Just Another Crazy Normal Day (photographically speaking)

Once upon a time, there was a girl who grew into a lady's body but maintained the earnestness of a little girl.

After childhood came teenhood.  After teenhood came college.  After college came marriage.  After marriage came children.  After children came a dog.  After the dog came chickens.  After one of the chickens mysteriously died, her sad buddy paced back and forth with such sadness that she knew it was best to kill the chicken and eat it.  (Or at least watch friends do the deed and pluck a few feathers for good measure.)  After witnessing her first slaughter came kittens (which felt so right at the time).  After kittens came the worst stubbed toe of her life while trying to keep the aforementioned dog from devouring these kittens.  After the kittens found a home (thank heavens) came the bruise that has yet to heal on her big fat swollen toe.

And here we are.

Today was a good day, a day like any other.  Not very busy.  Not very exciting.  Just normal.  Even the dull ache of my left foot is starting to feel like the norm.  However, it's only lately that I've noticed how many unacceptable doings occur in our "normal" day.  Come to find out, our norm is not all that normal after all.

The dog.  Ugh, the dog.  I love him 90% of the time.  But that other 10%?  That's when he's opening our refrigerator with his teeth, or burying unwrapped (seriously) roast beef sandwiches in our backyard given to him by some employee (we think?) at Arby's, or squeezing his beefy midsection under our fence so as to retrieve the roast beef sandwiches from that person at Arby's, or pulling me so hard and so fast in the direction of those kittens (the ones I mentioned earlier) that I stubb my toe and curse so colorfully that my kids cover their own ears.

The chickens.  Blasted chickens.  I have a beautiful coop that my dad and Terry made, but I want them to free range for part of the day, so I do.  Inevitably after free ranging in our more-than-adequate-space backyard, they fly over the fence into our front yard where people drive by and do double-takes.  I swear these chickens are going to cause a car accident one day.  (Also, between specialty chicken books, farmer's almanacs, and Google, I've yet to find a method for clipping wings that work.)

And then there's the kids.  They are everything.  The kids are why I don't get rid of the dog and chickens after they've tried "flying the coop" again and again.  So to speak.  They require the greatest amount of my energy- and rightfully so.  I love doing all the stuff that comes with motherhood!

. . .


So this morning Fiona goes to school.  Neve and I take the dog on a short walk.  Then we start playing.

I played this one game where I blindfold her and make her smell different things (banana, cinnamon, olive oil, garlic, almonds, crayons, soap, and a shirt straight out of the dryer), guess what they are, and then draw them in her sketchbook.  She LOVED this game.


Then she played in her dollhouse while I made lunch.

I did some other important things (like color coordinate the colored pencils) before going to a friend's house for a playdate.

After I picked Fiona up from school, we came home and played a little more.

And when Lincoln Logs got old, we drew faces on our chins and laid upside down on their beds and had a few laughs.  Or at least Fiona and I laughed, while Neve complained that it was "too creepy."  She actually HATED this game.

So, we cleaned up the Lincoln Logs, did not wash our necks and chins, and headed outside to feed the chickens.  We fed the chickens in our bare feet, specifically.

~Camilla goes to town on that cracked corn~

~yup, that's a plastic owl lying on it's side~

~notice the lovely taped toes?~

That's when I noticed how awful our backyard looks.

~the back of our barn~

~lights that dangle so low that Terry gets caught like a fly in a web whenever he passes~

~a basin of water with toys and buckets floating inside from who-knows-when~

Who lives like this!?  Why am I just now noticing how depressing it looks back here!?  Quick, girls, grab a rake!  But wait.  Where's the dog?  Banjo wiggled his way under the fence when we weren't looking, and he's probably on his way to Arby's.  

The girls and myself go running down our street, limping barefoot, with marker-drawn inverted faces on our necks, chasing a dog who has no incentive to turn away from the direction of Arby's.  As if it couldn't get any uglier, 2 of our 6 chickens fly over the fence into the front yard, running after us.  It's a veritable parade of crazy running down our avenue, flight attendants and pilots watching from their driveways as they're unloading their baggage from their rental cars.  

I wave and mutter something like, "Wow.  Chasing a dog barefoot is just how I wanted to spend my afternoon...", har, har.  But that wanna-be explanation doesn't account for the marker eyes I have staring at them from my neck, or my kids' necks, or the chickens in tow.

Once he's caught (with the help of one of those chilly humorless attendants), I have to carry his 40 lb sack of skin back again.  Barefoot.  Limping.  Kids and chickens following.  I'm-looking-at-you-with-my-neck neck.

. . .

And I'd be lying if I said that this was the first time this has happened.  (Minus the neck eyes.  That was a a first.)

knuckle deep

Dainty silver spoons for stirring honey into coffee, sliced pumpkin bread, walks to the town festival, big red balloons, melting cotton candy, romping dogs, finding a secret stash of blue eggs (!), daddies at home, stories, and lots and lots of giggling.  This is what makes Saturday sweet.

Have a great weekend!

The Great Mario Mistake

Disclaimer: I have a feeling that this may not be blog material, but I can't resist.

Last week, at pickup, I asked Fiona how her day at school was.  She gave me her usual "good", and that was that.  

"Did you learn any new Spanish words?"

"Nope."

"Did you like the lunch I packed for you?"

"Yep."

"Did you do any writing today?"

"Mmm, I think so."

{pause}

"Mom?  Why do you draw naked people?"

"Huh?  What are you-  where did you- what do you mean?", the stammering goes on.

. . .

A week before last week's interrogation, Terry and I had friends over for dinner and drinks.  The second half of the equation was probably responsible for the pen and paper (grabbing the first notebook I saw), accompanied by side-splitting laughter.

The topic of Mario Batali came up (who I love, by the way), and inevitably we drew him.  What started as this:

His wee sweaty pony tail, done by our remains-nameless friend.

evolved into this:

Nose picking Batali over the baby cauldron, done by Terry. 

which evolved into this:

Naked Batali holds a salami, done by yours truly.

which evolved into something that would certainly warrant a Blogger Inappropriate Content Flag:

Mario, it wasn't personal.  We only did this because we have low self esteem.

. . .

The kicker:

"Mom, I don't mind if you draw naked people, but please just don't draw it in my school writing journal. My teacher will think I'm weird."

Shamefully I consent, "Okay."

Fiona, how does it feel to be more mature than your parents?

p.s. My daughter was so sensible, she said that as soon as she saw it, she closed it and put it back inside her desk.  Thank goodness I don't have to explain my perversion at any parent/teacher conferences.

After School Getaway/Breakaway

After school today, we took a short drive to a place that's much greener.  

Fiona was greeted by her favorite horse.

I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself, but this one particular horse really does like her.  Every time we come here, he heads straight to her, passing Neve and I by.

And this makes her very happy.

He must have sensed that out of the three of us, she's the one who'd open the gate. 

Or at least help.  And between his determination and her fingers, they did open the gate.

Neve and I got scared.  I shuffled him back in and locked the gate again.  Neve watched from a safe distance.

If You Want Him Alive...

We went to Fiona's classroom Open House last week.  Sitting on her desk (and the only one with something on her desk) was this: 

Me: "Terry, who is Don Rily Wel?  And why is Fiona holding him hostage?"

Terry: "Dera, it says, 'I Have Done Really Well'... like in school.  Like we don't have to ask the teacher any questions, because Fiona already told us she's doing really well."

Me: "Ah.  Well, I like the hostage note better."

I Don't Want To Be Here

Tonight was Open House at Fiona's school.

I have had this night marked on the calendar for months now.

I wanted to see where she sits, I wanted to see all the corny but inevitable motivational posters hanging on the walls, I wanted to meet her friends, and I wanted to get the scoop on my kid.

Is she smart?  Like, just give it to me straight.  From 1- 10, is she like a 6 or a 7?  Okay, so maybe she's like a 5 in academics, but c'mon.  She's like an 8 or 9 in Art, right?  I mean, I can only say that because she has such bad rhythm and probably can't keep a beat in Music class.  So, it kinda evens it out, right?  Right?

What's that?

Have I seen her...

...what the hell is this?  A drawing she did of Hurricane Katrina, you say?  Does she even know about Hurricane Katrina?

Holy...

Good grief.  I love her too.

When Handsome Went Crazy

It must be possible to inherit the obsession gene.

My daughters are obsessed with the same music I love (most of the time), as they beg me to play these songs over and over.

The latest song on repeat is this (Blonde Redhead's Spain):


. . .

Neve is singing along in the backseat when she asks, "What does this lady look like?"

I show her a picture.

"And are those her boyfriends?"

"Well, the one without a beard is her husband, and the other guy is his brother."

"Mom?  Do you think they're handsome?"

"Yeah.  They are."

"Do you think Daddy is handsome?"

"So handsome."

"Mom?  Don't you think Daddy would be more handsome if he wasn't so funny all the time?"

"I don't think so."

Holy Kittens

Neve yells, "Where are we going again?  A monster story?"

"No, it's called a monastery. It's like a big beautiful church where monks live."

My answer means nothing to a child who has never heard of the term "monk", and she may also be losing memory of the term "church".

"Mom?"

"Yes, Neve?"

"Why do we want to go there?"

"Well, for a few reasons.  It's supposed to be a beautiful place with a lake and gardens and chestnut trees... and then there's the monks.  They're men dressed in robes who sing songs like this-"

{insert my ugly guttural interpretation of a Gregorian chant here}

Through the rearview mirror, Neve looks less than enthusiastic.

"They also make fudge."

"Oh, okay."

We park, get out of the car, and I remember to tell her the most important detail.

"Oh, yeah, and Neve?  You can't talk inside the church."

Just as I say this, a monk on a golf cart flies by us, and bows his head while using his elbows to steer as he makes a prayer sign in our direction, as if to say, "God Bless You In a Hurry."

"Mom?  What was that?"

. . .


We spent 10 minutes in the cathedral, soaking in the beauty, praying, and trying not to be distracted by the janitor who was using those long school brooms to reach under the pew in front of us.

We spent 5 minutes under the chestnut trees, dissecting those spiky alien-like nuts.

We spent 10 minutes down by the lake, watching other people silently feed the loudest, most agressive geese I've ever seen.

We spent 2 minutes in the garden area, where Neve found familiar plants that smell nice.

And then, we saw it.  IT.

IT was a box of kittens.  IT was filled with mounds of breathing fur.  According to the monks (who do talk), IT didn't have a mother.  IT should not have been put in our car and brought home, but it did.

. . .

I walk inside the nearest building and see two men in robes talking to one another in the lobby.

"Excuse me?  Do either of you know anything about the box-"

One of the men finish my sentence, "-the box of kittens?  Ya' want them?"

"Oh, well.  I don't know.  Maybe.  What's going on with them?  Where's their mother?"

"We get animals dropped on our doorstep all the time.  Who knows where they came from or where their mother is.  But we are gonna be forced to bring them to the Humane Society tonight if no one takes them home."

My brain gears are turning.  Kittens need to be bottle fed every 2-3 hours.  Will the Humane Society really do this?  They're totally going to die if I don't take them home.  I'm allergic to them, but if I keep them away from me (except when I'm nursing them) I'll be fine.  Banjo.  Hmmm.  I'll just have to keep him away from them too until we can find them a good home.  We can make it work.  Right, Neve?

"We can make it work.  Right, Neve?"

"Right!"

"Do you want my information?  I mean, I have a dog, but he's sweet.  I mean, he's a hunting dog and he did kill a baby chick once, but he's not vicious, just kind of impulsive.  And I'll be sure to keep them separated until I find them a good home, but who knows?  Maybe we'll keep them?  I mean, I'm not usually an advocate for outdoor pets, but 3 kitten siblings living on our little lot of urban land... how cute is that?  And I forgot to tell you that I'm allergic to cats, but I'll be fine.  Oh, and we have chickens!  It's kinda perfect.  All Old MacDonald and stuff.  I mean, once they're old enough to protect themselves they're going to love our yard.  And Fiona!  She's going to love them!!  But what do you guys think?  Is it okay if I take them???"

"Uh, yes.  That would be great."

And as me and Neve say thank you and goodbye, I hear the men clap their hands together and whisper-shout, "Thank God!"

A chill crawls up my neck.

. . .

We went out of town for the weekend, and my friend Anna babysat them.  This was the result of time spent with an amazing photographer:

Isn't she good?  And aren't they cute?

If you live in Atlanta and know anyone who wants kittens, please let me know.  I can't really keep them. They have been named Figgy, Wander, and Junkyard by my girls, but you may call them whatever you like if you want them.  

Gustav Bennett (11/96- 08/10)

My childhood dog passed away last week.  His name was Gus, and he was the BEST dog a kid could ask for.  In fact, my brother and I did ask for him on my brother's 10th birthday, 14 years ago.

This was 1996, the year the Olympics came to Atlanta, the year I cut all my hair off into a shamelessly identical bob to that of Claire Danes (1st tv reference of this post), the same year I bought my first pair of Doc Martens, and the year that I'm sure my mother thought I would go blind from my frequent and severe eye-rolls.  I was sixteen and my brother was ten.  This would prove to be one of the worst years in our sibling hood, as he slid recording devices under my bed in the hopes that I would spill secrets that could get me in big trouble by mom and dad (among other things).  All the while I remained misunderstood and broody when there was an audience present.

What he didn't know was that his sister was only cool and interesting by association (by high school standards at least) and not at all living the juicy teenager life that he'd hoped to bust me living.  No boy stories, no school skipping (well, once... but I was too scared to leave the school premises, so I sat in a friend's car throughout the entire hour of Anatomy class snickering at the awesomeness of the concept of skipping school, only to be caught on surveillance and given a week of in-school suspension.  Oh yeah, and I served with my dad, who happened to also be my art teacher.  Kew-el...).  I was a veritable Elly May Clampett (2nd tv reference) posing as an Angela Chase.

The glue that held my brother and me together that year was the yellow labrador retriever we agreed upon in the mall pet-store window.  He made eye contact with us through the glass, and without a second thought, Joey and I knew he was ours.

Our first 2 dogs, Bluebird and B.C., were English Setters.  They were beautiful sweet outdoor dogs.  In keeping with the Clampett comparison, up until then we'd only known dogs to be guards of homes by day and porch companions by evening.  There was no mixing dog and human company indoors.  Only fancy people had dogs without fleas after all.

So in 1996, when Gus had been chosen, named, and adopted, Joseph and I had already moved on to our second agreement: he HAD to be an indoor dog.  Or at least one of those hybrid types.  My mother agreed under the condition that she would have nothing to do with the house training of this animal.  If he was not house trained by some certain date, he would be booted to the Clampett-kennel.

The accuracy of my memories vs. the memories my parents have of this time are questionable.  (I need to ask Joey what he remembers...)  I recall something to the effect of two kids constantly armed with spray cleaners and rolls of paper towels, constantly cleaning up piles of puppy poo.  In fact, I vividly remember one instance when I was chasing after Gus and slipped in a puddle of his pee that made me fall so hard and so fast I was sure I broke my tail bone.  I remember laying in the warm wet, crying, while Joey stood over me laughing and pointing.

My parents remember things the same way all parents remember their kids' good deeds- filled with threats and whines.  But the point remains the same.  Gus took an all 'round sucky year (a bored teenage girl and a bored prepubescent boy living in a log cabin on 24 acres without cable), and made it great.  He gave us a purpose, he made us laugh, he kept our feet warm at the foot of our beds at night (a feeling we'd never experienced before).

...

Not long after we'd bought him, I began dating (if you can call it that) the school turd.  He was tall, blonde, he played soccer, and was cute by Georgia suburban measure.  He was also full of trouble.  My mother affectionately and appropriately called him Eddie Haskel (3rd and final tv reference).

I threw my first (maybe only?) party in that house that year, after my parents conceded to pretend to be out of town while really only watching Poirot (gotcha!  4th tv reference!) at my grandparents' house next door.  Once I convinced my mom that my friends didn't want cupcakes baked into ice cream cones as snacks (or any snacks that couldn't be drunk for that matter), I had victoriously made my rite of passage into the scary world of teenage girl, endorsed by Zima.

Blonde troubled soccer player boy told me that he bought me a gift, and that he needed to get it out of the glove compartment of his Ford Bronco.  I sat on the porch swing, waiting for what I thought would be earrings or a box of chocolates.  No, instead Eddie Haskel brought over a small bag of CRANK, the classy drug that hookers make in trailer kitchens.  (This was the same guy who bought me an ETIQUETTE BOOK as a Christmas present, just so you know.)

I was shocked.  And then scared.  And then pissed.  I suppose he was picking up on my vibe, and in turn became somewhat defensive and pissed himself.  After telling him that I would never... you know... I mean, what?... like, don't you have to have at least smoked pot before you go sniffing meth powders?... unbeknownst to me, he decided it would be funny to give Gus a little bit.

I'm in-tears-livid when I realize what has happened.

Everyone laughed as they watched him run in circles and fall off the porch.  Had I known at the time that his heart wasn't going to explode that night, I'd probably have found it funny too.  But I was so sad.  I wanted everyone to leave so that I could make sure he wouldn't die and so that I could whisper an apology to him. (These are also the same winners that used to tie up alley cats to the tailgates of their pick-up trucks, just so you know.)

My night dove and my heart was broken; that was the first time I really understood what Man's Best Friend meant.

...

Fast forward ten years.  I'm married, and I have two young children.  We don't yet have a dog living in our own home, so we still claim Gus as ours.  My parents have moved out of the log cabin and into suburbia.  Joseph comes home to visit a couple times a year from college in New York, most excited to get the best greeting from Gus.  Gus spends most of his days under my dad's feet in his wood shop, or annoying my mom while she sews and cooks.  All of my parents' neighbors know Gus by name, greeting him as though he's another person.  He rarely needed a leash, as he never left my dad's side on walks.  And he was known to forget that bees ought not be eaten.

...

Fiona was most torn up when I told her the news.  She began crying and said, "But he wasn't sick!"  I explained that dogs can often be sick even if they don't seem it; that dogs are far more stoic than humans.

Through tears she asked, "Will he at least get his privates back in heaven?"  And folks, let this be our parting words:  Gus is probably loving up some bi**hes as I type this, with all his Kibbles and Bits.  But we sure miss you here, buddy.

*** I'll post a picture here shortly.