Raw and Tender

I've been a bit raw and tender lately; like an egg that has cracked and the yolk spread across the kitchen floor.

Yesterday, at the end of my shift, I put my headphones on and settled in to finish my medical records. The headphones serve to isolate me so that I will focus and get my work done. They served their purpose because I looked over and there were my co-workers, performing CPR. Our receptionist had barreled into the treatment area cradling a dying dog. The team had immediately mobilized. One person climbed up onto the table, straddled the dog and began chest compressions. Another placed an IV catheter. A third person set up the ecg. A fourth placed an endotracheal tube and began breathing for the patient. It was just like you'd see on tv. Only the efforts were for a dog rather than a person.

In my ears was Stevie Nicks. Landslide.

"What is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above

Can I sail through the changing ocean tides

Can I handle the seasons of my life

Well, I've been afraid of changin'

'Cause I built my life around you..."

And with that I stepped outside of my body. I floated somewhere to the side of the physical me and felt all the feels. Pride at my co-workers and their amazing dedication and ability. Sorrow for the people who were, in all likelihood, about to lose their dog. Confusion about the randomness of life. Helplessness as I watched it all unfold.

***

The world has been challenging as of late. All the bad things on the news. It's particularly difficult for someone like me. I internalize it. I feel, sometimes too much, for the people involved.

In the midst of all of this my husband and I have been attending a weekly class in Compassion Cultivation Training. These weekly meetings, with a group of strangers, have begun to feel like therapy. Tears have been shed. More than once.

Today we meditated. We inhaled darkness and expelled light. In and out. In and out. In with the darkness, take the darkness into your heart, and, like a furnace with coal, transform the darkness into light. Exhale the light.

We've learned some mantras. And one I now whisper to my patients; especially those that are being euthanized.

May you be safe.
May you be happy.
May you be free.

***

Wage peace with your breath.

 

Breathe in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings and flocks of red wing blackbirds.

Breathe in terrorists 

and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.

 

Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.

 

Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.

 

Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud.

 

Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.

 

Make soup.

Play music; memorize the words for thank you in three languages.

Learn to knit, and make a hat.

Think of chaos as dancing raspberries,

imagine grief 

as the out breath of beauty 

or the gesture of fish.

Swim for the other side.

Wage peace.

Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious:

Have a cup of tea and rejoice.

Act as if armistice has already arrived.

Celebrate today.

~Judith Hill

***

Tonight we were asked to make a commitment for this week. Give away one thing per day. Your time. Your heart. Your genuine attention. Money. A book. A poem. A gift.

I was reminded of something my daughters and I used to do when bad things happened. Something that has fallen by the wayside.  We used to buy coffee gift cards and write handwritten notes. Then we'd hand them out,  leave them in flower pots, and tuck them in library books. 

It may not make a difference. But I'd like to think we left a little light in the world. 

***

I've had this blog for ten years now. And haven't written much as of late. But the voice inside my head has been telling stories lately and I'm here to translate.

It's weird to go back and read old posts. I've grown a lot. I'm calmer now. Less angry. More understanding. We all have the capacity for change. 

Love and light. 

Life, Death and Autumn Leaves

My life revolves around death.  I live through the grief and trauma of death every day that I work. And on days I'm not working death still permeates my life. Death has seeped into my skin. It sits with me as I make coffee. It rests on my shoulder as browse Pinterest. It walks beside me as I feed the chickens. And it presses into me as I get the mail. I'm not dying (at least not any more than we all are) but I am constantly reminded that death waits for us all and no one is exempt.

I've done a lot of inner work around death. It's a necessary part of my being. This inner work keeps me living as I help others grieve. I meditate, study buddhism, and train in compassion. I'm not a particularly religious person but I do delve into fantasy about what happens after we die; I love the principles of universal energy and the idea of reincarnation.

Recently I euthanized a cat; a sweet creature whose kidneys had shut down after a monumental battle. This cat's owner was deeply religious and she had come to peace with her decision. Then she said something that startled me. She said that, though she loved her cat, she knew her cat did not have a soul. Thus euthanasia was okay.

I understand that these were the words of a grieving woman. And I hope her belief helps her to navigate life without her kitty. But I must respectfully disagree. If anything has a soul it is animals. Perhaps, though, she has never looked into the eyes of a great horned owl and seen the world inside. Perhaps, then, she'd change her mind.

But I digress. On Friday someone in our circle passed away. Someone we knew was ill but didn't expect to be gone so soon. Someone our age. My husband called me at work to break the news.

Now death follows me like a loyal dog; I can't even go to the bathroom alone. But for my husband it is different. Death stays sleeping in the corner and it's easy enough for him to forget that it's even there, lying quietly in wait. So when death showed up it was a shock and a surprise. My husband was bawling.

I had a long weekend of work ahead. Emotionally wrought cases. People with anxiety and fear. Lives to be pulled from the brink and lives to release to the ether. So I took the news and tucked it into my pocket. I shoved it deep and did my best to ignore the news.

But this morning? This morning was different. I had the day off and started by reading some poetry. Then I listened to music. And I cracked wide open. Because death remains random and impossible to understand. Why one person and not another? Is there a universal plan? And what about his family? How are they to cope with this grief?

Needless to say I spent some time crying in the shower, listening to music and singing through my tears. And the big question remained. How best can we honor those that have passed?

Here's what I've come up with. We need to live our best lives. This doesn't mean standing on a cliff wearing a perfectly coifed dress which romantically flutters during a highly manufactured instagram moment.  Rather it means finding the beauty in EVERY day. No matter what the day or where you are.

Let the sun shine brightly through the windows of the car during your commute. Watch the birds migrate through the sky. Pull over by your favorite trees and crunch through the fallen leaves. Stop and smell the flowers. Take a bath. Hug more and longer. Forgive. Hold hands. Tell people how truly beautiful they are. Do all these things and then some. Because only this day, this moment, is a given. And nothing else is guaranteed.

____________________________________________________

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world

- Mary Oliver

One of those days ...

Tonight I watched a movie about Walt Disney: Walt Before Mickey. The movie had 4 1/2 stars on Netflix. I was expecting big things. The movie itself was fine, but, honestly, not worth the stars. The stars, really, were for the sentiment.

Keep on trucking. If, at first you don't succeed, try and try again. Get back on that horse. Hang in there (complete with a kitten hanging precariously from a branch). I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. 

And really? These sentiments are how people succeed. Honestly and truly.  KEEP GETTING UP. AGAIN. AND AGAIN. AND AGAIN. And yet. There are days when getting out of bed seems more challenge than it is worth. Days when being an adult, when doing the RIGHT THING comes with little to no tangible reward. Days when a bottle of wine, a fuzzy blanket and 24 hour pajamas are the best you can muster. Today was one of those days.

One of those days where I found out I have to appear in front of the veterinary medical examining board for an error I did not commit (but an error I am ultimately responsible for - and rightly so). One of those days where I signed a notarized document to destroy my daughter's cord stem cells (because they weren't going to cure my father's Parkinson's Disease). One of those days where I did dishes and laundry and tried so hard to revel in the magic of the world. But fell short. Oh so short. And the laundry and the dishes managed to cavort like a set of lustful rabbits multiplying behind my back.

One of those days when I saw the hate thrown around in the world. One of those days where my shoulders are tense, my ear is ringing and I just can't seem to find my place. Like the prototypical square peg in a round hole I just can't seem to fit and I'm not sure to whom I should register a complaint. God? The Universe?

Dear Sir(s) or Madam(s): I am so sorry to complain. Because, really, there are so many things going right in my life. But at this very moment, Sir/Madam, I am struggling -- with fear. With uncertainty. What if? What if things go wrong?  And, on the other hand,  what if they go right? Can you please help me get through the next six months? The next year? The next five years?  Could you, possibly, send me some assurance that it will all be okay -- really and truly okay.

On days like today being responsible for three other beings scares the living daylights out of me. How can I possibly provide for them -- financially, emotionally -- when I'm not sure I can even provide for myself?

And then I feel another guilt. Guilt for even indulging in this self pity. For God's sake THERE ARE PEOPLE STARVING IN CHINA! What right do I have, as one sitting in a HOUSE with FOOD and ELECTRICITY and INTERNET, to complain. I have no right. Obviously I am in error and quite clearly doing this thing all wrong because I HAVE SO MUCH.

But then, I know, deep inside, that sometimes a good cry, a good and thorough pity party, is necessary. I'm hoping my tears will dredge the trenches and allow for clearer thoughts, new insights and new determination. And maybe tomorrow - pants (baby steps).

So I sit here tonight -- in full pity mode. I will cry myself to sleep. And tomorrow will be a new day with which to carry on.

xo.

There is something particular about the slant of light in the fall; it is as if the sun knows we are leaving and she is reaching out, stretching her rays and begging us to stay.  No. Please. Pleeeaaase don’t go!  All the while we are spinning away, our own hands outstretched, saying we are sorry, we’d really rather not leave but we must. The saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” holds true; fall is fleeting and therefore we (most of us at least) are mesmerized by her show. 

Once a week I drive to the country to buy milk. And I take the long way home. I drive slow, slower than most would like, as I am staring google-eyed out the window. Other people, those not impressed by the light, pass me and flip me the bird. Truth-be-told I could care less. I intend to live to be one-hundred-years-old. If I succeed this means I only have fifty-six falls left in my short life. I intend to make the most of them. 

This afternoon, while in the country, I saw a rainbow. I slammed on the brakes and my milk went flying; my new car has now been appropriately christened. I got out and took the camera I had on hand — my phone. I focused on the rainbow and snapped my shot. At nearly the same time an osprey took flight and let out a haunting call. For an ephemeral moment I was one with the world; this moment was so perfect I thought my chord tendineae, my heart strings, might rupture; if they had you’d find me laying dead by the side of the road with an orgasmic grin on my face and my car covered in milk (or perhaps, by that time, cheese). But I didn't die because I have fifty-six autumns remaining. Perhaps, in my hundredth year, my heart strings will finally give out while I’m puttering around outside— what an amazing way to go. 

In the meantime I’m stretching those cardiac tendons of mine and driving like a half-wit through the back country roads. If you come across my dawdling orange car you have two options: 1) show me your middle finger, press on the gas and get to wherever you are going in an expedited manner or 2) you can pull over and listen to the birds and watch the leaves dance in the light and breath in the crisp fall air and know what it truly feels like to be alive.  'Tis entirely up to you.  

Call it Desire

The street cars stop right outside our hotel. They are gorgeous and I could sit and watch them all day. Each one is different. Some cars are local but many are not. They were brought here for restoration and preservation; functional nostalgia.

We rode a car from end-of-line to end-of-line. We clacked our way through the city and jumped at the sparks that hissed from above. There was a particular noise that came from the ceiling, a sort-of a patter, as if an giant cockroach was marching across the roof. I imagined this roach powering the machine; his every step a volt that sent the car along the tracks. At the end of the line I stepped out and looked up. The roach was invisible. All I could see was his antennae connected to the grid.

_____________________________________

We are in the nitty gritty heart of the city. Diversity lives here. As does disparity. The city is a good lesson in privilege and class. Truth is we're all only a dysfunctional ganglion (or two) away from those folks sleeping in the rain.

_____________________________________

There are so many people here with their hands out. In want. In need. It's hard to know when to give and when to hold back. Despite our privilege money is finite. At least in our here and now. And so we must choose.

We gave to the man asking for nothing but smiles (and he gave genuine smiles in return).

And we gave to the man sitting in a alcove with a typewriter. Free poems. Donations accepted. Pick a topic, any topic.

I choose streetcar.

He gave me this, hunting and pecking his way into my heart.

And then he gave us a reading, leaning back into the alcove and projecting his voice so all the world could hear.

____________________________________________

It's raining now and I have the urge to run into the street yelling 'Stella!' at the top of my lungs. I'm sure I wouldn't be the first nor would I be the last. Instead I'm going back up to our room. I'm going to talk to my girls about what it is to be us and what it might feel like to be someone else. Then I'm going to ask them to each write a poem; about any topic their heart desires.

____________________________________________

"To travel is to live." ~ Hans Christian Anderson

When Pigs Fly

Tonight we walked through an alley full of art. Sanctioned graffiti. A man sat on a curb next to a dumpster; the dumpster smelled so horrific my son visibly gagged. The man played the trumpet. The music was mournful. And beautiful. The alley reminded me of what it was to be human; ugliness and beauty tangled together, dancing.

We gave our daughter five dollars to give to the musician. She didn't do it. She was too nervous. The trumpeter didn't have a defined receptacle for donations. She didn't want to offend.

We wandered further, admiring the art and plugging our noses. The trumpeter closed his case and followed. We stopped to admire the pigs. Then we were following him. 

He had a key for a chocolate shop. He went inside and locked the door with a definitive clack. I wondered if he was like Vianne Rocher from Chocolat. Would he blow away when the winds changed? 

Tonight we walked. And we went to dinner. We talked about the Supreme Court's decision to allow gay marriage. We all agreed -- why not?  Our family is our family. Nobody else's family or values or decisions can harm our foundation, our core.  Love is love. 

And then the conversation segued into my job and what drugs I used at work. Which further segued into a general conversation about drugs and what kids were doing what. This. This honest conversation with a 15-year-old and a 19-year-old. This is the reason we pile into the car and drive for miles upon miles. Hot and sweaty, air-conditioning on the fritz. To Utah of all places (who goes to Utah?). To have these conversations. To forge these bonds. To see the ugliness and beauty that resides within us all. To love. 

Yesterday

I sat in the doctor’s office for two hours and got five different injections. I had to wait in between shots to make sure I didn’t die. There are two large round lights in the exam room. I think they are meant to emulate the sun. Instead they looked like large white glasses, as if I was being studied, as if I was a specimen in a jar. 

When I got home there was blood on my sleeve. It seemed pointless to change. Just more laundry.

When my husband does laundry (my husband does laundry!) he washes it on “heavy load”. I wonder what he is trying to say about the task at hand. When I do laundry I wash it on “whitest whites”. I wonder what I am trying to say. 

I am not a good patient. I am supposed to live in a bubble. I imagine myself in my bubble, a clear plastic dust free zone. I see myself rolling about town, like those people who jump in gigantic balls and bumble down hills for fun. 

I hope my bubble has gloves, like an incubator for premature babies. You could reach into my bubble and we could hold hands. I could pretend I was still from this world. 

“I thinks it’s all the pollen,” my doctor said, “we’ve had high pollen counts this year.” What he meant to say was I was not compatible here. During my manufacture I was built for a different environment. But someone messed up the delivery. 

The other night, at 3:00 am, a middle-aged African American man walked into our clinic. He did not bring a pet. His eyes were red and he was jumpy, he talked too fast. He said he’d been in to see us before, with his dogs. He asked us to look him up so he could prove who he was. We found his file. He said he worked nights and went to school during the day. He said he didn’t sleep much. He said he was trying to get home and was out of gas. He asked for five dollars. He said he’d pay it back. 

I had five dollars. I gave it to him. He went on his way. The next morning my receptionist asked why I didn’t call the police. Why would I? Five dollars is a simple price to pay for peace. 

Yesterday, when I came to work, there was note attached to a five dollar bill. Thank you, thank you it said. Sometimes there is good in this world.  Sometimes we can be the good in this world, even if we were built for something else. 

Our three day weekend ended in a meltdown.  Little, who is eleven, had a paper due.  One she hadn't worked on over the weekend.  Her weekend was spent being a kid and playing with friends. We didn't find out she had the assignment until the breakdown happened.  At 10:00 pm. The night before the paper was due.

She was bawling.  Her sister had made fun of one of the sentences she'd written.  Little said she knew, she knew,  she was a terrible writer.  TERRIBLE.  And her teacher was going to be mad at her.  HER TEACHER WAS GOING TO HATE HER.

Little's father and I told her not to worry about it.  Don't do the paper.  It's not worth the stress. But she couldn't let it go.  She worked herself into a frenzy.  Her shoulders tensed, knotted, and then she couldn't sleep.  She went to bed around 1:00 am.

Now me -- I'd been working all weekend. Nights.  And Monday was my zombie day.  A day I was awake but not fully present.  A day of recovery.  I rubbed Little's shoulders.  Told her it was okay. But I did not have the energy to help her write. I also did not get to sleep until the wee hours of the morning.  Middle, who went to bed at the same time, had to be up a six.  As did Papa.

Papa, graciously, got himself and Middle up.  He let Little and I sleep.  This afternoon he is napping. Because he, too, is exhausted.

Today we let Little play hooky.  I'll be getting the phone calls and admonishments from the school. Because it's not okay to miss class.

Today we went to the library.  And a coffee shop with macaroons and blue cheese and pear sandwiches.  We are working on this assignment.  Eight paragraphs about dogs.  Something that should be simple but now is not.

Little is a good writer.  But she needs to be gentle with herself.  First drafts are just that - first drafts. They are meant to be corrected.  Writing takes time.  And patience.

Little, more than anything,  needs encouragement.  She needs to know it's okay to make mistakes. Goodness knows I love to write and my writing is riddled with mistakes.

And writing doesn't have to be rigid.  Talk to any teacher and they'll tell you no sentence should start with "and".  I do it anyway -- rebel that I am.  The world continues to turn on its axis despite my literary transgressions.

Little also needs inspiration. Right now she is working on her own project. Something for fun. She is re-writing popular lyrics and infusing them with Minecraft lingo.   Is this any less valuable than a report on dogs?

I can accept stress in my life.  As an adult stress is my burden to bear.  But a kid should be a kid; which, to me, means to play and explore.  Not to stress and panic.  Not at eleven.

I worry for our kids.  All of them.  We are sacrificing their beautiful creative minds for quadratic formulas and papers on dog.  I worry our world has moved forward but our schooling has not. Not the fault of teachers but of system that is nothing short of an archaic bureaucratic nightmare.

Right now Little is taking a break.  She's written four of eight paragraphs.  She is petting the dog and singing.  Were she in school her behavior would be inappropriate, disruptive.  And rightly so.  I can't imagine trying to teach 30 to 40 kids, each with different needs.  

We, as a family, are working to find a solution.  For Middle this means a mixture of online and home/unschooling which will start next semester.  Little has also been given this option but she wants to stay where she is -- at least for now.

I'm trying to move forward with an open mind and an open heart.   But I worry.  For your kids and for mine.  What a world.

xo.

The Quest for One Direction: The Conclusion

Alas our concert quest has come to an end.   Actually it ended with the last day of school and report cards. My daughter's grades simply weren't up to snuff (not even close).  

She worked hard.  Very hard.  She came home from school and babysat.  And pet sat. Then she'd do homework.   But she couldn't do it all.  She had a herculean task in front of her and it was simply too much.  

And so, when school ended, she came to me and told me she was putting the concert tickets up for sale. No fuss.  No moaning and groaning.  I suspect she wanted to spend her summer relaxing rather than working.  And I don't blame her.  

The two big tickets sold this week.  For $900.00 a piece.  No joke. There was a 15% surcharge to sell the tickets.  The rest of the money goes to the girls. They earned it.  The two smaller tickets are also up for sale but haven't sold yet.  

I'm told the band is working on a fourth album.  And with that they are likely to tour.  Chloe tells me she'll be buying tickets (with permission of course).  

And so ends an interesting story in our lives. I hope lessons were learned.   

XO.  

April One Direction Update; The Girls are Out of Debt (and this is no April Fool's)

Indeed, it's no joke.  The girls are in the red.  It took them four months to pay off their debt. They have five months remaining to earn the rest of the money for their trip (airfare, hotel, rental car, food). They might just meet their goals. 

Chloe has been doing a lot of babysitting and petsitting.  In addition we held two jewelry parties last month. Our initial jewelry investment has been paid off and Chloe can now profit from her efforts (anyone want to host a party? Virtual or otherwise?)

We did have to write an addendum to the contract as Chloe received a C+ in Geometry(the contract stated she could get nothing less than a B). I breached the addendum with her while in the car. 

"Chloe," I said, "Your father and I have talked about it.  We are going to write an addendum to your contract."

"What?!! No! You can't do that. It's a contract. You can't just change it!"

"Do you want to hear me out?"

"No! You can't just go around changing contracts.  That's not the way it works. It wouldn't be fair to change it."

"Chloe. It will be to your benefit."

"Oh."

I explained to her that contracts often contain addendums and they are perfectly legal so long as both parties agree to the terms.  

Here is our addendum: 

Addendum to Agreement 

dated April 1, 2014

I acknowledge that I did not meet the requirements put forth in our original contract; I received a C+ in geometry last trimester. 

It has been noted that this is a challenging class and I am in the highest level of math at my school.  It has also been noted that significant effort has been put forth in my schooling and my grades have dramatically improved since the contract’s initiation. Therefore the One Direction concert tickets will not be disposed of as previously stated.  

Rather I must continue to work hard in school.  To counteract the C+ I must receive an A in one of my core classes next semester (Geometry, Science, Spanish, Advanced Language Arts or Advanced Social Studies).  It is also noted that, though important for my physical health, an A in Physical Education is not an appropriate counterbalance to Geometry.   

I understand that the remaining terms of the contract shall continue as previously written. 

I, the undersigned, agree to this addendum in full. 

After this addendum was fully explained Chloe did agree to its terms.  

One of our recent jewelry parties was hosted in Eugene by a high school friend of mine (thanks Michelle!).  My parents live in the valley so it was a no brainer to travel for a spring break party. 

I had three passengers for the ride over, Chloe, Ava and one of Ava's friends. Guess what we listened to the WHOLE WAY THERE. Oh yes. We listened to One Direction's collection in its entirety. We started with their initial album and worked our way up to their current album (three total).  Chloe wants to make sure I'm well versed once the concert rolls around. And I am, whether I want to be or not. 

Oh the things I never planned on when these kids were born.  

And that, my friends, is our latest update.  Someday I shall write of other things -- like my plans for rooftop beehives in downtown Bend or my desire for more backyard chickens or the story I'm currently writing with my children as characters. 

But for now this is all I've got.  

XO.    

  

March Update; We Continue to March Forward Towards the 1D Concert.

As you can see the girls have been making steady progress on their debt.  Only $269.00 to go to pay off four concert tickets. Today I was given an additional $50.00 (birthday money).

They still have to save for airfare, lodging, food, etc. Nonetheless I am proud of their accomplishments thus far.   

But earning enough money is not the only stipulation in this contract. Middle must also maintain a B average.  Here is the exact wording:

I also understand that my schooling can not suffer.  I must, from this point forward, get no grade less than a B.  If my grades are lacking I understand the tickets will be immediately disposed of.  I will, however, still be responsible for the monies borrowed.  

Today the grading period closes.  As of this moment Middle has four B's, two B minuses and a C+.  Yes.  A C+.  1.5 percentage points away from a B.  She is hoping to turn in some overdue work tomorrow. She hopes a)her teacher accepts it and b) this is enough to raise her grade.  There are also 15 ungraded points pending from another assignment.  Talk about walking a fine line.  

This C+ also presents a parenting dilemma.  Middle's grades are not an accurate reflection of her intelligence.  They are, however, an accurate reflection of her ability to turn in homework. And we've been working to remedy this.  These grades are a massive improvement from the D's and F's she had at the beginning of this trimester.  We've spent a lot of time at coffee shops pouring over geometry texts and reading "A Tale of Two Cities".  I can't begin to tell you how many hours have been spent encouraging and cajoling. If we stick to the strict letter of the law her incentive to succeed in school will be removed.    

Now I realize she will eventually need a different incentive (to do well for doing well's sake).  But I'm hoping the desire to go to the concert will be enough to help her develop beneficial homework habits. And I'm hoping these good homework habits will stick for life (perhaps a bit optimistic but, then again, perhaps not).  

So what's a parent to do?  Her father and I thought long and hard about this. And we've come to a conclusion.  In "real life" contracts are often altered, changed to meet mitigating circumstances.  Thus (now don't tell her this just yet) we will let a C+ slide.  We will write an addendum to the contract; something along the lines that the challenge will continue.  However at least one (if not more) A's will be expected on the next report card to counteract the C+.  

I may not need to write the addendum. She might just pull it off.  But the truth of the matter is she has been working hard -- both in school and on the incoming earning front.  I'd like to reward her positive behavior and continue to help her grow into the best human she can be.  

And I'm not yet ready to stop this experiment. Thus far I've seen nothing but good come from it. I'd like to see the trend continue. 

xo.  

Oh, and PS, we have two jewelry bars scheduled for March(hooray!).  If you are interested in helping "the cause" you can check out our jewelry site at peculiarfamily.origamiowl.com. Also, if you live in our area I know a great baby and/or pet sitter.  :o)

The Quest Continues (One Direction Here We Come)

As of right now the girls have their One Direction balance down to $754.81.  I am told there is another $400.00 or so pending from my daughter's cohort (Christmas money and from the sale of an xbox).  I've yet to receive these funds and am thus not counting my chickens before they hatch.

As an additional source of income Chloe and I have started a small business; we are now independent designers for Origami Owl.  Origami Owl is a social selling jewelry company that allows mother/daughter teams.  Thus we are learning the ins and outs of small business; costs vs profits.

To start this venture we had to make an initial investment of $175.00 (the starter package plus shipping).  I agreed to front the starter money.  However, Chloe will not be able to profit from our business until the starter money is earned back.  We are nearly there.  If you are interested in supporting our cause and getting some fun jewelry at the same time check us out at:

PeculiarFamily.OrigamiOwl.com

https://www.facebook.com/PeculiarFamilyJewelry

If you remember from our initial contract Chloe had to get all A's and B's on her report card.  She is a smart cookie so in theory this should be easy.  However she has had trouble turning in her homework (a component of her attention deficit, which by the way, was a major contributing factor to the impromptu ticket purchase).  Her mid-trimester grades were not up to par; not even close.  We've been working very hard to bring these grades up.  This means less time with friends and lots of time with Mom at coffee shops, work and other venues.  And our efforts are paying off.  If Chloe keeps up all the hard work she will have all A's and B's before the trimester ends.  

A side effect of all this school work; I can now tell you that the Louisiana Purchase was 3 cents an acre. I can also tell you Oregon joined the union on February 14, 1859.  And I can now solve this:

(x=16)

and this

(x=7)

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?  

Chloe has a big assignment in her Advanced Language Arts class.  They are reading "A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens.  She will be expected to keep copious notes on all the characters in the book.  This is an assignment that she can not afford to get behind on. 

Neither Mr. Peculiar nor I have read this book either.  Thus we purchased two extra copies and have started a family book club; it should be educational for us and help keep Chloe on track.  Our goal is to read 10 pages a day.

So yes, the learning continues; for father, mother and daughter.  This has been quite an adventure and thus far I have no regrets.

We still have a long way to go.  Once the ticket debt is paid off monies still need to be earned for travel (plane tickets for four people, rental car, gas, food, housing, etc).  

People in town still ask my daughter about her ticket purchase (the lady who owns the knitting shop, her school counselor, etc).  These are people I have not told directly.  Word has simply gotten around.  I suspect this is a life lesson that won't quickly be forgotten.  

XO.  

PS -- as I type this my youngest daughter is upstairs belting out "The Story of my Life" at the top of her lungs.  She is also a huge 1D fan and is very much looking forward to the concert.  As you can see from the account statement she has contributed funds for the trip.  She has also been a valuable resource pressuring her older sister to earn money and get good grades.  If Chloe falls short we will either take Ava to the concert on her own or refund her money.

One Direction (They're So Dreamy) -- An Update on our Concert Fantasies

For those who need catching up see the post here.  In addition to the first set of tickets (4th row!) two nosebleed seats have been purchased for the chaperone and her ten-year-old companion (aka me and Little).  These additional tickets were purchased with cash as no further credit is being extended.  The money came from two sources:  babysitting money and cash for goods sold.  Also the first credit card payment was made (interest plus 1% of the balance).  Thus far the girls are on track to see One Direction in September.  Of course they have a long way to go. 

Here are their financials thus far: 

The Quest for One Direction

Concert debt:

$243.10 -- second set of tickets

$1252.50 -- first set of tickets

______

$1495.60 total expense

Payments:

$196.00 Chloe

$90.00 Lily

___________

Total: $286.00

$1495.00

- $286.00 (this covers the second set of ticket for chaperone and companion ($243.10),

as well as, the first credit card payment ($42.90).

___________

Total remaining: $1209.60

The girls figure their total expenses will be somewhere around $4000.00.  This includes concert tickets, airfare for four, hotel, meals and incidentals.  

_______________________________________________________________________________

It's interesting the feedback I've gotten on this project (some positive and some not so much).  One friend pointed out that with a traditional after school job the girls couldn't even begin to hope to earn enough money for the trip.  My friend is right.They won't earn enough money without thinking outside the box. And that's just what I'm hoping they'll do.  After all the the power of the young mind is amazing (let alone two minds together).  

I have no idea what will transpire.  But I have to tell you -- I'm eager to see what comes.  All too often we give kids a hard time for their mistakes and forget to celebrate their achievements.  

And I'll leave you with this. One Direction's #1 Fan: 

xo.  

Thanksgiving

We are having Thanksgiving at my parent’s house; a house with which I am familiar but not the home I grew up in.  My sister and her family are not here.  Instead, indefinitely,  they are in Panama on a sailboat.  Someone is here in my sister’s place, Cindy.  Cindy used to be my sister’s nanny.  Now she has a family of her own; a husband, baby Grace, and two foster girls.  What must these girls think of our motley crew?  

The foster girls go up to Cindy and give her gigantic hugs.  They are sweet and polite and full of affection. They’ve only lived with her family for two weeks.  I wonder what has happened in their life such that they would end up here.  I do not want to ask, especially not in front of them.  I am in awe of Cindy and her husband and the way they are contributing to our collective whole.  

I listen to their story and realize I could not be a foster parent.  My chaotic and well-lived in house simply wouldn’t pass inspection. But these girls?  Oh I would take these girls.  They are running around with my own girls as naturally as if they were cousins.  For today at least, they are family.  

I am tired, from traveling and from getting up early for fun run. From eating too much.  And from the wine.  

The television is on, football, and I am partially deaf.  This makes conversation difficult.  I find myself saying “what?” all too often.  Middle jumps in and translates for me.  It’s nice to have an interpreter.  

Tonight some knitting.  And some pie.  Tomorrow a movie.  No shopping for me. I can’t handle the crowds.  

And I am thankful.  For food.  For family.  For friends.  For days off work.  I am grateful to those who are working in my place; I’ll pay you back at Christmas when the roles are reversed.  

I am grateful for my senses; sight, touch, taste and smell.  I am grateful for the hearing which remains.  I am grateful for the balance that, more often than not, stays under control.  I am grateful for this body which propels me through this world; a vessel of experience.  

I am grateful for children who require me to step out of the box and to think differently.  I am grateful for other children who allow me to stay in the box, crouched in earthquake position, hands covering the back of my head.  

I am grateful for the internet and connections and opinions right and left.  I am grateful for the kindness of most folks (I'm sorry for the others).  

This life. It's messy and challenging.  It's tiring and worrisome.  It's heartbreaking.  But it is good. Oh so good.  

XO. 

So, Technically, My Daughter is a Felon.

Those of you who are friends with me on Facebook already know the story, at least the beginning. For those of you who haven't heard, here's what went down yesterday.  

While I was sleeping (I'd worked the night before) my 13-year-old daughter took my credit card and bought two 4th row tickets for One Direction to the tune of $600.00 a piece.  That's right. $1200.00 for two concert tickets.  Did she ask permission?  No. No she did not. 

This concert takes place in Phoenix, Arizona which is a mere 1111 miles from here. After she bought the tickets she started to cry. Not from remorse.  Rather from pure joy.  One Direction! Harry! Niall! The marketing machine that is One Direction has my daughter hook, line and sinker.  

Now, obviously, I was not nearly so pleased as she; especially when I found out I was the financier for this little operation. My husband and I considered many options from canceling the transaction to selling the tickets.  But where is the fun in that? Where is the lesson in that?  And so we came up with a different solution. 

Following is the contract we presented to our daughter this morning: 

I, the undersigned, acknowledge that I willfully committed fraud.  I used my mother’s credit card, without permission, and racked up $1200.00 worth of charges.  I understand that my parents are being lenient by not filing a police report. I also understand that stealing a sum greater than $1000.00 is a felony in the State of Oregon. Furthermore I understand that if convicted of a felony I could face up to a year in prison.  

My parents have been clear with me; $600.00 a ticket for 4th row One Direction seats is an unfortunate and irresponsible use of money.  There are many ways this money could be put to better use.  However it has also been acknowledged that I am my own person and as such I am allowed to spend my money as I choose.  The money used to buy these tickets, however, was not my money.  

By signing this document I irrefutably admit I have the coolest most wonderful parents on the planet.  They are the best because they are allowing me the chance to earn this money for myself.  The money put on the credit card will be considered a loan.  As a loan this money will be subject to interest.  Given that I am 13-years-old and with a questionable credit rating the interest rate will be 28% per annum.  Any given month that I do not cover the minimum payment a late fee of $30.00 will be charged to my account.  In addition I will be charged interest on the interest should the minimum payment not be met.  

I acknowledge that buying concert tickets to a stadium several states away is only the beginning of expenses I would expect to incur should the concert be attended.  If I am to attend said concert I will have to buy concert tickets for my mother and my sister.  In addition I will have to buy plane tickets for all four of us (my mother, my sister, my friend and myself). I will be responsible for all transportation costs (gas, rental car, vehicle insurance, etc). In addition I will be responsible for lodging, food and incidentals (concert tee shirts, etc).  

Once I calculate these expenses I will put them in a spreadsheet and present them to my parents.  Then a mutually acceptable timeline will be agreed upon and monthly financial goals will have to be met.  

I am allowed to be creative in earning the money for this trip.  I can set up a Go Fund Me or similar account.  It has been suggested that it will take all my creative spirit to convince people I unequivocally NEED to attend this concert.  I may not beg my parents for money.  I may not beg my relatives for money. I understand that the chores completed at home are my responsibility as a member of this family and as such do not come with monetary compensation.  If I am to sell items such as crafts or baked goods I am responsible for the seed money needed to create said items.  No additional loans will be granted. 

I also understand that my schooling can not suffer.  I must, from this point forward, get no grade less than a B.  If my grades are lacking I understand the tickets will be immediately disposed of.  I will, however, still be responsible for the monies borrowed.  

Finally, if I am unable to earn the money required for this trip the tickets will be donated to the Make-A-Wish Foundation so that a truly deserving child will be able to see this band. As previously stated - I will still be required to pay back the loan.


X____________________________



Truth-be-told I will be shocked if my daughter is able to comply with the terms of this contract.  If she earns the money and maintains her GPA then good for her. I'll see you in Phoenix next September.  If she is unable to earn the money then I hope she will at least have learned something about life and its concomitant costs. And, perhaps, she'll even have a bit of extra change in her pocket.

Oh the joys of parenting!  

XO.  

Note: we've already had a spirited discussion about interest on loans.  Indeed it appears lessons are being learned. :o)

Addendum: after this blog post my daughter has decided to start her own blog and write from her perspective.  You can see her post here. 

Why I Write

Words live inside me.  In my chest.  They bounce around like pinballs; vaulting off my heart and springing against my ribcage. I can’t sleep with them pushing, shoving and pulsating.  They tear at me and eat away the fleshy parts of my lungs leaving me breathless.  They bore into my heart and cause palpitations. They test the integrity of my diaphragm, leaning into it until my stomach cries foul and heartburn rears its ugly head.  

I can’t really blame them, these words. They are looking for order in a chaotic world.  They want to find their way out. They want to have meaning.  And they want to be heard.  That is why I write.  

You see, writing has a magnetic pull.  Words are automatically drawn by this mystical force.  Pen in hand these words line up neatly along my arm and march out on to the page.   

And then they are free.  And I am free.  And we both can rest. 

Animal ER

“I need someone to take the biting end,” said the traveling neurosurgeon to no one in particular.  I looked around the hospital. The cages were full and my technicians were busy.  

“I guess that’d be me,” I said and followed him to our patient, a 178 pound Great Dane.  The surgeon was going to pinch the dane’s rear toes, clamp down on them as hard as he could with hemostats, to determine if the dog could feel deep pain.  Deep pain was good.  It meant the neurologic circuit between the feet and brain was intact.  This dog couldn’t walk.  We wanted deep pain.  

My job was to ensure the surgeon did not get bit.  I’m not particularly interested in revealing my weight but suffice it to say I am five foot two and weigh less than this dog.  

I sat down on the speckled brown floor, a surface made for fancy garages.  We thought the material would be good in our hospital; classy, not too slippery and not showing dirt. I eyed a region that looked suspiciously like dried blood.  So much for hiding muck.    

I wrapped my arms around the dog’s neck and said a fleeting prayer.  I felt like a little girl with my arms wrapped around our Great Pyrenees -- Pepi.  An amiable dog that put up with all my prepubescent poking and prodding.  I only hoped this dog would be as gentle. Because the truth of the matter was if the biting end wanted to bite he was going to do so.  And I would be the likely recipient of said interaction.

But luck was on my side.  Our patient was just that -- patient.  He had deep pain and he did not bite.  Win-win.  

I heaved a heavy sigh and found myself utterly grateful for this gentle giant.  After our encounter I was beginning to feel bonded and was glad for his prognosis.  He probably had a fibrocartilagenous emboli (a stroke to the spinal cord). Given time he might recover. I rested my head on his, thanked him for being good, then got up to talk to his owners.  

The treatment portion of our hospital was separated from the exam rooms and reception area by swinging aluminum doors.  I went through the first set of these doors and skittered past the exam rooms with as much stealth as I could muster.  The rooms were full of clients waiting for my attention.  I went through the second set of swinging doors and out into the lobby. 

The dane’s people were sitting by a large plate glass window that overlooked the strip mall parking lot.  It was dark outside and I instinctively looked for the tree covered in white lights -- my beacon in the darkness.  But the tree wasn’t lit up.  Damn.  

I pulled up a chair, a gaudy fabric covered seat upholstered in a contemporary design, and began to review their case.  

I’d only just begun when the front door swung open and a gust of frigid air poured into the lobby. I shivered. It felt as if a spirit had passed through me and for a brief moment I was creeped out. 

A woman with a nose ring barreled through the door.  In her arms was a small scruffy dog who was actively seizing.  I excused myself, pried the dog from her arms and went back through the aluminum doors leaving them swinging in my wake. 

We gave the seizing dog an injection of valium. The medication worked immediately and our patient’s tremors began to slow.  He looked like an over medicated parkinson patient -- limbs flailing this way and that.  

Then I did it.  I opened my stupid mouth. 

“I’ll bet this dog couldn’t bite if he wanted to.”  

Dumb, dumb, dumb.  Though we practice medicine, science, we also wholeheartedly believe in the power of the jinx.  I had just cast a spell which all but mandated that this dog was going to bite us.   

My technician shot me a nasty look, a well deserved one at that, and took the dog to the scale where, as per my prophesy, he exploded. He threw himself off the scale, a mere inch off the ground, and slammed his head onto the floor. He bit his tongue and began to bleed profusely.  He shat himself and expressed his anal glands perfusing the clinic with an aroma of unsullied fear. 

Though this dog could not walk he began to scoot himself across the clinic with surprising speed, blood and feces smeared in his wake.  Each attempt to catch him was met with a mess of gnarling gnashing teeth.  He was barking, screaming and growling.  I knew, with fair certainty, everyone in the hospital could hear his tantrum, including his owner who remained in the lobby.  

I began hopping back and forth on my danskos muttering “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”  The tasmanian devil of a dog was headed across the treatment area -- straight for the great dane.  The dane, who was too big to fit in a kennel, was lying on the floor. 

Now the dane had been gentle with me.  But I had no idea how he felt about other dogs, much less, those of tasmanian descent.  Time slowed and I imagined this dane opening his mouth, cranking it back 150 degrees like a snake, and swallowing the terrier whole.  

And this entire incident would be all my fault. Vexes aside the buck stopped with me. If either of these dogs were injured I would ultimately be to blame.  

I ran over to the dane hoping to intercept any potential interaction but did not move fast enough.  The biting, slithering, mess of a terrier slid right up to our gargantuan patient.  And that gentle giant of a dog simply cocked his head in curiosity.   

Oh thank you!  Thank you!  I was becoming more and more bonded with this fabulous black beast.  

We threw a towel over the terrier and tackled him.  He was muzzled and subsequently subdued with medication.  Oh me oh my!

A bit worse for wear I returned to the lobby, reassured the terrier’s owner and resumed my conversation with the dane’s owners.  

Though his medical situation was not ideal the dane had a chance for recovery. With supportive care and time he may be able to walk again.  The couple didn’t say a word. Instead they looked at me, blinked, and then looked at each other.  And I knew.  Fuck.  Fuck it all to hell.  They were going to euthanize.  

They wanted to be present and wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. I pulled the sickly pink solution into a 20 cc syringe.  I sat in front of this wonderful dog and he looked at me, his mouth open and panting.  He trusted me.  We were friends.  

His owners stood over him and I gave the injection. I caught his bowling ball of a head as it fell to the ground.  His owners turned on their heels and left, leaving me on the speckled floor next to their precious dead dog.  I lowered my head to his once again and began to cry.  

Then the aluminum doors burst open and another emergency beckoned.  I stood, wiped my eyes and, with no other choice, returned to work.