Ooh, shiny old things are some of my favorite things!
When I took this picture on Sunday, I realized, Hey, I have a door for Norm’s #ThursdayDoors! I always enjoy those posts, but I have the kind of life that pretty much exposes me to the same dozen doors every day.
Sunday’s Enrichment Excursion took me to this door at the Indiana War Memorial Museum.
We’re not cookin out today.
There’s talk of chicken. Although Moo’s hung up on eating at the place of the best homophobic chicken sammiches, I’m leanin toward fried, or maybe tinga (thanks, Sherry.)
I’m makin a simple strawberry dessert. Do we really need actual food?
The Mister wants to show the girls Star Wars 4, 5, and 6.
I desperately want them to appreciate the adorability of Ewoks.
As for Memorial Day, I took the girls out and about yesterday to cover some basics. It was a beautiful day, if too hot for Joeys, to drive all over the city, listening to music and drinking fountain soda.
I took them to the grave sites of my mother’s parents, maybe 15 miles north of the city. I hadn’t been in about 9 years, so I had to follow my instincts when it came to how to find the cemetery and how to find the marker within. My instincts didn’t fail me, and just as I thought I’d make one more lap around the block before I’d check GPS, Sassy cheered me on, “Just follow your gut,” she said. THAT, I have taught her well.
I’d tell you my gramma led me to her, but y’all might not buy into that.
This was my fun gramma. Yes, her name was Willie. Willie Mae. If you know us ferreal, then you know that we have a tendency to give our firstborn girl children unusual, and perhaps manly names. Gramma Willie loved a good time. My memories of her are full of playful moments and fun. Losta board games, adventures, and books.
I don’t remember my mother’s father, although there are many pictures of me with him, and I’ve heard tell he thought I was the best thing since sliced bread.
I’d tell you he hung around preschool Moo, but y’all might not buy into that, either.
I took flowers for my grandmother, and someone else had already gifted my grandfather’s side of the grave with a flag.
My grandfather was highly-decorated in WWII, but I don’t remember with what. The Mister used to know, and made a big deal of telling me about it, but now he can’t remember either. Anyway, there’s a veteran placard on the back of their headstone.
I took photos for my mother, and I know she was pleased.
I felt more sentiment standing there yesterday than I’d felt in a long time.
After that, we went to the Indiana War Memorial Museum, which is downtown.
I also drive downtown by a sense of familiarity, rather than directions, which drives my husband crazy, which made us both glad that he stayed home. I know where stuff is, but I know it in terms of northeast or southwest of the circle, or “over by the zoo” as opposed to cross streets, although I do have some of the cross streets memorized, because one-way.
For those of you who think of Indiana as only corn, basketball, and racin, I must tell you, it is not. In the words of my dear friend Tori on Indy, “Holy crap! It’s a thriving metropolis!” Here’s someone’s Pinterest photo of the Indianapolis skyline.
We are the 12th largest city in the US, outranking San Francisco, Atlanta, DC, and even Las Vegas, but you don’t think about it.
Here’s where the War Memorial is:
such a pretty day, i like my own picture!
Our first stop inside the cool marble walls of the War Memorial was the ladies’ room, because hello, Big Gulp. Sorry the photo is blurry. It’s a dark place, and I used my iPhone.
Once we entered the ladies’ room, an older Asian woman with broken English followed and asked me if it was the bath. I said, “Yes, after I give them this small education on period pieces.” Don’t you know, she stopped and listened to me talk to the girls about the art deco benches and lamps? This cracks me up. I can even be the tour guide of toilets, y’all.
The girls don’t know much about war. I mean, they know things related to war, because they lived on an Army base, and they know a lot of vets, but they don’t have much of a grasp on history yet.
It’s hard to say why they read Anne Frank so young, and teach WWII so old. Last weekend we watched Schindler’s List with Sassy. She read The Book Thief over the winter. Her cousin Simon is an expert on WWII, her daddy’s a history major, and her mother thinks all moments are teachable, so her education is certainly enriched, but still, she’s 12.
When you show her a hallway, up and round and down, lined with the names of the fallen, she gasps in amazement. When you tell her that’s just Indiana, and to multiply that by 48 states, she is overcome.
She’s a mature 12.
Moo is an immature 11, but she preferred non-fiction for years, so her knowledge about war is perhaps less detailed, but better about facts.
I took several pictures, but mostly to share with The Mister who has never been. We agree, when Moo has learned about war at school, we will return and spend a longer length of time.
moo knew this was a cobra. i did not.
i used to know a lot about this. i’ve forgotten most of it.
Moo likes to climb everything, so we climbed all the stairs that we could climb.
Here’s the view from the balcony in the center of the building.
Lovely, hm? That’s Veteran’s Park and the central library. We love the library, so we often see the park from the other side.
pro patria — for one’s country
After all the heat, sun, and steps, I did not feel well at all.
I’d planned to visit the mausoleum where my other grandparents are laid to rest, but we stopped to visit at The Palace of Rules instead. MIL and FIL were feeling well, and so I spontaneously invited them to dinner.
I’ll stop by the Packards next week, but I probably won’t tell you about it.
I like yellow things, except yellow jackets. And maybe school buses.
Over the years, I have put many a kid on many a school bus, morning after morning.
Before August of 2013, I never, in the history of my mommyhood, had one ounce of trouble getting my kids onto the school bus.
Not one time had I ever failed to get my children onto the school bus. Not once.
Sure, for a few years I drove them to school, because the schools they went to didn’t have buses, but school buses have long been a part of our lives.
Although I have alluded to the troubles here and there, I could not possibly relate all the dramatic school bus stories we’ve gathered since moving here. Suffice it to say we have drawn the short-stick on bus reliability.
For the last school year, the bus number changed three times in two weeks. We’d be at the bus stop at 7:05 and a bus would come anywhere from 7:10 to not at all.
Then it changed again mid-winter.
After the new bus driver waved us down and we walked through a foot or more of snow, 100 feet or so from our stop, the idiot bitch driver actually said to me that she could drop them home, but she couldn’t pick them up at their stop because she had to make a left turn adjacent to our street.
I had words with her.
I waved my letter from Transportation at her and said things like, “talk to your boss…your job…Transportation…regulations…well over an eighth of a mile…schedule…four more available left turns…”
One day, while we waited in the ice and snow, a previous bus driver stopped and told me, “Just put em on here, she’s late.”
It actually went that way for quite a time. We’d wait for 5-40 minutes in the freezing temps and eventually, usually, one bus or another took them.
Spring came, but still, we never knew which bus would come from which direction to collect our kids, but it was warmer, so we complained less.
Yes, we spoke to bus drivers, to Transportation, and at times, even the principal. This yielded short-term results.
Fall 2014 changed everything, and the girls had a new bus driver. I’ll be damned if she didn’t show up on schedule every single day, like bus drivers should. Furthermore, she drove through a parking lot to pick them up, as well as the kids down the way, because it was Safer For The Children. I loved her. (Miss Stephanie, if you’re reading this, I LOVE YOU!)
Every time I baked cookies or cupcakes or sweet breads, I took her some. I thanked God for her every day. Good ol’ reliable Miss Stephanie.
There is no more Miss Stephanie.
Now there is whoever can do it.
A lot of times, that’s one driver running two routes.
Now there are a lot of automated phone calls at 6am and 2pm.
“Bus #189 will be subbed by bus #__ and will arrive approximately 20-25 minutes late.”
What it should say is that sometimes no bus will come, or your kids will be home 50 minutes late. You will have to embrace the panic attacks, and maybe call your FIL to come take them.
I’ve since found out that bus drivers in our township are paid $100 a day. While that’s a generous compensation for a few hours of each day, it’s not even close to what someone should earn for dealing with the madness that is the school bus. I suppose, come the bitter cold hours of pre-dawn February, $100 a day does not seem worth it to many people.
Additionally, we don’t have enough power in number. There are only two families on this block, and although the the other family’s kids come home on the bus, they are driven to school by their nana every day.
A lot of winter mornings, I want to flag down their nana, and ask her if my kids can take a fun ride in her trunk…
Four more days.
This coming fall brings with it TWO different buses, one for each girl.
Do you think the third year will be the charm?
“I’d like an iced venti decaf white mocha, no whip,”
“Will that be all?”
“No, I’d also like an iced venti white mocha frappuccino and–”
“Will that be all?”
“Two grande decaf caramel frappuccinos and a pup cup.”
“Okay, I’ve got two iced venti white mochas, one decaf, one regular and two grande caramel frappuccinos, no whip. Will there be anything else?”
My husbands lips disappear, his jaw clenches, and the vein on his forehead reaches out in attempt to choke the woman through the speaker.
I holler, “Whatever you do, do not mark the cups!”
Moo says, “Oh great. Now we’re not getting coffee.”
“Drive around, I’ll go in.”
Once inside, I inform the barista that I will be ordering four drinks, and that I would also like a pup cup. He nods, puts a tiny cup on the counter, and looks at me in anticipation.
I say I’d like an iced venti decaf white mocha. He grabs a plastic cup, makes an X, then writes WM on the bottom. He asks if I want the whip.
“I do not, thank you for asking.”
He indicates this on the cup and I continue with my order.
All the cups are marked properly, all the drinks are made properly, Sadie gets her pup cup. We drive away. Life is good.
i guess angel is okay with caffeine. lucky bitch.
“I’d like the salmon with rice and asparagus, please.”
“I’ll have the black and blue burger, with fries.”
“Chicken tenders with honey mustard and broccoli.”
“Ribs, mashed potatoes, and carrots for me.”
“Will that be all?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Our server doesn’t write down a single thing. This only goes one of two ways; either we have an expert or an idiot and you just never can tell — until your food arrives.
Of course, it’s not our server who brings our food, because this is one of those places where all servers run all plates.
Hey, Restaurants? Your servers and your patrons hate this policy. Servers would rather be responsible for their own tables and patrons prefer accuracy over speed.
“Can I have honey mustard?”
“Sure thing!”
“Wait, I’m supposed to have rice, not a potato.”
“Oh!”
Half of our table eats.
The not-our-server server brings honey mustard.
Everyone else eats. I drink and tell everyone how tasty their food looks.
Our server finally arrives with a new plate, with rice instead of potato, and says to me, “Sorry about that, but almost everyone orders a potato with the salmon.”
I smile faintly.
Oh, I see, I am to blame. I should have ordered a potato. I guess almost everyone is happy when their salmon comes. Those who are not happy are less happy when they hafta wait for new salmon with the correct side. The kitchen staff is furious that Salmon with Potato is not a fixed order.
Or could it be because our server didn’t write it down?
The thing I dislike most about children is that one must repeat everything. I’ve often thought mothers and teachers could do with mind-reading tape recorders.
“Turn to page 22.”
“Page 22.”
“22.”
“Wash your hands.”
“Wash your hands.”
“Wash your hands.”
“Wash your hands.”
“Wash your hands.”
“Hang up your towel.”
“Hang up your towel.”
“Hang up your towel.”
“Stop hitting your sister.”
“Stop hitting your sister.”
“Stop hitting your sister.”
“Stop hitting your sister.”
“Fuck it, hit her back.”
is that all?
When I give chores to the school-aged children, I give them in a series. Do one chore, come back and I’ll tell you the next. They like to ask, “Is that all?” every time I tell them to do something. After a while, I like to widen my eyes and say, “No, that’s not all. It will never be all. You will never be done, ever.”
Cause they do me like this:
“Go into the big bathroom. Take the rug up by folding it in half. Take it outside and shake it. Empty the trash can. Sweep the bathroom floor, under, around, alongside, behind the door. Put the rug and the trash can back.”
…
“Okay, next?”
“Did you shake the rug?”
“Yes.”
“Did you put the rug back?”
“Yes.”
“Did you put the trash can back?”
“No. You didn’t tell me to empty it.”
“I did. Because when adults sweep floors, we pick up all the stuff off the floor and since we picked up the trash can, we might as well empty it, because why would you leave trash in a can while you’re cleaning? I mean, why even shake the rug?”
Now, I wish I could say that this was the first time that my child ever swept the bathroom floor, but all of my kids started this chore around the age of six, so really, you would think this would be simple by now, but it’s very, very hard. It’s harder than algebra, harder than remembering to put on deodorant, and like, way, way harder than making flatbread from scratch.
That will be all.
Does anyone listen to you? I bet that’s nice.
We had a predicted high of 67F/20C yesterday, although I don’t know how warm it actually got. In the afternoon, I opened all the windows and ran errands. Sometime before six o’clock my family members picked up quilts and gingerly asked if they could close some of those windows.
“ARE YOU COLD?!” I asked, with a mixture of defense and perplexity.
They all nodded.
“Yes, alright, fine.”
Y’all know what they were thinkin, don’tcha?
Is it cold enough for ya, Ice Queen?!?
After dinner, I closed one of our bedroom windows, but I left the other cracked, because you know, I hate to sleep hot.
random lol
I’m pretty sure Indy has had snow in May at least once. I vaguely remember somethin about snow closing the track. I should call my parents to confirm, but maybe I’ll just ask The Mister to call his parents instead. We’ll never know, now will we?
Moo and I went out to cut peonies last night before the sun went down.
I am the idiot who left the dog out back.
Sadie barked from the front porch.
“Is that our dog?”
“Oh my God, yes, that’s our dog. Please let the dog in.”
“Aww, she’s so cold!”
“She’s fine. She’s a dog.”
look! peonies!
When we went to bed, The Mister had already closed that one cracked window. Good thing he did, because there was no chance of sleepin hot.
I slid into bed with the scary cold sheets and asked, “You want I add another quilt?”
“YES!”
Now, it did occur to me that I could turn the heat on. No, I don’t know how cold it was, but it’s May, how cold could it have been?
I slept like a rock.
This morning Moo huddled up on my side of the bed. I wrapped my arm around her, got the shock of her cold nose and noticed her teeth were chattering. I asked, “Would you like to turn the heat on?”
She nodded.
As we left for the bus and the furnace chugged on, it was 47 outside and 57 inside. Isn’t that nice? Aren’t you happy that I’m not livin in Georgia, bitchin about the heat? Surely you wanna know what the temp is where I usta live.
It’s 89, feels like 92F/33C, with sunshine, 50% humidity, and a 9 on the UV index.
Mercy!
(This means Moo’s the only one who could go out to get the mail without sunscreen, because the rest of us are as white as cold, Indiana sheets!)
that cone was yellow, but it didn’t wear sunscreen
We won’t get out of the 50’s here today. That makes me feel warm inside. This hoodie is nice, too.
You wanna talk about the weather? Sunscreen? Escapist pets? Peonies? Go ahead.
I’ve been close with my in-laws since I was 13.
I’ve called them Mom and Dad since maybe 14 or 15.
They’re those kinds of people. Many people think of them as second parents or at the least, as people you can always turn to for support.
I love them.
They love me.
MIL likes me more than FIL and that’s okay, because I like her better, too. Some people just get on better with one another. When I do connect to FIL it feels wonderful, so there is that.
But they’re not my parents.
They’re The Mister’s parents.
My parents don’t do obligation.
I don’t do obligation.
MIL is big into obligation.
I don’t do obligation.
The Mister doesn’t do obligation.
Generally, we don’t feel obligated. But sometimes, when the stars are all out of order and nothing makes sense, MIL can tell we’re disconnected and this bothers her, she worries, and she begins the inquiry. Her soul can only be soothed by the knowledge of what is keeping us distant.
10% of the time, it’s just us. We are busy. We are caught up in our own lives.
90% of the time, that woman has sniffed out an actual issue and someone is sick, stressed-out, something has gone wrong.
As an empath, I can never fault her for saying she knew something was wrong, and as a mother, I can’t fault her for asking, “Why didn’t you tell us?”
We didn’t want to worry her?
We didn’t think she’d understand?
What’re we, twelve?
All this goes straight out the window when it comes to The Mister’s work. Particularly when he was military and deployed.
I know very little about my husband’s jobs.
We have never talked a lot about work.
Do you think The Mister could tell you what I’ve been planting, or how my novel’s comin along, or what paint color I’ve chosen for the powder room?
I know it sounds strange, but we just have a lot of other, more interesting things to talk about.
As a brand new Army wife on post, I learned quickly that people expected you to know what your husband did, his rank, his company, platoon, hell, even now I can’t remember all that crap.
I had no idea.
Me? “Um, mechanical stuff. On like, big stuff with whooshy things, not wheels, like tanks, but not just tanks, people carriers and stuff.”
(If you are knowledgeable in this area, then you know exactly how my ignorance was received.)
Eventually, I was able to say, “E company BSB FSC 3/69 AR” without missin a beat. Seriously, I have no idea.
When I finally got the track mechanic bit down, he told me he was actually working in personnel. Who knew?
It didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter when he worked claims or ran an auto center, and it doesn’t matter now that he’s in finance.
But to my MIL, these things matter. Especially when he deployed.
As deployments dragged on, I began to dread the calls from her, because she would ask me stuff that I couldn’t possibly answer, and sometimes, things he wasn’t even at liberty to tell me, not that I thought to ask.
See, I’d say stupid things like, “He’s good. He’s been runnin a lot lately.” And she’d ask me with whom and I’d be all, “Uhhh…I dunno.”
“He didn’t say?”
“I don’t know. It seemed irrelevant.”
“Where does he run? On the base there?”
“I’m guessin so. I dunno.”
But this would go on and on.
“He got his own room and it has its own bath, so he’s pretty happy.”
“How big is it?”
“I don’t know. Small.”
“Does it have a shower, or a sink, or just a stool?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he have a bed or a cot?”
“I dunno. He did tell me he bought some new sheets.”
“What kind? What color are they?”
“I don’t know.”
I was the most disappointing daughter-in-law that ever there was.
The Mister would email his father about stuff another soldier would understand, but that wasn’t stuff you could tell my MIL any more than it was stuff I wanted to know.
She was upset that she couldn’t find his base on her world map. Of course, I found this positively hysterical. She asked me for longitude and latitude and I was all, “Where the Tigris meets the Euphrates, so I guess The Garden of Eden.”
Awful, awful time.
I begged The Mister to call his parents. He should cover the never ending interrogation, I said. They’re HIS parents, I said.
Which is why, the other day, I alluded to this post’s origin.
Cause this kinda still happens now.
Have I heard from Bubba or Sissy? Guess what? Bubba and Sissy do not reside in a war zone and they have cell phones! She can call them! Isn’t that amazing?!? But I hafta tell her that every single time, because, “Yes, they’re okay” is not enough information. And a lot of what they tell me is too much information for MIL, ya know?
A few weeks ago, I asked, “When’s the last time you talked to your parents?”
…
“You need to call them.”
“You call them.”
“They’re your parents. I call my parents. Hell, I call your parents more than you do. They want to talk to YOU.”
For days and days, I said, “Call your parents.” I said, “You should get off the phone with me and call your parents.”
For days and days, he did not.
Y’all know what happened, don’t you?
MIL called.
“How is he?”
“Has he finished with his schooling?”
“How are his grades?”
“When are his finals?”
“When does his work class start?”
“Will he get special hours for that?”
“Is that at his work?”
Guess how many answers I had?
ZERO
“Now our friend X from church, her son works there, and he works crazy hours and I don’t know if he’s taking this class…”
“Mmhm.”
“Well tell him we’ve been thinkin about him and prayin for him.”
“Okay.”
“Have you heard from Bubba or Sissy lately?”
“Not lately, Mom, but you can always call them and let them know you miss them.”
Now imagine my MIL texting the big’uns on her fucking flip phone.
4-4-3-3-5-5-5-5-5-6-6-6-
So The Mister arrived home, probably well past dark, and I said, “You know how I kept telling you to call your mother? Well guess what? She called.”
Then he laughed and laughed, hearty, nearly maniacal laughter that had his whole body shaking.
Bastard.
Are you the go-between, or does someone else do your dirty work?
Years ago, I read several books by Thich Nhat Hanh because the first one was so helpful that I couldn’t resist reading more of them. Soon after, my life was taken over by baby books and then babies. I think I threw Hanh’s books out with the bathwater, so to speak.
Since Thich Nhat Hanh is a Buddhist monk, his books often focus on meditation, gratitude, kindness, mindfulness, acceptance — you know, important stuff that’s super important to the life of neurotics.
The thing that really struck me, and then stuck with me, was this little anecdote about doing dishes. No one wants to do dishes. Everyone wants the dishes done, so they can do whatever comes after the dishes. So we view the dishes as a chore, and we put off doing them, but as they linger there, waiting for us, we cannot properly relax. We give the dishes the power to rob of us our enjoyment, and this causes the dirty dishes to seem malevolent, and this builds our resentment in doing them. We act like washing the dishes will take away the entire evening, when it takes mere minutes.
The key is to do the dishes with joy.
(I’m supposed to do everything with joy, but I haven’t figured this out entirely. How can I learn to have a root canal with joy, or run from yellow jackets with joy, or find joy in tragic events? Gah, I dunno, I’m a work in progress!)
So when I do my dishes, I think about all the things that Thich Nhat Hanh taught me to. The craziest being more dirty dishes are better. Each dirty dish represents bounty. Not just food, taste, and nutrition, but also as an indicator of how many shared that meal with me.
Doing dishes is a prayer of gratitude.
While I do dishes, I am grateful for food, my husband, the job my husband works, our children, our health, our home, hot, running water, a deep sink, my sprayer, my garbage disposal, my Fiestaware, the use of my hands, my sink not being in Georgia, lemon Joy dish soap…
I still do not love to do dishes, but it’s better this way. Doing dishes is the suck if you think about why Sassy uses 3-4 glasses a day, or why Moo left that milk in her room all weekend, or why The Mister screws the travel mug lids on so tight — the answer to that is, “Because they hate you, Joey.”
Yeah, so…
I ironed today.
Ironically, I usta find joy in ironing. I think I enjoyed taking a sloppy mess and making it sharp and crisp. Then suddenly, I had so much ironing to do, that it no longer felt joyous.
Sincerely, there’s a difference between the pleasure of a stiff white shirt for yourself as opposed to a freshly pressed dress that your child will soon cover with watermelon and sweet corn. Don’t even get me started on uniforms or patches. Ugh.
But something happened to me today while I ironed.
An unexpected smile came upon me.
I started thinkin bout The Mister, and how handsome he is in that blue shirt, and how nice it is that he has a job where he wears the nice shirts, and how he does not work split shifts at the goddamned box factory, thank you very much 2002. Instant happiness in gratitude.
My life is rich with beautiful simplicity.
The other day, I wrote about Casey, my FIL’s cat who lived with us.
As I mentioned, she was often out of doors. One day, we were all on the front porch, (must have been during a Georgia “winter!”) and we watched as Casey sprawled in the garden like a gray tabby sphinx, while a mockingbird flew over her. The mockingbird taunted the cat, which I didn’t think was wise for prey. I know I’d never tease a lion.
The mockingbird swooped over Casey’s head repeatedly, coming ever so close to her head. This taunted and provoked Casey. She flipped her tail and dug her front paws in, ready to pounce. The mockingbird relentlessly whooshed over Casey’s head, making torturous noises at her. I don’t speak bird, but I think it was a lot like, “Nah-nah-nah-ne-nah-nah, you can’t get me!”
Eventually, clawless Casey took that bird from the air and I swear she smiled, as she stood over it and cried. I don’t speak cat, but I do believe she asked, “Fresh mockingbird, anyone?”
I don’t know if they had some sorta unfinished business we weren’t aware of, but from where I sat, it was pretty obvious the mockingbird had it comin.
If you want to read about birds that win, you should check out John Callaghan’s post here.
I rather like this art:
Like a lot of kids, if I woke up scared, I’d head to my parents’ bedroom. Like a lot of parents, they grew annoyed, and began to forbid it. I have memories of them carefully lifting their feet over me, as I lie across the threshold in the morning. Still I felt safe there, closer to them than I did in my own room, which was literally, across the hall.
After my parents divorced, if I woke up scared, I sometimes crept in to sleep with my father. There was plenty of space for me.
My mother remarried, and so, if I woke up scared, and the door wasn’t locked, I could sneak in and lie at the end of bed.
Even as an older kid, I can remember waking up scared and going to their closed door, listening to make sure my dad was snoring.
Because I knew, even then, if there was a man in the house, I was safe.
The years passed by. College took me to the fourth floor, with a nice heavy door and a deadbolt. If I screamed everyone could hear me, except maybe the thrash metal guy below me.
Still, even as a college kid, when my parents began snowbirding, I had trouble sleeping alone in our house. I’d turn on ESPN, and put a body pillow in the recliner with a blanket. This gave the illusion of a man in the house, and I swear, I fell asleep easier.
My first place was a large townhouse, and for the short time I didn’t have roommates, I’d call my not-then MIL when I arrived home late, and she’d stay on the phone with me while I searched the house for Boogey Men.
Eventually, I got a one-bedroom apartment, and it was so small, I slept just fine there. Initially, I worried about my walk-up deck and sliding doors. I had long been told if someone wants in your house, they’ll find a way. Still, I felt like the bar and the glass would at least give me time to jump out the window.
Since The Mister and I got married I’ve always had trouble sleeping while he’s away. Honest to God, I never liked sharing a bed. I need space, air, to breathe. But I got used to him, so the first business trip he took almost killed me. Yes, I missed him, but mostly I thought, omg come home so i can sleep!
We bought our first house, and gave the towhead twins their own room. Sissy couldn’t sleep for about two weeks, because she’d never slept in a room without her brother.
I’d open our bedroom door in the morning, and there she’d be, sleeping at the threshold. She wouldn’t go upstairs or downstairs without me.
As for the boy, well, he suddenly needed a nightlight. Or two. One in his room and one in the hallway and “Leave the bathroom light on!”
Bubba would play alone in his room, but Sissy wouldn’t. Some other kid had to be with her or she wouldn’t go upstairs.
When The Mister reenlisted, he went away in November and came back in June, and I tell you, I’ve never had more insomnia than I did that winter. The winter I tried Ambien. The way the household was set up about drove me crazy. Things that didn’t matter before suddenly did, because there was no man at the house.
I wanted to have the babies in bed with me and the kids on the floor. I wanted them all around me, so I could watch over them and know they were safe. But I’d spent a long time training all the girls to sleep alone…
This is when I let worry and fear take over my life. Sleeplessness and The Baby Daze invited anxiety.
Any noise was surely just a cat. (Or a raccoon.)
I did put a pair of his boots on the front porch, I ain’t even ashamed.
We moved again, and the girls all slept in the same room for a while. As in, Sissy had her own room, but she’d go in and sleep with Sassy instead. It took her a long time to adjust to a new room in a new place.
While we were in Georgia, on a military installation, there were times when men were rare in our neighborhood. It seemed like nobody had a daddy. It was during this time when Sassy would tell me she didn’t feel safe.
“If they’re all gone, who’s here to protect us?”
Under threat of hurricanes, a tornado nearby, if the power went out, when our neighbors were robbed — anything small children are scared of — she’d wish her daddy was home to keep her safe. She felt better when Bubba was home, she’d say.
I’d tell her we had Homeland Security, MP’s, and well, I could be vicious if needed. Mother Bear and all that.
Before we left Georgia, once we had all the stuff in Moo’s room packed, she slept on Sassy’s floor until we all slept together in the living room.
Moo had trouble sleeping in her room when we first got here, too.
Moo still sleeps in Sassy’s room a lot. If she wakes up scared, she goes there, or to us, in the middle of the night.
In the winter, when it’s dark early, they both ask when Daddy will be home, and will beg to stay up, so they don’t go to bed without him in the house.
Last fall, our nephew Simon went away to college, and his little brother didn’t feel safe anymore. Suddenly darkness was an issue. Since Simon wasn’t upstairs ignoring Ace, he couldn’t go up there. Alone. Drew might be beautiful and demure, but she’s a good shot.
You can guess who’s happiest that his brother is home for the summer.
Almost as happy as I am that my husband won’t be deployed again.
Still, through my back door window, there’s a visible alarm, dog dishes, a baseball bat, what looks like a rifle, a golf club, and Army and Marine Corps photos. If The Mister goes away overnight, you can bet there’ll be a pair of combat boots next to the dog dishes, too.
Do you feel safer with a man in the house? If you’re the man in the house, do you just swell with pride?
(I just know there’s gonna be someone on this thread goin on about how cruel my parents were, or how they always let their four kids sleep with them, or how women can protect just as well as men…They obviously don’t know I’m a bad feminist and a wonderful mother!)
Over the years, I’ve attempted to take in or care for cats when other people couldn’t. I counted the other day, and I’ve tried to take in nine. It doesn’t always work out.
There’s always some self-righteous judgmental person who attacks people like me, “Pets are forever!” Yeah, but no. Sorry, I don’t see it that way at all. I think there’s a huge difference between re-homing an animal or returning it to the shelter because it’s not working out, compared to dropping it off in the countryside or abandoning it because it peed on your bed. Situations vary. Everyone’s different.
Sometimes love means giving up what YOU want for what’s best for another.
This is Casey. I have a pile of pictures of Casey, because we had her from 2007 to 2011.
Casey was one of our accidental cats. She worked out.
We took her in when she was almost a year old. A friend of mine got a sudden onset of allergies with her new pregnancy, and couldn’t keep her, so I said we’d take her.
She is an intrepid kitty.
Here she is, having climbed the pergola, meowing her head off because she can’t figure out how to get down. The Mister had to rescue her.
Casey is one of those cats who just loves to be outside. She was an indoor-outdoor cat. (People judge that too.) Casey once took a two-day vacation and we were NOT happy about it.
It drove her crazy when the kids went outside and she couldn’t be with them. She roamed frequently, and always came home. She absolutely guarded the children and the house like a dog would. She also played fetch.
She’s a good hunter. I assume she liked to supplement her meals with fresh game.
If she wasn’t in, I called for her before I went to bed at night, but usually I’d find her as soon as I opened the door. This is Casey telling us she wanted to come back in.
Quirky things about Casey:
Tattling: This is a cat who will alert you to any number of things, like how another cat is trapped in the linen closet, or how there’s a package at the door, or how water is running in the kids’ bathroom. Seriously.
Bringing down dirty laundry: This is a cat who will drag pieces of clothing into the living room and meow to you about it. If you wait long enough, she’ll bring all the stray socks. With only her six-pound frame and her front teeth, she can even bring a pair of men’s jeans downstairs, and who doesn’t like to see a cat pull a bra out of the hamper and drag it into the living room during a party?
Rubbing herself all over purses, backpacks, and baby bags. She’s especially fond of True’s things, perhaps because lotsa kid and animal smells.
We didn’t decide so much not to keep Casey in 2011 so much as we decided to gift her. (More judgement.) FIL had such an affinity with Casey. She looked like this cat his father had had, and because of that, he kept calling her Tiger. Whenever he interacted with her, there was something about his face that reminded me of Bubba’s happy five-year-old face, and with each visit, this happiness only grew.
Cats choose their people, you know.
My mother taught me that. You don’t take the cat you want, you take the cat who chooses you. Even still, when you bring them home, they may choose someone else. They claim their humans.
My in-laws had cats before, but since the second one passed, they hadn’t had a cat in over a decade. FIL commented now and again how much he missed having a cat, but MIL was not in favor of another one.
I told him he should take her home. I told them to talk about it and decide. She was spayed, she wasn’t prone to hairballs, never made a mess, she wasn’t a picky eater, and she had her front claws out. (More judgment.)
They took her back to Indiana with them the following day.
Casey is very happy in her ‘new’ ‘fourth’ home. — From kitten in a box, to my friend’s house, to our house, to The Palace of Rules — She’s completely spoiled. She’s got FIL wrapped around her dew claw, demanding her food on schedule, and alerting him to his neglect, how cats do.
“Excuse me. I see you’re reading a book, but I am going to walk on your book and rub my face on you now. Look at meee, I’m so pretty and fluffy! Don’t you want to brush me?”
She was never much of a lap cat at our house, but she loves to be in FIL’s lap.
She is beloved.
She now sports a rhinestone collar with a bejeweled tag.
When they take trips, they always have someone go over to check on and feed Casey. Sometimes us — We enjoy visiting her, for any reason.
She enjoys clicking at the birds from the sunroom and chasing the paths of critters from window to window.
She still tries to escape outdoors. When we arrive, “Watch for Casey!” is yelled out before a hello. It’s almost always our girls who catch her and bring her back in, because it’s almost always our girls who let her out.
She still tattles. MIL told me just last week, Casey told her the phone was ringing. MIL had the ironing out, and her music on. I was calling her cell phone, and Casey cried and cried. She’d look at MIL and look at the plant shelf, back and forth with the crying. Finally, Casey attempted to point to the phone. Tattle tale kitty!
Casey was absolutely the most interesting cat we ever took in.
We were delighted to have her, but we’re also delighted for placing her elsewhere.
Do you want to express your outrage or are you smiling inside?
joeyfullystated 
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