, sweetie?”

“My shirt!!! It has a spot on it!” She was creeping ever closer to hysteria at this point so I leaned in to take a closer look at the nefarious spot that was threatening to ruin our day.

“Honey? Sweetie? It looks kind of like a water spot to me.”

“I know” she cried, “what am I going to do??”

“Ummm, well, just throwing this out there, but we could dry it.”

“Why bother?? It’s ruined!!” and she stomped off to change her shirt.

Ok, wow. You’d think that someone had covered the kid from head to toe in boiling acid.  She freaked out over a WATER spot?  Are you kidding me??  I’ve left the house with far worse spots than that and haven’t given it a second thought.

Today we had a clothing issue (which actually began last night and continued this morning) about which shoes would be most appropriate with the outfit that she had laid out for the day. Down to the shoelaces - “Sparkly or purple, which do you think looks better?” OMG

By contrast, Max came home wearing his shirt inside out the other day. When I asked why his shirt was inside out he said, “Oh, I had to wear it for gym class and it got kind of sweaty so I just flipped it.” That’s my boy.