Half Empty Nest Syndrome

Hello?
Anyone there?
I've sort of slipped into the abyss of blog block lately, finding myself lacking the oomph to upload (download?) pictures or otherwise put my random thoughts down on screen.
Weird, to think that my grandchildren might not know what "putting pen to paper" means.
Anyhoo, I've been a little angst ridden.
Angst, with me, usually leads to lack of impetous.
An inablility to work up the activation energy to do much of anything.
This, in turn, leads to more angst, creating what I believe to be the original Catch-22.
Welcome to my world.
I've been trying to analyze the source of the angst, as I don't believe it to be connected to the usual boatload of anxiety I usually carry.
And I think I've found the answer.
I'm suffering from half-empty nest syndrome.
Two chicks have flown the coop and I only have two left at home.
And I don't quite know what to do with my time.
Sarah is in school full-time and at 16, her need for my time and attention is decreasing.

While Melissa is semi-unschooled (in that I bought some curriculum that we no longer do, but because we did it sporadically last fall Melissa doesn't consider herself unschooled - please don't tell my mom) most of the time she's busy following her own pursuits.
That leaves me with a lot of time on my hands and no idea of what I want to do when I grow up.
I've tossed around the idea of going back to school, but I don't want to undertake another degree unless I'm sure I'll finish it. Plus, there's a little thing called "insecurity" that plagues my thoughts about such an undertaking.
Volunteering?
I should.
Foster care?
I could never give them back.
Cleaning?
Are you serious?
I mean, I could list a million "things" I could and should do, but I haven't yet hit on a new purpose for my life.
And believe me, it took years for me to recognize that mothering was my purpose in the first place.
So, I'm working on looking on the bright side.
The girls were both at a friends' house last weekend and Michael and I had some much needed, uninterrupted, unhibited us time.
It was grand.
I'm trying to set some goals.
So far this week I've stockpiled dried beans and other essentials for the coming pandemic, read a lot to my daughter, cooked several meals and moved several loads of laundry.
No, I didn't just carry them from upstairs to the basement.
In fact, I didn't carry them at all.
Because of my foot, still healing by the way, I only put the loads into and out of the washer and dryer, then supervised the folding and putting away.
Most of all, I'll need to figure out who I am, where I'm going, and what I want to do with the last third of my life.
I'll always be a mother, but the nature of my mothering duties has and will continue to change. Don't get me wrong, it's a good thing that my kids are going off on their own and becoming independent, contributing members of society.
That's what they're supposed to do.
It's what I'm supposed to do now that they're doing what they're supposed to do that has me stumped.

Domicile Envy

I received my first Little House on the Prairie book when I was in second grade. My oldest sister, then in college, gave it to me for Christmas.
I was instantly hooked.
Despite the fact that I had blonde hair, I was definitely Laura.
Oh, how I envied my sister Marcia, five years older than I.
I always felt somewhat like the ugly duckling comparied with her.
And compare I did.
Besides, Marcia still had Halloween candy left at Easter!
There's something fundamentally unfair about that kind of self-control.

As a mother, I have read and re-read the whole Laura Ingalls Wilder series a multitude of times. But as an adult, I certainly identified with a different character.
Oh, poor Ma!
How she suffered for her man.
Pa had a bad case of the wanderlust, and Ma was always right there with him.
Ready to pack, ready to break new sod, ready to live in whatever circumstances each new move entailed.
Was she really as happy as Laura thought she was?
How much arguing took place once she and her sisters were asleep?
We'll never know.

As the years have passed, I've begun to recognize something in myself.
Oh, I think I've always known it was there.
But now I'm ready to confront it head on.
I, too, suffer from wanderlust.
Mine takes the form of domecile envy.

You see, we've lived in the same area now for going on 17 years.
But we've lived in four different houses.
Four.
I always have my reasons for making a move, ranging from needing more space, to needing access to a different school district, to downsizing to save money.

It seems, though, that I just can't leave well-enough alone. We always end up moving just after we've done major work on the house - remodeling the basement, replacing all the windows and woodwork, installing a new kitchen. Too soon to recoup the investment and too soon to enjoy the improvements.

You see, once I've fixed things up and put the stamp of my personality on a house, it seems I get itchy to look at someplace different. This itch has ended up costing us a pretty penny over the years and is a major reason we have the debt load we currently carry.

We've been in our current home about 2 1/2 years. It's almost all fixed up. We've poured a ton of money into it and while I love the house, the neighborhood leaves a lot to be desired. We've converted most of the yard into food-producing space, installed a woodburning insert, competely remodeled the bathrooms and the kitchen.

And I'm getting antsy.
Oh, wouldn't it be great to live in the country with a couple of acres?
Or how about just a larger yard in the city?
I peruse the real estate ads, Realtor.com, even Craigslist.

But this time, I'm standing strong.
I will not make another financially stupid move.
Instead, I will continue to work on this house.

As Stephen Stills wrote if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with.
I live here.
And I'm sticking with it.

Coming Full Circle

My Mom is home now from the hospital. Her surgery went well and now she can focus on regaining her strength. I'll be going to spend a week with her in Arkansas in early May. Fortunately, I have three sisters and amongst us we are able to spend time with her when she needs us.

I spoke with her on the day before she left the hospital. When the phone rang, I was in the middle of a little project. Something I had wanted to do for a couple of years.

Sometimes it takes me a while to amass the activation energy needed to tackle a project. Even a simple one.

I finally gathered all the ingredients to try my hand at making my own laundry detergent.

It's not that's it's such a difficult process. In fact, the recipe is extremely easy.

Anyway, I mentioned to my mom that I was making laundry detergent when she called.

Her immediate reaction?

"You need to get a job."

Ha!

Her second reaction, however, was the memory of watching her grandfather making laundry detergent when she was a little girl. She remembers watching him shave the Ivory soap into little pieces and melt it in boiling water on the stove.

My recipe really wasn't too different from his.

My mom will be 80 in July.

She was a little girl during the Great Depression, when she spent a lot of time with her grandparents.

They made their own cottage cheese, saved the individual wrappers from peaches to use in the outhouse, and even when they had electricity installed in their house, read by candle light in the evenings.

We didn't have my great grandfather's birth date handy, but he died in 1951, so I never knew him. My own grandmother, his daughter, was born in 1898, so I have rough idea that he would have been born at least 25-30 years before that.

Wow.

Here I am, 60-some-years later, doing the same task my great-grandfather did.

Why?

I find a level of contentment knowing I can do and make things for myself and my family.
I'm also working on developing my frugal side.

Hearing my mom's recollection gave me a connection to the past and to a man I never knew. It brought me back to a simpler, though certainly not easier, time, when my mom was a little girl.

I treasure these connections to the past. There is so much I will never know about my grandparents, great-grandparents...

But in this one simple activity, I feel a connection with them, with a different time.

And it feels good.

A Tisket, A Tasket

Look what was in my Easter basket!

There were many changes in our Easter celebration this year; the first of many, I'm sure.

Stephen is in South Africa and Zachary had too much studying to come home.

It was our first Easter without them.

The Easter Bunny had to leave his trail of "poop" (jelly beans leading from each child's room down to the Easter baskets) in plastic eggs this year, as our poor little 80 lb., 7-month-old St. Bernard puppy chokes on jelly beans.

Yep.

We nearly had to perform the Heimlich on her last week.

We didn't have a fancy Easter dinner. In fact, other than a yummy breakfast of caramel rolls - not the traditional cinnamon rolls - we ate leftovers for lunch and dinner.

For the first time in at least 18 years, we didn't dye Easter eggs. Instead, we started a new tradition of decorating emptied shells with permanent markers. We learned this technique from a dear friend whose artistry far surpasses anything we were able to accomplish on our first try. Once the decorations are complete, you coat the eggs with Mod Podge for strength.

It was more fun than dying the eggs. Especially since mine usually turn out gray or brown.

We enjoyed our day and tried to embrace the differences. More change is on its way.

Send in the Clowns

So, yesterday morning I'm sitting with my foot up, as per usual these days, drinking the elixir of life coffee and reading the paper when it starts.

The oop-ack of a cat barfing.

Now, this isn't an unusual occurrence in my house.

I do, after all, have four cats.

None of whom will allow brushing.

The sound was coming from upstairs, in the hallway.

Before I could register much more than "somebody needs hairball goo," Ivy was off like a shot.

Now, remember, she's not supposed to "bound, run or otherwise exert herself" for at least five more days.

Right.

I leapt up and hobbled to the stairway landing, but these days my "fast" is not nearly fast enough.

Before I even made it to the baby gate, Ivy had charged through, the gate crashed onto the landing, and she was up the stairs snarfing.

You see, nothing is more tasty to a dog than cat barf.

Except maybe cat poop, but that's another story.

So, I hobbled quickly up the stairs, grabbed her leash, and hauled her, ever so gently, back down the stairs. But Ivy, the little princess, was in a frenzy of culinary exuberance. Somehow, I managed to wrestle her - carefully - into her kennel.

Back up the short set of steps to the landing I gimped and after several excruciating attempts, managed to put the somewhat mangled baby gate back across the stairwell.

Phew!

What a relief.

I turned and stepped down.

It was a long way down.

You see, I had thought I was on the bottom step.

Silly me.

Instead, I had stepped off into space from several steps up, landing, of course, full force on my right foot.

The broken one.

Need I say even say "ouch?"

I've ratcheted up my Aleve dosage and have been trying even harder to stay off my foot.

But the aching is back.

I can again feel the exact spot where the fracture is.

It's almost like there's an ice pick marking the spot.

Looks like my podiatrist will soon be able to afford another little vacation.

I may just have to be strapped down for 6 weeks so this can heal.

At least I didn't have to clean up the cat barf...

Busy Weekend

We spent a lot of time this weekend doing preparing for the gardening season.

I use the term "we" loosely, mind you.

Out of commission with my broken foot, I've been relegated to an advisory position only.

As much as it's driving me crazy to sit on my rump all day, I know everyone else is getting fed up with all my little suggestions of things that need to be done.

We should get our first crop of strawberry plants this year.

They did all the work of growing all by themselves and without any suggestions from me.

Michael, on the other hand, required a little coaxing to get out and till up our side yard garden. We borrowed the tiller from a friend, even though it's a little small for the job.

It was definitely hard work, requiring two separate workings as it was a bit too wet Friday.

Michael almost finished yesterday, when the drive belt gave out. He's picking a replacement up on his way home tonight, but finishing the job will have to wait several days now with today's rainy weather.

He and Sarah pulled up the sidewalk along this side of the house so we could enlarge our garden. It will also make it easier to fence, as we can go right up to the house. We don't want to install a permanent fence, though it will have to be secure-enough to keep both dogs out.



Michael also worked up by hand our super-large raised bed next to our driveway. Last year we had a truckload of soil delivered and he and the boys built up a bed. This is where our strawberries, herbs, and this year, cole crops will be.

I love rhubarb!

Michael planted cabbage, cauliflower and broccoli. We had some success last year with our broccoli, but our cauliflower fizzled. I bought started plants much earlier this year and decided to try growing cabbage. I hope to be able to make my own sauerkraut.

Sarah also mucked out the chicken coop - a very icky job!

Everyone is really pulling together, despite the occasional grumbling. I still have two weeks in the surgical shoe, then three weeks of reduced activity. My hope is to be back in the swing of things before the end of May.

Keeping my fingers crossed...

This is a test...

This week seems to have been designed to test my mental fortitude.
My ability to handle stress.
A little experiment to see whether I crack under the pressure.
Let me explain.
In addition to breaking, then re-breaking my foot, all while walking mind you, two family members had surgery on Monday.
My mom, who underwent an emergency colostomy last fall, had surgery to reconnect all her plumbing. The surgery went well, though the pain and side-effects of medication are difficult to contend with. She is expected to have a full recovery, though it will be at least 6 weeks before she feels strong and healthy again. My sister is in Arkansas for these first two weeks, I have the next week, another sister the week after that.
Still wondering how I'm going to manage on my broken foot...
Ivy also underwent her surgery on Monday.
She had laparoscopic surgery to spay and attach her stomach to the rib cage.
Giant breed dogs, like St. Bernards, are not only prone to bloat, but also to stomach twisting during bloat. Attaching the stomach to the rib cage will form adhesions that should help prevent the stomach twisting, which is usually deadly.
Surgery went well, though Ivy was a little confused as she didn't know she was "broken" to begin with.
However, she is not to run, leap, or bound for two weeks.
That's 14 days.
336 hours.
Let's just say it isn't easy keeping an 80-pound, 7-month-old puppy from bounding.
Especially since I can't walk her, due to broken foot, and she is not allowed out in the yard off leash.
So far, the poor baby has spent a lot of time in her kennel and Michael has been coming home midday to take her for a walk. Sarah also has been walking her and sitting outside with her for stick chewing (Ivy, not Sarah).
11 more days to go.
Also this week, Michael had a temporary crown put on a cracked tooth. The procedure, however, required so much novocaine that he spent the rest of the day drooling on his computer while frantically trying to finish a huge project due that night.
Melissa got her braces on and is coping well.
Though "misery" would best describe her affect right now.
Fern has started waking us up again at night.
She likes to be accompanied to the food dish in the bathroom.
Usually around 3:30 a.m.
And 4.
Sometimes at 4:35.
Last, and certainly not least, we had a little cave-in.
I was reading to Melissa the other day when we heard a loud, thudding crash.
We thought Sarah was home.
When she didn't troop on through the door, we figured maybe the cats were thundering after each other upstairs.
Later in the afternoon, we heard another, similar thud.
The UPS man?
Hmm, could be.
Still later, Sarah went up to do the daily cat chores.
"Oh my god!"
What was it?
Had someone pooped outside the box yet again?
"Mom, the ceiling fell down!"
Surprisingly, I knew exactly what she meant.
We had a roof leak last fall that buckled the ceiling in the bathroom closet, a large room that holds not only bookshelves, but litter boxes, bathroom recycling, and other paraphernalia. We'd had a minor collapse in the fall, but this was the real McCoy.
Fortunately, Michael had his drooling under control by the time he got home, so clean-up was fairly straight forward.

All this, and it's only Thursday...

These feet weren't made for walking...

I have been something of a hermit of late.
I always tend a little toward the "alone, but not lonely," but lately it's been a bit extreme.
You see, these last couple of weeks have been somewhat overwhelming.
It all started when I took Ivy for a walk about 10 days ago.
It was a simple walk.
A slow 2/3 mile, as my broken foot was still healing.
All seemed well, though half-way through my right shoe began to feel a little tight.
Throughout the rest of the day, my foot started to ache.
A lot.
More than it had.
I chalked it up to being on it a little too much.
That's all.
Well, that night I took a good look and my foot was swollen again.
And really sore.
A quick call to the doctor yielded an appointment and instructions to wear my lovely orthopedic shoe.
The verdict?
I had likely cracked the new bone growth around the original fracture.
Three more weeks of orthopedic shoe, followed by three more weeks of no walking for exercise, plus another appointment to check on my progress.
Sigh.
The past 10 days have been spent sitting, expanding, and slowly going stir-crazy.
On the brighter side, my podiatrist can now afford that little trip to the Caribbean...

Horsin' Around

We went on a trail ride while in the Ouachita Mountains near Hot Springs, Arkansas, during spring break. We had beautiful weather, in the upper 60s, for the hour-long ride.

All of us have ridden horses a time or two before locally, but these horses were better trained. Whenever I've gone a trail ride here, my legs have been sore and uncomfortable shortly after the ride started. But this ride, I was comfortable the whole time. I think the stirrups were adjusted properly, way longer than they have been locally. I'll need to remember that when we ride again. It made a huge difference.

The ride took us up mountains, through the woods, and over streams. At one point, Zach's horse, who was right in front of mine, decided to "giddyap" and burst up a hill in a fast trot. My horse, thinking this was a good idea, suddenly sped up.

Whoopee, this is what trotting feels like!

Whee, this is fun.

My first thoughts.

Then, I realized, I was gradually shifting.

Tilting.

Slipping!

The saddle was sliding to the left, and I, of course, was going with it!

Somehow, I managed to hang on, riding almost parallel with the ground.

Fortunately, the horse slowed at the top of the hill, the guide noticed my predicament, and I was able to right the saddle.

Apparently, I have the dubious distinction of being the second closest to falling off a horse in this guide's experience.

I'm so proud.

The rest of the ride was gorgeous and uneventful.

A perfect morning.

Who needs caffeine?

My adrenaline boost lasted most of the day.

Constitutional Rights for All

Today the Iowa Supreme Court ruled that the state's same-sex marriage ban violates the constitutional rights of gay and lesbian couples, clearing the way for gay/lesbian marriage.

Hallelujah!

Iowa is not known for its progressive politics and the outcome of the Supreme Court decision certainly wasn't a given.

This is a banner day for Iowa and the nation, as Iowa will become the third state to allow same-sex marriage.

Of course the state House minority leader, a Republican, has called for a constitutional amendment "protecting marriage as between and a man and a woman." I thought Republicans were supposed to advocate less government intervention into citizens' private lives. Can you spell "hypocrisy?"

My niece is in a loving relationship with another woman. They have been together a couple of years now, though I don't know if they are committed to a life-long relationship. Both women are college educated, employed, contributing members of society. Why should my niece be deprived of the benefits of legal marriage simply because some people believe she shouldn't love this specific person because of her sex?

I have been married for nearly 24 years. My marriage is in no way threatened by anyone else's marriage, whether gay or straight. Marriage and relationships are personal, individual and private. Whom I love is no one else's business, except perhaps the recipient.

I teach my children that being a U.S. citizen guarantees equal protection and rights under the law. This principle is what sets us apart from many other nations and ought to be cherished, protected, defended, and extended to those who in the past may have been discriminated against.

Religions may condemn or sanctify their members' actions. But our government is not a theocracy. Religious opinions have no business in the making of laws.

Today I am proud to be an Iowan.

I hope the rest of the nation soon follows suit.

It is well past time to extend civil rights to all Americans.

Ponderings

So the other day, while I was taking a nap on the floor in front of the fireplace, I did a little thinking.
My first thought was that the floor is pretty darn hard, but I certainly wasn't going to waken Ivy, who was soundly asleep on the couch.
After that, I contemplated the passage of time and how when I was 24 I never would have thought this is where I would be at 45.
No, I don't mean on the floor.

When I was 24, I had been been married for three years and had my first baby. He just turned 21 a couple of weeks ago. How could that much time have flown by so quickly?
At 24 I was just beginning the journey of motherhood and still had no idea that mothering would become my "purpose" in life. I was astonished at how deeply I loved this new little person. I had never experienced such a selfless love before.
It made me realize, also, for the first time, how my parents must have loved me.

I hadn't yet anticipated the mental health issues my children would face, let alone recognized my own. What I had always called "melancholia" would later be diagnosed as depression and anxiety, but not for another decade or so.

I certainly didn't anticipate having to climb out of debt in my forties, living in a "distressed" neighborhood, or having so much gray hair.
I didn't know how excruciatingly difficult it is to lose a parent.

Neither did I realize that my marriage would only grow stronger and that love continues to deepen as the years go by. I didn't yet understand how love is not finite, but expands to encompass each additional child. I didn't know I would have three more beautiful, intelligent, giving children and that being a mother was almost a "calling" for me.

I never thought I would have four cats, two dogs and 10 chickens.

I also remembered another time, sleeping on the floor in front of the fireplace with my old dog, Wally, when he was a puppy.
Nearly 10 years ago.

I am so glad that I have been a stay-at-home mom all these years. That my children spent more time with me, and I with them, than with anyone else.
And though I no longer believe in a god, I recognize that my life has truly been blessed.
I can't help but wonder what the next 20 years will bring.