Untitled

I am from nachos and poorly told jokes
From home-cooked meals and a comforting embrace
I am from daffodils beside the drive
Mud pies, pocketknives, imagination.
I am from wagging tails and
Sharpened claws, a comforting purr.
I am from magic, from dreams
I am from darkness and undeserved pain.
I am from an old creek bed and forest beyond
From butterfly kisses and melting chocolate

My daughter Sarah shared this poem she wrote for class... and made me cry.

Restful

This is how I spent my Labor Day weekend.
Literally.
Last week about did me in; the combination of interrupted sleep (due to baby doll pictured above), a massive migraine, and no husband to help rendered me useless.
Absolutely.
Thankfully I have the most wonderful husband in the world. He arrived home from a week of travel and took over all puppy care. He cooked, he cleaned, he folded laundry.
The man is amazing.
And all the while I napped, read, and crocheted.
And that's all.
I wish I felt ready for the week to start, but I know I'm in a much better position than if my husband had spent the weekend on his duff!

Splish Splash

This summer Iowa has suffered a drought of epic proportions, as has most of the country it seems.
We made the decision early on to only water our tomatoes and basil; even so, watering that small area of the garden deeply once-a-week increased our water bill by nearly 20 dollars.
But watering did the trick and we've had a reasonable tomato harvest. Basil loves the extreme heat, so it produced well also. So far I've frozen 25 quarts of pesto and maybe 10 of tomato sauces.
It was too hot most of the summer to spend much time outdoors, but we hosted numerous garden parties nonetheless.

The birds loved garden-watering days, often lining up along the puddles waiting their turns.

Must have slipped on the soap

It was well worth the extra money just to watch the show!

Torment

So, I was doing pretty well "embracing" my life and circumstances this week.
Until yesterday.
I could feel the tendrils of pain slowly forming from below my right shoulder blade, up through my shoulder, encircling my neck and relentlessly making for my head as early as Tuesday morning. I stayed positive, though, working to maintain a cheerful demeanor.
But when I woke up yesterday I was in the clutches of one of the worst migraines I've ever had. Somehow I managed to get all the dogs up and out, fed, and the two youngest to daycare. I picked my daughter up from campus on the way home. She has lots of doctor's appointments and doesn't have her own car.
By the time I got back home I knew I couldn't drive again.
No way, no how.
So I stumbled back to bed, popping some NSAIDs on the way.
And it was a crash of epic proportions.
Somehow I swam my way through the pain back to consciousness to take her back to campus.
Back at home, I forged through the torment long enough to bake batch of pumpkin bread and place a double batch of cookie dough in the fridge.
Then back to bed I went.
All life in the house proceeded without me.
I retrieved the dogs at the end of the day and my darling daughter kept them with her for the evening as I retreated to my darkened room.
Despite knowing I'd have to get up in the middle of the night with the puppy for sure, I took a muscle relaxant.
Negotiating the stairs in the middle of the night while carrying a 20 pound wiggling fur ball is a delicate process for me on the best of nights. I figured my best bet was to go as slowly as possible down the stairs. We made it, she and I, and thanks to the magic of Flexeril I fell back to sleep right away.
This morning the throbbing had receded, thank goodness, though I can still feel its tracks, an echo of the pain that was. It no longer hurts to move my eyes, so I was able to read the paper. I kept the dogs up and outside for only two hours, then put them all in their kennels so I could nap yet again.
I slept for 3 hours solid.
We're sitting outside right now, the first of the fall leaves gently cascading around me. The dogs happily snooze in the sunshine while I continually move my chair deeper into the shade.
There is much that needs doing right now, but it will just have to wait.
My son will be here in a couple of hours to play with the dogs, I'll pick up my younger daughter from school, then I plan to rack out yet again. Another couple of hours and I might have this thing completely beaten.
This time.
The great thing, though, about this whole awful experience is that I'm not beating myself up over it. It's hard for me to feel as if I've wasted so much time, but this time I gave in, as much as I could.
I plan to give in again this afternoon.
And tonight, we're ordering pizza.

Transitions

The house is quiet today.
Two dogs are at daycare, the old dog is sleeping, and most, if not all, of the cats have found their own little spots of sunshine for napping.
Right now I'm the only human at home.
I just finished a bunch of cleaning, organizing, and fur-gathering, ate my lunch and am almost ready to exercise.
But it's so quiet.
I was never one of those moms who couldn't wait for the start of school in the fall. I missed my children terribly when they were gone from home, and I still do.
Each year now brings such monumental changes.
My oldest son is in his last year of graduate school. Younger son, though he lives at home, works odd hours and is usually either at work or asleep. My oldest daughter is braving her disability and living on campus this year.
And my youngest daughter. Oh, my youngest! This year she is gone full days, taking four high school classes.
I remember everyone's first days of preschool but hers might have been the most difficult for me. As the youngest, her milestones always herald the end of one mothering phase or another.
I didn't know what to do with myself for those precious 2 1/2 hours without a little one to talk to, read to, engage with. I remember dropping her off, driving to the library parking lot, and crying.
I feel a little bit like that today.
But like preschool so many years ago, I gradually will find my groove; sometimes spending my time wisely, other times not so much.
Each of life's transitions is bittersweet.
As we grow older, we leave our younger selves behind.

It's important to remember that every moment is a memory in the making.
And those memories we'll have forever.

Mind of steel

Mom! Mom! Mom! Hey, Mom!

So I'm steeling myself for another week-long business trip.
No, I don't get to go anywhere; as usual my job is to stay home and man the fort.
It's hard to believe I've been doing this for nearly 25 years now. It's been almost 20 years since we moved here to Iowa and my husband took this high-travel job.
In most ways it isn't nearly as difficult as it used to be - 6 cats and 3 dogs do not equal four children under 9. I look back on all those years of mothering and the many weeks of going it alone and I wonder how I managed.
It's like I've always said: you do what you have to do.
One lesson it took me far too many years to learn is to recognize that my life at any given time is largely the result of choices I've made. There were many, many times, when I was dealing with toddlers and diapers, school-age kids and multiple pets, that I felt as if I had no choice. I was viewing my life as a series of obligations that I struggled against every waking minute.
Needless to say, living my life this way did not lead to happiness. In fact, it made me resent my husband and his traveling, lose patience with my children, and fail to see the wonder of each and every day.
At some point many years ago I realized I was looking at my life all wrong. It was my husband's job that allowed me to stay home with my children - a choice I had been a full partner in making. I loved my children and wanted to be with them, so why was I wasting my time with them feeling angry and resentful? I truly was right where I had wanted to be.
Now, saying this does not negate the fact that my choices often lead to difficult circumstances. The new perspective didn't erase the fatigue, do the laundry, or feed the kids. The dog still needed to be walked, the cats still had hairballs on the rug, and I still didn't have enough time to myself.
But simply deciding to embrace my life instead of fighting my circumstances made all the difference in the world.

How could you not fall in love with this face?

I could look at the messy house and delight in the creativity of my children as they played. I could welcome the 2 a.m. feeding (mostly) and relish the feeling of holding my baby in my arms. I could laugh with and enjoy my children and my life in a way that the lens of resentment never allowed.
It's been a long time since I've had children to bathe or bottles to fix, but this life lesson still holds me in good stead.
And while I certainly never chose fibromyalgia nor Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, a certain amount of acceptance goes a long way there, too. I'm often in pain and usually exhausted. But when I struggle against these realities my life is much more difficult than when I accommodate them. I can't "do" like I used to; I need to take naps, I can't carry heavy laundry baskets up and down the multiple sets of stairs in our old house. Sometimes these deficits overwhelm me with sadness and dismay. But simply adjusting my expectations can make a huge difference.
I may not be able to vacuum this week, but I can crochet an afghan. I can't mow the lawn, but I can enjoy the flowers. I may not be able to cook every night, but we can enjoy ordering out.
This week without my husband at home will be difficult, no doubt. But we have the pets - including the new puppy - we have because, in large part, I wanted them. They have enriched my life and the lives of my children immeasurably. So instead of fighting against what my choices have given me, I will again embrace them. I'll snuggle my puppy, run my girls to doctor's appointments and school, and probably not be able to manage cooking as healthily as I'd like.

I may look like this by the end of the week, but I plan to embrace my life and enjoy every day!

I'll grab naps as I can get them, let the messes go, and view my life through a lens of contentment.
I'm sure I'll be exhausted, but I'll be much happier if I don't fight my circumstances.
And there really isn't anything much sweeter than basset puppy kisses!

Morning musings

Sitting outside this morning with the dogs, the air is humid, but cool.
I'm even wearing a sweat jacket, though not for long.
It must have rained a wee bit last night as all the lawn chairs are wet. I had to gather towels and a large blanket to keep my rear dry.
My second very large cup of coffee is drained; I contemplate a dash into the house for another, but the droning of freeway traffic in the not-so-far-away distance overlaid by chirruping of crickets is, oddly, too peaceful to disturb.
This breath of cool air is a relief, a herald of cool September mornings soon to come.

The plantings in the yard are ravaged by this summer's drought, but flowers still bloom and the basil is ready for another harvest.
My dogs frolic in the grass, tug-of-war over a stick their only present concern.
A slight breeze and the leaves on overgrown century-old trees rustle gently.
I'm tired and not really looking forward to a day of puppy-watching and errands.
My husband is traveling yet again, so I'm also on night duty.
Friends have become scarce as life became more difficult these past couple of years. C'est la vie.

But right now, right here?
I realize I have all I need.
And I'm happy.

Dog Days of Summer

How I spent my summer vacation

Long time, no post.
I'd like to imagine I've been off on some incredible European tour; perhaps touring ancient monasteries in Romania, a quick trip to Vlad's castle, and a couple weeks spent on the Black Sea.
But I've really just been home; mostly sitting on my couch.
I'm one of the world's champion couch-sitters, so I should get a little credit for my accomplishment.
This summer, as in most of the U.S., it has simply been too hot to venture out of doors. Here in Iowa we've had weeks of 100-plus degree days and it's been unbearable.
And, fter all, the couch is where the air conditioning is.
All that sitting was not solely idle - my daughter and I spent a good deal of time working on our various artistic ventures while listening either to NPR, college lectures on American history, or a recorded book.
I've managed to finish both a gorgeous throw made entirely of locally spun and sourced wool as well as an afghan made entirely from yarn already in my stash. I've also almost finished a shawl-thingy for my oldest daughter.
Practically unheard-of productivity for me.
I had a rough couple of weeks with fatigue and pain, but that's just par for the course.
My days have had a certain relaxing rhythm. It's actually been quite nice.
Now tomato season has hit, and most days I have enough to make several batches of sauce to freeze. I've really streamlined my sauce making process and am able to spend only 15-20 minutes actively chopping; with the rest of the time spent simmering I can do other things.
Our two-year-old basset hound, Gus, finally even hit the "I just want to sleep in the sun/on the couch stage."
Unfortunately, we didn't realize this until it was too late.
You see, Gus has been a regular daycare attendee since he was 5 months old. The girls and I needed the break and he needed the playtime and socialization. Daycare was definitely a win-win. But, as with most daycares, there was a lot of staff turnover and the level of care fluctuated wildly.
In June, Gus ate a plastic swimming pool at daycare - he required x-rays, vet visits, medication, and lots of attention for nearly two weeks.
Oops, said daycare. We saw the dogs tearing the pool apart but didn't realize anyone had eaten the pieces.
Yep.
Then there was the giardia.
Gus picked up giardia from an infected playmate at the daycare in February. Another trip to the vet, medication, etc., and we had to keep him home for 10 days. The other dog's owners informed the daycare, which informed all the clients... but didn't require everyone to be tested. They didn't require everyone to stay home even.
Since then my little poop-eater has been reinfected a couple of times.
It got so that he was going to the vet once or twice a month.
Not okay.
What to do?
You guessed it - we bought another puppy.

Bertha Mae

Two weeks ago I drove to Grand Junction, Nebraska, and picked up the cutest, wiggliest, sweetest little girl puppy for Gus.
Needless to say, my comfortable rhythm is no more.
Bertha Mae, we call her Bertie, almost sleeps through the night now, though usually she's up at least once. We're working on house training, which takes a looong time with basset hounds.
And I am beyond exhausted.
Gus is happy as happy can be as he now has a constant playmate at home.
Let's just say the rest of us are adjusting.

We love her dearly, yet puppies are so much work! Some days I fear I won't make it.
Then she comes running to me across the yard, ears flapping, slobber flying, and I know it will all be worth it in the end.
Another basset has come to stay at my house.
I guess I'm a dog person after all.

Crumbly

So I've been gone again for a while.
Not really gone, though wouldn't a trip to a lovely vacation spot be just the thing right now?
Anyway, though I've been gone from the internet, I've been quite present in my own life.The greatest mistress of my time lately has been my walking schedule. It's quite difficult to exercise with both EDS and fibromyalgia, but I always feel better when I do. The weather has been so beautiful here the past few weeks and my elliptical has been off-limits due to snake infestation so I decided to take to the trails.
Since I hit forty I have gained at least 30 pounds. Most of this came on gradually and in part can be attributed to hypothyroidism. While treatment of my hypothyroidism has been successful, I have never lost any weight.
A nasty confluence of peri-menopause, age, and illness have conspired against me.
That, and I like food too much to starve myself.
I remember reading that to be truly fit one should walk 5 miles a day.
Considering that most of the time I'm home I'm sitting down, my half hour on the elliptical got me nowhere near this mark.
It's taken me several weeks to do it, but most days I now walk 3-4 miles with several 5 mile days each week. I usually split my walking up into two separate excursions; typically a 3 mile walk in the morning and a 2 mile walk in the late afternoon.
It's quite a balancing act to manage this along with the fatigue and pain, but so far I've definitely been feeling better. I need to take a nap in the afternoon, but most days my energy level is a little higher.
I've always been an endorphin junkie, so my mood has been great as well.
One thing I've learned during this little exercise sojourn is to listen to my body, not my mind, when it comes to fatigue. The tendency is to do too much when feeling good, thereby setting oneself up for extreme fatigue the next day.
I do this, of course, but also have a tendency to push myself even when I'm not feeling good. One day last week, I was suffering from an extreme case of post exertional malaise (sounds made up but it's real folks!). All I yearned to do was go lie down, just for a bit.
Please.
Why didn't I?
Well, there was some cream in the fridge that needed to get used before it turned.
Yes, that's right.
Cream.
The real deal.
I told you I wasn't willing to "diet."
Plus, I originally bought it because my son's are coffee snobs who "prefer" cream to whole milk in their morning brew.
I had already walked, gotten supper ready for the oven, and cleaned up in the kitchen.
But there was that cream.
And I couldn't let it spoil.
Ah, I know!
I'll make a cake.
I paged through my ancient Betty Crocker 1950 cookbook - it's my cake bible - and found just what I was looking for: a sweet cream cake that uses cream in place of shortening.
Perfect!
That's when it all started to go wrong.
First, I couldn't find my cake pans. I searched every kitchen cupboard at least 3 times before calling my husband in exasperation.
Yes, I called him at work because I couldn't find my cake pans. Why would I interrupt him this way?
He was the last one I saw handling those cake pans.
And he knew it.
Unfortunately, he had no idea where they were. He remembered washing them, but not putting them away.
Okay, then, I'd use a 9 X13 pan.
Oops.
All my 9 X13 pans were still holding the billion burritos my husband made and froze. He hadn't quite gotten around to removing the burritos from the pans which were still in the freezer.
In the basement.
A whole flight of stairs away.
I was already exhausted, grunting with exertion with each cupboard door I opened and egg I cracked.
And our little snake problem had not yet been addressed.
A trip to the basement was out of the question.

Fortunately, it tasted delicious!

What to do?
I'd just have to use cake pans that were larger than those called for in the recipe.
A quick pause to do a little deep breathing helped me regain my walking-induced endorphin-fueled easy-going temperament.
Ahem.
So into the oven they went and I quickly mixed up some cinnamon sugar for a topping. I know, it's a little like having a Diet Coke with your cheeseburger and fries, but that's how my thinking trends.
I carefully set the timer a little early so the topping would bake in nicely.
I did get to sit and rest a bit while the cake was in the oven, but all too soon I had to leap up and sprinkle.
The timer is a relentless task mistress.
Apparently my oven bakes a little fast because that cinnamon sugar fairly bounced off the cake surface. I left them in for a couple extra minutes just to show my dominance.
By now, my fatigue was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but all I had left to do before resting was to remove the cakes from the pans to cool.
I waited about 5 minutes, knowing full well it wasn't long enough to ensure the cakes a clean escape, but all I could hear was the siren song of the horizontal position calling to me.
And sure enough, both layers stuck to the bottoms of the pans and sheets of semi-melded cinnamon sugar cascaded off the cakes and onto the island, the floor, and into my waiting dog's eager jowls.
I did utter a few choice words, but no tears for me - I knew just what I'd do to save the day and the dessert: a delicious vanilla filling would do the trick and bind together all those torn pieces and crumbs.
Of course, that meant another 1/2 hour making the vanilla cream. It's so easy it's fool proof, but it does take time.
And you can't make it lying down.

See that layer of yellow goo in the middle? That's vanilla cream.

So on I trudged, my never ending kitchen odyssey leading me further and further from peaceful surcease.
As my fatigue increases, not only do I move more slowly, but my brain works less efficiently. Tension builds in my neck and back as I slowly hunch over in true old-crone fashion.
Once the vanilla cream was cool, I placed all the cake and crumbs on a plate, dumped the cream filling in the middle, topped it with the least crumbly layer and there I had it: a vanilla cream filled mess.
Not to be deterred, I remembered our family motto, "Everything is better with chocolate." I whipped up a quick drizzly chocolate icing.
Emphasis on the drizzle.
In my hurry to finally end this torturous culinary adventure, I neglected to add enough powdered sugar.
Oops.
Most of the icing gently, yet purposefully, glided from cake top to counter top in one fell swoop. I hunched over the cake witchily spooning the chocolate ooze back on top. By now I was so hunched and in pain I was nearly half my size, yet I was finally done.
The result looked a bit like a kindergarten project, but tasted phenomenal, reminding me a bit of Boston Cream Pie.
My family was appropriately appreciative and the whole cake was gone in an evening. I managed to survive the ordeal with no long term side effects except a slightly bruised ego.
And best of all?
I had yet again passed the motherhood test: despite my pain and suffering my family would not go dessertless this evening!
Um, yeah.
Next time I think I'll just take a nap.

Proud

'Tis the season of graduations and new beginnings.
Friends and acquaintances share news of awards, internships, and scholarship choices.
And I am happy for them and for their children.
But while I am glad to share in others' joyful moments, I always bear a small burden of sorrow for my own children.
Sometimes it seems as if everyone else's children are carefree, while mine have never had a carefree moment.
Sometimes my heart is so swollen with sorrow over the pain my children have had to endure that it's all I can do not to crumble from the pain.
And yet, I know everyone has his own cross to bear.
This past year has tested my children like no other, and yet they have made it through the darkness ready and willing to care for and give to others.
My oldest son is 24 now, the same age I was when he was born.
He has truly been a gift to my husband and myself.
He's the child who made me a mother and showed me how deeply one can love another.
In his life so far, my son has interned in Egypt, spent a semester in South Africa, earned a full scholarship to Drake University, won the Crystal Award from The World Food Prize, interned at Pioneer Hi-Bred International, has two scientific papers accepted for publication from his undergraduate degree, and was instrumental in forming the Oxfam Iowa Action Corps.
My son's whole life is dedicated to improving the lives of others, yet throughout it all he has struggled with a nearly insurmountable burden of mental illness.
This year has been especially difficult for him, yet he has persevered as a student, a volunteer, a friend, a son, and a brother.
He finishes up his next to last semester of grad school this week and will soon leave for a four-week research trip to Uganda.
My second son, who has been a delight from the day he was born, will graduate with a degree in psychology this week. He showed me that love grows exponentially. He has struggled his whole life with almost incapacitating anxiety, and yet has somehow been able to soldier through it all. He amazes me with his fortitude and his desire to help others. He achieved his black belt in Tae Kwon Do at 13, worked summers and every weekend his last two years of high school, and in college gained an internship at a residential treatment facility for children and adolescents with behavioral and mental health issues. He continued to work there summers and every weekend during his last two years of college. He so impressed his supervisor that he was offered a full-time position upon graduation.
I can't begin to explain the difficulties these two young men whom I proudly call my sons have gone through. I have suffered from anxiety and depression my whole life and know how great is the temptation to give up and hide from the world. They have never given in to this impulse and have both decided to dedicate their professional lives to helping others.
While I wish my sons' lives had been more carefree and I would take away the burden of mental illness they must carry, I would not change who they are. My sons are warm, caring, funny, intelligent, giving young men.
They are a gift not only to myself and my family, but to the world.

Houdini

This is Lester.
He has no tail.
Actually, he has a wee nubbin of a tail, but he doesn't like to talk about that.
Lester has allergies that require him to take steroids.
While he has been able to avoid 'roid rage, he does acknowledge that his muscular physique and lightening fast speed have been drug-enhanced.
Lester loves snuggles, but only in private; open windows, dairy products, and perhaps most of all, boxes.
And when it comes to boxes, as far as Lester is concerned, he's one size fits all.
Watch as Lester demonstrates how to fit oneself neatly into a shoe box.

Precise ordinal orientation is essential to proper fit.

Next one must begin tuck and roll maneuvers. 

Achieving body-box synchrony often requires repositioning.

A final tuck and there you have the seemingly impossible: a 12 pound cat in a standard size shoe box.

Applause is not only unnecessary, but annoying.

Stuff of Nightmares

Well, just about the worst thing that could happen to me, did.
Now, I know that if this truly is the worst thing that could happen to me, then I have no right to complain.
But I'm going to anyway.
Since we moved to this house nearly 6 years ago, I have had many trying wildlife related experiences. First, there was the raccoon that got locked in our van.
In the heat.
With the windows closed.
Someone apparently forgot to close the van door and the raccoon, attracted by various crumbs and other food-related trash in said vehicle, decided to climb in for a closer look. Later that evening the open door was discovered and promptly shut and remained closed for more than 24 hours.
It was August in Iowa with a heat index pushing 100 degrees.
Somehow that raccoon managed to survive but the van didn't fair quite so well.
In his desperate bid to escape, the coon managed to cause more than $600 of damage to the inside of the van.
On a lighter note, the car repairmen I called got a good chuckle out of the story.
Then there were the bats.
Yes, we had bats in our attic.
Not an uncommon occurrence for old houses, I'm sure.
But our major renovations left one whole side of our house open just enough for bats to sneak in.
And sneak in they did.
At least 1/2 dozen bats found their way in through the work area, gaps in screens, etc.
I respect bats and actually think some are rather cute, but I don't want them in my house.
Estimates to bat-proof our attic ran close to $2000, so we decided to cope.
Actually, my husband decided we could cope. I think I cried.
It wasn't until the next summer when my oldest son, who sleeps in the renovated attic, came down for breakfast with a bat clinging to his sock that we knew we had to do something.
So while my son got rabies shots, the bats were relocated (humanely) and our house is now supposedly bat-proof, though the company gave no guarantees.
On quiet nights we can here bats clicking as they fly through our yard on their nightly hunts.
Add to these wildlife episodes a mouse invasion, house centipedes in the basement, cicada-killer wasps in the yard, a sick raccoon stumbling through the flower beds, and squirrels chewing on our wooden porch posts and you'll see that I've had a lot to deal with.
As someone whose recurring childhood nightmare involved awakening with my bed surrounded by worms and insects, I think you'll see why what happened next took to me the brink.
I wrote a couple weeks ago about the garter snake hatchery along the foundation of the house. I also expounded upon my unfounded yet oh-so-real fear of snakes.
I was okay with allowing the snakes to remain in my yard, glad they have a safe place to grow and breed.
Until last weekend.
A nightmare come true.

My daughters were up late and as Melissa took the garbage out she encountered my worst fear, the phantom of my dreams, a flesh-and-blood snake coiled on the landing to the basement.
It's taken me 5 days to be able to even write about this. I haven't even looked at the photos yet.
Yes, my little girl who screams at the sight of a house centipede and my other little girl who just last week encountered a spider so big she had to call her dad down to squish it, took photographs of the snake IN THE HOUSE.
And thank goodness they're the ones who found it and not me.
Yes, I'm glad my daughters had the snake encounter as for some reason neither one is afraid of snakes. At all.
Mutants.
Apparently, and I only know this second-hand from reading the girls did, snakes don't just nest in under the cracked foundations of houses but often LIVE IN THE WALLS.
Which is where this one escaped - into a hole that led under the trim around the door.

I didn't handle the news well when they told me the next morning. In fact, I haven't ventured down the basement stairs or out the back door without someone making sure it's snake-free since then. The other day no one else was home and I needed something from the basement. So I made my kitten go first - yes, that's right, my little 8-month-old kitten was my snake protector.
I'm am so completely freaked out by this I can't even begin to describe the depths of my horror and revulsion. My daughter was afraid to tell me for fear I would call someone to exterminate them.
But I'm not that kind of a gal.
I don't want the snakes dead. I just want them out of my house!
I've been waiting since then for my husband to implement his snake removal and snake-proofing plan. I don't think he really understands how difficult this is for me since it's been 5 DAYS since the sighting and he hasn't yet "gathered his supplies."
If we weren't on such a tight budget, I would have called a critter catcher by now. I think I can make it a few more days until the weekend, but if the situation isn't resolved by then, I'll be forced to take action.
I'll make that call to a professional snake wrangler and let my husband fill in the cracks.
I'm not sure how long it will take me to recover from this one.
I've finally stopped periodically rocking back and forth and crying and I've been keeping the nightmares at bay.
Who needs to dream of snakes when you've got a whole nest of them in your house?
P.S. When I stop hyperventilating I'll add some photos to this post.

Veggies

We've been enjoying radishes from our garden all this week.

The lettuces, spinach, and arugula have a ways to go yet.


So today we walked to the opening day of the Downtown Des Moines Farmer's Market. It took us about 40 minutes to walk there and a little longer to get home.

I picked up several nice bunches of lettuce for $1 a bag, some fresh mint for tabouli, greenhouse grown tomatoes, and some of the first strawberries of the season.

We ate breakfast at a neat little coffee shop, too. A fun treat since we've been keeping tight reins on our spending.

Our carrots are doing well, though it will be quite a while before they're ready to harvest.

The rest of the garden is going in today, but we plan to continue to frequent farmer's markets throughout the summer and fall.
It felt really good to walk there and back (though the walk there felt much better than the walk home!)

Fresh strawberries and cream are on tonight's dessert menu for sure.

Thankfulness

I've been a little down-in-the-dumps today.
You know, just generally feeling sorry for myself.
Focusing on the negative.
Not that this is unusual for me, as I definitely have the dominant version of the cynicism gene.
I didn't wake up feeling glum, but something happened this morning that set the tone for the whole day.
It was horrible and I'm not yet ready to write about it (don't worry - no one is hurt or anything).
But it was the straw the broke the proverbial camel's back.
Or should that be the "proverbial straw" or, for that matter, the camel's "proverbial back?"
But I digress.
The point is that I've not been the happiest of campers today, but looking at these pictures sort of helped me change my focus.

First, that gorgeous pitcher? We bought it at a potter's shop in Arkansas several years ago on a family trip to visit my mom. Seeing it conjures up happy memories of the trip, my mom, my family, and that I just plain love this pitcher.
And I really love the sunny shade of yellow we painted our kitchen.
The tall red cupboard is something that really makes me happy. It may not be as functional as a modern pantry cupboard, but it houses dishes and small appliances just fine and it's red; a color that I never much cared for but that I have grown to appreciate in the past 5 years or so. Plus, it's old, and I love old things. I find great joy in using an old cupboard that graced other kitchens long passed.
Then of course there's the brick behind the cupboard. This brick wall was discovered when we remodeled our kitchen upon moving into this old house nearly 6 years ago. It had long been covered up by drywall. When the workman found it and called me in to see it I was ecstatic! This was behind the original cookstove in my 1904 house! I love how it the exposed brick adds a touch of primitiveness to my kitchen.
To the right of the cupboard is my funky repurposed hanger-jobber (to use the technical term). You can't really see it, but it's just an old board with three different antique doorknobs attached as hangers. I've had this for years and was delighted to find a good use for it as my apron-hanger.
Then of course there are my aprons. I think I could become a collector of aprons, though I haven't allowed myself the luxury. I like full-bib aprons and wear them often, though usually not until I've already spilled something on myself!
Above this are some old advertisements for kitchen goods. I like how everything fits in.
To the left of the cupboard are clay pieces my daughters made as little girls at our art center. Every time I look at them I remember my little girls. I think these might have been Mother's Day gifts.

Last, but definitely not least, are the flowers themselves.
Of course they are pretty and I like having bouquets in the house.
But what I'm most thankful for is the daughter who picked them for me, arranged them in a favorite pitcher, and took pictures of them.
So, even though it's easy to focus on the bad and the ugly, it sure is outweighed by the good.
I just have to take time to see it all around me.

Sleuth

Housework is never done.
It can be frustrating to finish a morning of cleaning only to find it mostly undone as soon as you turn around.
It's usually fairly easy to find on whom to pin the blame; the cache of dirty dishes in a teenager's room, briefcase and shoes discarded in the doorway, or craft projects left out on the dining room table.
But sometimes it takes a little bit of sleuthing to find the culprits.
The other day my newly-cleaned bathroom was trashed but who was responsible?

Let's see: Muddy paw prints in the bathtub...








Someone has been playing in the dirt again.

A quick leap from the tub to the top of the toilet...










and a tiptoe around the edge of the shower...

A stroll through the litter box makes a change in paw prints...


Then out into the hall...










and down the stairs...















 To find the culprits...

fast asleep.

Dandelion

wild and unbidden

golden globes invade my yard

manes flashing sunshine

Slitherin'

Orphidiophobia
That's what I've got.
An abnormal fear of snakes.
There is some controversy over whether fear of snakes is an innate response for survival or whether it's caused by a frightening experience in one's youth. Some studies even suggest fear of snakes develops, at least in part, due to exposure to negative information about snakes.
Of all the phobias to which I play hostess, I would have to say my snake phobia is among the top three or four.
It may even be number one.
I've never had a bad experience with a snake, nor do I remember being exposed to scary stories or information about snakes.
No, my fear of snakes is most definitely visceral.

So, you'll never guess who has moved into my neighborhood.
Okay, maybe you will.
Yes, I have the auspicious privilege of hosting a nesting colony of garter snakes in my very own backyard.
Whoopee.


Yes, a nest of vipers - okay, garter snakes - lives in the broken masonry under my back porch.
I wish they had chosen a different yard, but since this is their second year in this location, I think word is spreading that this is the place to be.
You see, we don't spray or fertilize our lawn, our dogs don't pay any attention to the snakes, our yard is fenced, and we don't really mind that they're here.
In theory anyway.

I'm glad they have a safe place to live and breed.

Really, I am.
Who knows how bad our mouse problem might be without their presence. I believe they also eat insects and other pests.
That's all good.
I just wish I could walk through the yard without fear.
Now, I don't mind seeing snakes in the zoo, reading about snakes or seeing pictures of snakes. I don't have any problem with my children handling snakes - gosh, one time I even let them pose with a giant anaconda draped across their shoulders at the Iowa State Fair.
I was fine as long as I could keep my distance.

I've never touched a snake.
Never plan to.
But my fear hasn't clouded my judgment about their importance to the ecosystem.
I appreciate what marvelous creatures they are and am truly saddened to read of rattlesnake roundups or to see smooshed snakes in the street.
And there have been a lot of dead garter snakes along our neighborhood walking route this spring.

I know an amazing amount about snakes for someone so phobic. Snakes were one of my older son's favorite topics for a couple of years. Back before we had the Internet, my husband and I even spent one "date" night at the bookstore trying to find out exactly how rattlesnake venom killed its victims for him.

Today at the dog park a good-sized garter snake slithered across the path in front of me. By the time I finished uttering a strangled gasp of fear and my feet touched ground again, it was in the grass on the other side. My daughters and son laughed at me and I laughed at myself.
Once I caught my breath and my heart stopped pounding.
So much for exposure therapy.

That's the thing about phobias - they aren't rational.
I know garter snakes - and most snakes I will ever encounter in the wilds of my backyard - are harmless. I know they have no desire to interact with me at all.
I know they won't hurt me.
And I'm not even really afraid that they will.
They just creep me out.
Completely.

There's really nothing I can do about my fear of snakes, though I guess I could thank some prehistoric ancestor for passing it on. Who knows, maybe I'm here today because some cave woman was overly cautious when walking through the Savannah.

I'll be glad when this current crop of hatchlings grows up and moves away.
In the meantime, I'll proceed with caution in my backyard.
Guess who won't be weeding the flower beds anytime soon?