What's This Tuesday Crap?

Seriously, who invented this? Monday ended yesterday; the drama and trouble with it should have ended too. What's this "second Monday" nonsense?

This morning, I'm blessed that I didn't wake up to J walking out of the house and closing the door behind him, and realizing he'd spilled 25% of the purple-ish Kool-Aid all over the fridge and floor....but I woke up to shreds of paper on my floor (they look like sandpaper), and a nasty smell. And then the fighting. Oh, the fighting. Now, in their defense, they usually don't live together, they're opposite genders AND there's an almost-5 years age difference, so it's not likely that they'll be best friends, but oh the DRAMA.

No joke, as soon as I posted this picture, G exclaimed at J, so I turned around to find my son sucking on a light bulb like it was candy. He gave it to me when I rushed him, and I screwed it in...and then sat and laughed. I can't make this stuff up. It's like those memes of mom's of young kids, that they must have Tourette's because you can regularly hear them saying things like, "QUIT LICKING THE CAT'S BUTT." With my son, apparently, his lollipop of choice is a lightbulb. And he does this on second Monday. WHO INVENTED THIS CRAP. I want to personally tar and feather them.

Tuesday was the day I picked to consistently blog, because the terror of Monday has worn down, it wasn't originally my walking day, and maybe boredom of no Husband at home would drive my imagination to overwork. Alas, I picked second Monday. Woe is me. Meanwhile, while my daughter complains about how long Proverbs 30 is, and gets mad at J for wearing her pretty pink, sparkly cowboy boots, I will suck on my protein shake, make my shopping list and dream of 5:30 when husband is expected to be home and I can run away to do my shopping ALONE. Mommy just needs a tiny bit of sanity...it's not even Hump Day yet.

Update: the shreds of paper on my room? Turns out they're bits of the drywall that my son destroyed by slamming my door open. Awesome.

One Year Ago

A year ago today, I got the email that turned the day into the very worst day of my life. I checked my email while sitting at my MIL's house, with G and J playing and Husband fishing with his dad, and there was an email from my lawyer's paralegal/assistant, with an attachment. I opened it, and read it, and for a minute I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I couldn't see anything but the most terrible words I've ever seen.

The judge awarded custody to my ex. I lost her. I couldn't even look at the reason why, or what it said the adjustments would be. All I could do was cry. G and MIL were frantically asking me what was wrong, what had happened. I couldn't find the words. All I could do was hand the phone to MIL and pull G to me in the tightest, most tragic, soul-clinging hug I've ever given that girl. She kept asking what was wrong but I couldn't answer her. I was too tied up in gut-wrenching sobs. My MIL started crying too, as she read, and then came to hug us both. J stood at a distance, just watching us. Just like his dad, he has no idea what to do when women are crying.  Finally I gained a tiny bit of composure and told G what had me so upset. I'll never forget how she cried; it was like a death. She sobbed and threw herself on my neck, and I did the same with her. But I couldn't breathe. I felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, and I needed help. I got up, moved G to MIL and went outside and gagged. I felt like I was going to puke but I never did. I called Husband and told him. He'd told me before court that he knew if I lost G, he'd lose me, because I'd be a ghost of myself. He had no idea how true that would become. Then I called my mom, and my grandparents. All over the place there were tears and prayers, and meanwhile I just sat staring. I had cried all my tears and I ended up worrying my in-laws, from just sitting motionless, not able to engage myself in anything.

When we got home from my in-laws I put G to bed and then I curled up on the couch, my head in my mom's lap, and just cried. The pain....you have no idea. I finally read through it. I didn't lose her because I'm a crappy mom. I lost her because Husband and I were moving within 2 years and my ex wasn't. That was it. No judgements about my parenting methods, no accusations, except that we were moving home to claim our inheritance and X wasn't moving from his state at all. That was, and still is a hard pill to swallow.

A couple days ago, we FINALLY got everyone on board to get the modified agreement signed, agreed and ruled. The judge has lost it a few times, the other lawyer has forgotten it once or twice, and through it all there has been some contact with my lawyer. Every time I talk to her she tells me she still cries over my case. She still has nightmares. That she will never try a case with that judge again, without a jury. That the court reporter is astonished as well.

What happened that day shook Husband's faith, to be perfectly honest. He stopped going to church for a bit after that. I was a bit hurt by that, but I understand the issue. He's back now.

Over this past year I've worked very, very hard to keep things friendly with G's dad and stepmom, and the progress we've made sometimes astonishes even us. I hope it keeps going; the tension was terrible for G, and she learned to manipulate it pretty hardcore. Even so, with the good things that have come out of this, I still typed this blog with tears in my eyes. Some pretty awful things came about after court that have forever changed my life, as well as the good things. I wouldn't wish such an experience on anyone, and looking back I can tell you the things I would have changed, but of course, had I changed them, who knows where I'd be right now.

Books, Books, My Kingdom for More Books!

Reading has been a passion of mine for many a long year. My mother read to me before I learned how to myself, spent many, many dollars on books for me, and passed on her love of reading to me once I learned the skill myself. I wasn't in kindergarten yet before I read my very first book completely by myself, Toad On The Road. To this day I keep a copy because I'm a raging sentimentalist and I still smile when I see it. I've read it to both of my children.

This year, before G came to me for the summer, her stepmom messaged me about a book program that Barnes & Noble is sponsoring, where a child can read 8 books and receive a free book upon the surrender of their book log. Naturally, I signed G up and talked to her about it. And, when I posted on my still-despised-but-still-used-too-often FB, a local friend recommended the library reading program as well. Of course! Why didn't I think of that? And so, once G arrived and we began walking, we walked to the library, which is just barely closer than the bookstore and infinitely cheaper as well. And so she signed up for that one, which asked 10 books instead of 8. Easy peasy! And then, much to my delight, it was suggested by a librarian that I sign J up as well, not to read himself, but to be read to. Of course! And so I signed him up too. Today, 6/14/2015, G finished her 10 books. We used 8 of them for the Barnes & Noble challenge (wink), so she's done with the challenges...but don't think I'm going to let her quit reading. She still has just over 2 weeks left here! I finished both J and G's library book logs...and discovered I could sign up as well. Not for a prize, like the kids can, but I love the idea of keeping track of the books I read. So I will. And once I finish the reading program, I'll print up my log and continue on my own. I can't keep track of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of books I've read in my 28 years of life, but I'm tickled at the idea of starting now. It might even inspire me to do more, now that I have access to a library and will be able to keep count of my "successes." And so, here I begin. :D

What's your favorite book? Author? Genre? Why do you enjoy them so??

I've often enjoyed learning and studying about the Tudor Dynasty in England, and lucky for me there's plenty of research out there, not to mention historical fiction, and wonderful authors. My favorite is Phillippa Gregory, who has a wonderful story-telling talent. There are fictional factors to her books, but most of them are primarily historically based, and when you read her notes in her books, you can see that she did research and deeply considered how much of the stories she writes that she can fabricate. I encourage you, if you like spins put to stories where you already know the endings but find you can't put the book down regardless, to look up Phillippa's collection of English historical fiction, where she covers several generations above and below Henry VIII (who might be my favorite element of that time period).

Memories

Several months ago, Husband's dad started working on converting their old family movies from VHS format to DVDs, and making copies so that each kid has a set of their family movies. When they found out that MIL was pregnant with Husband, FIL went out and bought one of those old over-the-shoulder video cameras, which were, of course, top of technology at the time. And they proceeded to record memories, from the time Husband was born until about 1999, so 11 years' worth of memories. I get to see how my husband grew up, and believe me, that can be very valuable. Last night after we put G and J to bed, we stayed up to do laundry and watch these movies, and it came down to a scene of Husband's and his sister's combined birthday party, when Husband would have been turning 5. The only other family members there were his paternal grandparents. Husband's Grandad died about 2 years ago, right after Husband came home from his Afghanistan deployment. J is named for Grandad but they never met in person. We went home for the funeral and that was the first real time I've ever seen Husband sit down and cry. He doesn't do that much. But there he sat, in those rows, in his Class A's uniform as one of the pallbearers, crying over his grandad. We have much respect, and owe much, to Grandad, as a family.

Last night as we watched that video about his birthday party, Husband started telling me about when he turned 12...but he couldn't finish the sentence for awhile. He started crying again. Second time in our marriage that I've ever seen him cry, and both times were over his grandad. Finally he finished it. When he turned 12, his grandad came by to ask FIL if he could take Husband fishing. And so they went out to the local creek, which is a popular fishing spot, and sat in Grandad's boat for 3 hours. No fish were caught. Not even a nibble. But that whole 3 hours, Grandad told Husband stories, about his childhood, his family, and things that were important to him. I don't know what details there are beyond that, but it got me thinking about my own time similar to that, when I was a teenager.

As the product of a split family, and then a blended family, I have more than one set of grandparents, and so my family has become rather large. I've spent a decent amount of time with every facet of my family. Even when my biodad and mom split in 1993, it didn't tear me away from my paternal family, and they welcomed my mom into the fold just like she was still their DIL, and indeed, to this day, my stepdad has become a loved part of my paternal family as well. Awkward? Sometimes. Especially since at my wedding my stepdad and biodad sat RIGHT next to each other in the front row. But it's my family and I love them all. My biodad's parents are affectionately referred to as MawMaw and PawPaw. PawPaw has a memory like a steel trap most of the time, and family history (and numbers, a talent I inherited from him) are especially foremost in his mind. One of our favorite things to do when I was a teenager was to go down to the basement and play ping pong. We could get competitive sometimes, but my favorite memory was the time we batted the ball back and forth for over an hour as I listened to my PawPaw tell me stories of his childhood, my family history and ancestry, and all sorts of his adventures. And so as Husband sat and cried over this particular memory of his own grandad telling him his past, I began to get teary on my own, thinking of, and dreading, the day when I'd see pictures and videos of my PawPaw, and of course, then my Gramps and Grandpa, and remember times when I spent time with them....only to know that they aren't there anymore. I'm fortunate enough that all my grandpas are alive. Gramps is my mom's dad, and Grandpa is my stepdad's dad. I don't know my stepmom's parents; they got married after I did so she wasn't a huge part of my childhood. MawMaw and Grama (counterpart to Gramps) are also both still alive and in pretty good health, considering their ages, but Grandma, counterpart to Grandpa, died last year of dementia, and that's still painful as well, remembering all the things she taught me and gave me.

Growing older is hard. Even if I'm not old, people I love are starting to be. I already know I'm going to fall to pieces when my grandparents pass on, and when my mom or stepdad go, I don't know how I'm going to deal with that. Death is a hard part of life, and while I'm not exactly scared to die myself, I'm scared of my loved ones dying.

Confessions of an Old Lady

I haven't written for 2 weeks. Don't ask why; I don't even have an answer except: G is here. And with G comes extra chaos. Beloved chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

Tonight, though, I was hit by a big, massive emotional mess that is: I am old. 10 years ago, no, I wasn't bikini fit, I was 18, I was flexible and agile and full of energy and zest for what I wanted life to be. Tonight, was a stark realization that I am now a fat old fart. I cried. Oh yes, I did. I cried. Freaked the whole family out too, because I didn't exactly want to tell everyone that I was crying like a baby over the fact that I couldn't do a back bridge with my girl as easily as I did 10 years ago. That it took sheer will and determination and a really unattractive grunty scream to get my large heiny in the air, lifted by my biceps and what pathetic abs are hiding under my fluff. And I'm sure it has something to do with where I am in my cycle, because, seriously, I laid there, after I plopped down (I'd had to move to carpet because I couldn't do it on the hard flooring in the living room/kitchen) and fought off tears. And J stood over me, with his cute little blue eyes and clearly-fake eyelashes, holding his sippy cup in one arm and blanket ("Sockie") in the other...and he said, "Aw yoo ok?" He knew. He knew I was having an emotional breakdown over physical weakness and my obvious signs of aging and as soon as he decided he wasn't going to get any words from me, because I was crying too hard and trying to stay quiet so G and Husband wouldn't hear, he stood at my head and said, "Mommy." And I knew he didn't care any more and just wanted me to flip him the way his daddy does. And so I did. Twice. And then he wandered away because, clearly, Mommy is so weak that even her flips of a 25-lb skinny toddler are pathetic.

And then Husband realized something was up, so he came in and saw, and then G saw, and all of a sudden it was a "What's wrong with Mommy" fest. And I didn't have words. Because I realized that I was simply crying over getting old, which I knew would happen, but I guess I'm just not ready for it. I don't have the energy to get to the point where I can do a backbend easily, but I hate where I'm at now, so maybe my cycle is creating a vicious circle of self-loathing.

I've never felt comfortable in my own skin. Never. A crowd of 100 people could stand around me for hours, telling me that I'm beautiful, smart, funny, a wonderful person...and I will smile and thank them and inside, think, "Ok, but what do you REALLY think about me?" I've never felt pretty. I know I have blue eyes and soft hair, and a decent smile that children and life have begun to ruin, and were I to apply my features to someone else I would likely think that person is very pretty, but I have never managed to think that about myself, no matter what I tell other people. I stress eat, and I'm stressed a lot, and I've had 2 kids, and I have a dysfunctional thyroid, so you can probably guess how I feel about my pant size and bat wings. I know I'm smart but because of how I apply it, I become an outcast, so sometimes I wonder if it's really a good thing, if it would be better to be a bit dumber.

I play Sims. Not because I like playing God over people I've created, but because I can live vicariously through them. Because I can make them live lives I wish I could experience. Through them, I can travel. Go on adventures. Go to school. Be rich. I can do all sorts of things that my life will just never add up to, simply because of the choices I've made. I can't really travel, now, until there are no kids dependent on me, and even then, the kids would need to be able to take over the farming business for a decent amount of time. I can't go to school for lack of money, and the times I've tried I've given up, much to my chagrin. If the farm goes the way it has been for the last several decades, or, ideally, better, I can achieve richness to some degree, but even then, it will be well managed and properly directed. There's no such thing as a thyroid transplant, or TRUST ME I would be all over that, like white on rice.

So maybe this blog is just the expression of a temporary identity crisis. I don't know. I know God has a plan for me, and I know that no matter what I regret, THIS is the path I'm meant to be on, but sometimes, like when I'm hanging upside down in a colossal effort to do a back bridge, I don't LIKE my current path and wish for another one. One where I can wear a bikini. And I didn't chop my hair off a year ago. And I can go spend a month in Ireland, just drinking tea in the country.

I Am A Woman

An apple is an apple, from the time the flower pollinates and puts out the fruit, to the time it rots, falls off the tree and lays there to become part of the earth again. It is biologically geared to be an apple. Painting it orange and ripping the stem off doesn't magically mean it's an orange now. It still tastes and smells like an apple. If you juice it, it will be apple juice, not orange juice.

Bruce Jenner is a man. "Identifying" with a woman doesn't magically turn you into one. Injecting hormones, cutting your willy off and squeezing yourself into a corset doesn't either. I was biologically geared to be a female. God created me to be a girl, then I grew up, had girly feelings, had babies, and have a mother's instinct. Surgery may change the world's perspective of me from female to male, but I can't change my chromosomes. I can't change the parts I was born with. God had a plan for me when He created me and that involved me being the gender I was born to be. He doesn't make mistakes. He made us intricately; we're still learning about how amazing the human body can be, what does what to it. HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING. Why is it, all of a sudden, that deciding that, clearly, we know better than God when it comes to ourselves, warrants completely changing everything He did, and now we're "brave" for it?

No. I haven't read the article. I do know enough, though to know that Bruce is a very confused man. He still has his male parts. It took a lot of man-made effort to morph him into the "woman" he thinks he is. I'm insulted by it, frankly. I may not be overly excited with how my body looks right now, but I have earned several titles that only women may hold. He can't hold those titles. I am a wife. A mother. A sister. A daughter. A daughter-in-law. I can almost promise you that if I'd once been a man and decided that I wanted to be a woman, and came clean, my kids wouldn't exist because their fathers would have wanted nothing to do with me. They are straight men, and regardless of my eventual decision to be a "woman," I highly doubt either of them would ever have been able to look past the fact that at one point in time, I was a boy.

I am not a male. No amount of surgery to shallowly ease my confused mind could ever make me a male. I still have female parts. Can male parts be conjured? Sure. But they wouldn't work the way a naturally-born male's would, because they're not natural. I will continue to have XX chromosomes. I was born Amy Jo Kachel and no surgery, no amount of money and publicity can change that. I'm not sure why Bruce thinks it can for him, except that society today is so ready to break all rules, boundaries and barriers and justify every little sin it can come up with, that it will support any number of abominations.

Injecting purple dye into my skin doesn't mean I'm a purplasian now. It means I have insecurities about myself.

What makes me sickest of all: ESPN has announced their intention to award "Caitlyn" Jenner the Bravery Award. FOR WHAT?!?! There was no sacrifice here. Too much reward, too little sacrifice. I'm disgusted that America has so warped it's definition of bravery that we now only consider social "trailblazing" as bravery, instead of actual sacrifices. Hey, ESPN. Go see what soldiers have died this year. Are their sacrifices less brave than Bruce? Their lost lives pay for YOUR freedom. "Caitlyn" pays your cell phone bill. Get your priorities straight.

And maybe I'll lose friends over this. Maybe I'll get hate mail, maybe people won't like me anymore. But calling an apple an apple isn't hate speech, it's not bullying, it's not close-minded. It's the truth. Sorry if the truth offends you; maybe you need to reanalyze why you find glorified lies more appealing than truth.