Cocoon

Because I know most of you are just dying to know how our caterpillars are doing...

Well, really, I have no idea if you care, but I'll update you anyway. I didn't realize that when the caterpillars were ready to cocoon themselves, they wouldn't just jump happily onto the nice sticks I provided. All but one of them made several attempts to escape the nice confines of my critter cage. Three of them manage to attach themselves to various places on my sunporch before I could put them somewhere more appropriate.

The first one that escaped attached itself to a candle holder of mine. A day or two after it attached itself (forming fuzzy tie from its bottom), I checked on it as I took the kids outside to play. There were two strands of silk from it back suspending it away from the candle holder, and its green color was fading to a grey. When we came back into the house an hour later, it was cocooned, and a little ball of skin lay on the table beneath it.

I was determined to not miss the transformation of the next caterpillar, so when I noticed another one turning grey and wriggling in a strange way, I locked the kids in the house and only poked my head in once in a while to make sure they hadn't hurt themselves or were destroying something.

Everybody talks about the drama of the butterfly emerging from its cocoon, but somehow, I doubt it can compare to what I watched. Perhaps it is only because I can relate more to this stage of developement at this point in my life.

I have no idea how long the caterpillar wrestled within itself before it molted its last caterpillar skin. (They molt several times as they grow and eat the skin they shed.) I watched it off and on for an hour. Finally, the skin split around the head, and it writhed as it worked the skin down over its body. The skin balled up in front of its tail so that it was stuck between it and the stick it was attached to. It was now pale green and moist, and it looked so vulnerable, like the flesh of a wound that oozes. Although it was naked, it continued to writhe, working to get the old skin away from itself. When the old skin finally dropped away, it slowly calmed down.

Looking closely at the new, raw form, you could see hints of what it was going to be... Future butterfly legs and body and tail. It was amazing. Then the soft outer flesh started hardening. It started to tighten up so that vulnerable creases were pulled up in behind the new tougher flesh. The pale green faded, and soon it had closed itself into a grey and black little fortress, where it could continue its metamorphasis in relative safety.

Pursuit of the Potty

I had high expectations when I introduced the potty to Finley around 18 months. I potty trained myself at 23 1/2 months (No lie. I have written proof.), so I figured this would be a breeze. And Finley is my daughter, after all.


I had no idea how exceptional I was in that department. And I discovered that Finley was not going to be another version of me. I was relatively independent, but as a child, I exercised that independence safely within the boundaries set for me. Finley...


Finley is so independent, she likes to test the boundaries on a daily basis. Her confidence in herself when she is out in public amazes me at times. Like many two and three year old, she likes to do as many things for herself as possible... when it is convenient for her.


And Finley is so independent, she had gotten into the habit of wetting her pants at home because it was easier to do that than bother with the potty. Of course, she hadn't wet her pants away from home in probably six months.


So I asked her pediatrician if he had any advice, and he suggested cheap prizes to reward her when she initiates pottying on her own. Been there, Done that. M&M's, stickers, smiley faces... you name it. They all worked for a few days until she got bored with them or they were such a given, it wasn't real motivation anymore.


I have to admit, she has been pretty good in the poop department. It was obvious, though, that she would wait until the absolute last moment to deal with number twos.


So I think I've finally figured it out. It is all about keeping it new and interesting for her. I was reading some advice from one mom to another about night-time training, and she said she put the training potty next to the bed. The toddler was told to use it whenever needed in the night, and if he woke up dry, would receive a reward.


Anyway, I thought about trying that with Finley, and mentioned it to her. She got so excited about having her potty right next to her bed, that she asked me to go get it out of storage right then. That was nearly a week ago, and she hasn't had an accident since. She uses her little potty throughout the day (insisting on emptying it herself) as well as the big potty.


The funniest part to me is the change in her pooping habits. She would usually only deposit a number two in the toilet every two or three days... and it was usually very large. Since she's had the little potty out again, she's pooped in it every day, and, no surprise, they are much smaller.


Joe has taken an interest in the training potty, sitting on it whenever he can. Unfortunately at 16 months, I don't think he's quite ready for it yet.


Now I'm wondering what new gimmick I'll have to employ once Finley gets bored with her little potty again. What an adventure.

Caterpillars

My neighbor suckered me into taking some black swallowtail butterfly caterpillars to raise. I guess it wasn't that hard, since I love to see nature in action up close. I was hoping for just a few little larvae to watch in their journeys to adulthood, but I ended up with ten. Three of them are just babies that popped out of the shell today.

I tried to pawn a few of them off on another friend to raise, but she said she was doing well just to keep her two kids alive.
When I got them on Monday, two of them were black with a white midsection, and no longer than a half inch long. Today is Thursday, and most of them are about two inches long. The little black speckles is the poop from the caterpillars. That is just a half day's worth of poop.


I would tell you more about them, but since I can't give you a really good picture of what they look like, click here to find out the details about their lives and see a picture of what I hope will emerge from my lowly critter tank.

The Pioneer Lens

I am reading yet another pioneer book. I grew up on the Laura Ingalls Wilder series. Before I could read, I remember sitting in my mother's lap while she read it to me. As I got older, I read them myself... several times. I read them again about a year ago. I have always been fascinated by the detail in which they describe life in those days. I have dreamed about making my own maple syrup and pouring it into a pan of snow so that it would harden up to eat as candy.


To say I love these books is perhaps and understatement. I analyze my life through the lens that these books gives me. Sometimes they motivate me. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed at my lack of motivation in comparison with the pioneer women that it causes me to shut down. My life doesn't depend on my canning every tomato from my garden, but I almost feel cheated that it doesn't.


My pioneer lens really magnifies the absurdity of our modern affluence for me during birthdays and Christmas. Laura was excited to get a penny and a piece of candy for Christmas one year. My three year old opens one present, throws it aside, then demands, 'I want another present.' My heart breaks.

Finley's 3rd Birthday

Last Saturday, Finley turned three.



















She even help bake her own cake. Finley dumped in the ingredients, Reanna iced, and I decorated. We were all pleased with the results.



She enjoyed all the cake and presents, and has already been asking if she can have another birthday and be four.

The Neighbors, Part 3: Rose

The years have not been too kind to Rose. I often wonder what she looked like when she was young and just married. Allergies and genetics give her bags under her eyes that always make her look tired. She is fighting off diabetes with excercise and diet. Her doctor didn't think she could do it. Her doctor underestimated Rose. I bet many people do at first.


Rose is white, her husband, Danny, is black. Rose stayed home to take care of their son, Immanuel, until he reached school age. Staying home was the right thing to do, she said. At the time, they were living in the projects... not the best place to raise a child. One night a bullet shattered their front window and knocked the drapes down while Danny and Rose sat in the living room. Rose took cover on the floor. Danny ran back to make sure Immanuel stayed safe in his room. They were determined to get out of the projects, so once her son was in school, Rose went to work.


About 15 years ago, they finally left the projects. A friend of Rose's rented the house to them for a good price, and eventually Rose and Danny were able to buy it from him. Rose planted a flower garden out front, and they have made major improvements to the house since buying it.


Life in this neighborhood hasn't been easy either, however. Because of their mixed-race marriage, most neighbors shunned them, and prejudiced kids would yell racial slurs at Immanuel . The old woman that lived in our house before us once called the cops when Immanuel's basketball rolled under her bush. Rose got teary-eyed as she told us how much she appreciated us just accepting them for who they are.


In spite of all this, Rose is not afraid. Rose is not afraid to tell you the way things are. She is not afraid to open her arms and love those others won't. Rose is not afraid to ask for help when she needs it, and she gives help when she thinks you need it. I wish there were more Roses in the world.

Churchin' It - GC Style

This morning was a struggle. After staying up a little too late, and the kids getting up too early, I was tired and cranky.


I used to like to go to church... when I didn't have kids. The past two and a half year, however, it has been a struggle, so we tend to not go quite frequently. Worship always feels hectic, trying to keep up with two little ones that don't want to sit still. And although Finley has finally gotten over the separation anxiety and wants to go to her class, Joe is another matter. He does not want us to leave him in the nursery. The past three times we have gone, I have ended up in the nursery, trying to get him acclimated. It hasn't worked, and I got tired of missing the message. So I've given up.


I have to admit, though, that GC is doing it right. GC has always been family friendly. In its smaller days, children would run all around during worship, dancing and waving flags. Mothers (at least those comfortable enough to do it) nursed their children in the service, and nobody looked at them funny. Today, the family-friendliness lives on, although things have changed. The converted gym (aka 'sanctuary') is packed. The 'hospitality room' (old school library) is outfitted with ultra-comfy chairs and sofas where the nursing mothers can lounge and watch what is happening via video feed. The foyer is outfitted with a plasma monitor as well, which allows those with restless leg syndrome to watch out there. The coffee shop off the foyer also has a monitor.


Inspite of my crankiness, we went anyway. And today, it was good. Today, we discovered another cozy spot. This small suite of rooms with a couch and two chairs also had a TV. We were able to kick back, relax, and let Joe run around without having to chase him down a hall or aisle.


Now thats what I call church.

Neighbors Feedback Requested

I received an e-mail from somebody (who shall remain nameless) who felt uneasy reading my Neighbor posts. As I tried to state in N,P1 but maybe didn't express cleary, is that I am just trying to give snapshots of this little slice of my world (to the rest of you, who don't live in it) as I see it through my lens, which I try to keep as objective as I can. Not all things you look at in life are pretty... Does that mean one shouldn't take photographs?



So I have a few questions for you, dear reader:
Do you like or dislike the Neighbors series?
Does this qualify as gossip? (And does gossip have to be negative to qualify as such?)
Would you react differently if the writings were fictional?
Do you have any other thoughts or comments?


I do want to hear back from you. (Just click beneath the title where it says comments.) Leave your comment anonymously if that makes you more comfortable... and thanks. You will make me a better person for it.

The Neighbors, Part 2: Ronnie & Girlfriend?

Ronnie is Olene's son. Ronnie called on the 4th to tell us that Olene had passed away the day before... the same day I posted Neighbors Part 1. Chris felt bad and wanted me to edit my post. I didn't. Ronnie said that they made the decision to remove Olene from oxygen. He asked Olene if she was ready to see Jesus and Kenny, and she nodded her head. Kenny was Olene's other son that died earlier in the year of lung cancer.



Ronnie is the product of dysfunction. I suppose we all are to some extent. But Ronnie is the product of obvious dysfunction. Olene was one of those sweet, mama enablers that let her children walk all over her and rewarded them for doing so. We have other neighbors that are similar. I might get to that in a later post.



Anyway, Ronnie has what we think is a girlfriend. She weighs quite a bit more than Ronnie and is, ironically, named Misty. They met at work at a time when Ronnie had a cocaine habit. She befriended him and stuck with him through his rehab. Misty lived with Olene and Ronnie the first year or so we lived in the neighborhood.



Olene, who was going through chemo at the time, complained to Chris that they didn't help much around the house. Chris ended up mowing most of the yard, because Ronnie could never seem to mow more than the front patch of grass. Finally, Ronnie and Misty decided to move out... to Misty's dad's trailer. Olene became even more miffed. Ronnie ended up calling Chris about a grill left at Olene's, and Chris used the opportunity to give Ronnie a verbal spanking. Ronnie cried on the phone.



Eventually, Ronnie moved back in, and Misty moved to government assisted housing. Ronnie picks her up for weekend visits.



Ronnie is in his late thirties or forties, I would guess. (Can you tell by his photo?) We have never known him to be able to hold down a job longer than a few months, and in fact, he hasn't worked at all in the past year or so. Since getting power-of-attorney rights to Olene's bank account, has blown lots of money on booze and fireworks. Another example of Olene's enabling (aside from the obvious grown-man-living-at-home-for-free): she refinanced the previously paid-for house to cover any debts, including a year-old minivan that she gave to Ronnie. Ronnie was never taught how to handle money or life, and since Olene has died, he now thinks that the best decision is to allow the bank to foreclose on the house... Oh dear. What will become of Ronnie?

I had a weekend away with no children and nothing on my agenda. In spite of Joe crying half the morning (Mom, I know you hid my pacifier - where is it - I need it), I have a renewed sense of calm, and feel like I can do this mom thing for a while again without freaking out. At least until Friday.

I do like my kids. They are pretty cool so far. I'm a little worried about Joe, though. When Finley was his age I was able to focus when I needed to discipline and guide her. It's not so easy with Joe. I'm far more distracted so that he gets things his way a bit more than I'd like.

Coming back after a few days away let me see my children with fresh eyes. Finley is so much more of a growing little girl than I give her credit for. Her thought processes are maturing, and I need to be careful not to treat her like a toddler that just needs ordering around. Joe is really starting to figure things out. Even though he can't say three words so that a non-mom could understand him, he can communicate what he wants. This morning, he opened up the cupboard, put his hand on the toaster oven, and started whining. (Mom, I need a bagel.)

The Neighbors, Part 1: Olene

Since I am fairly confident that most of my neighbors don't read my blog, or know what blogs are, I have decided it would be fun to share them with you. Let me know what you think of the series...


My goal is to be as objective as possible, but I'm afraid that I'm not so good at objectivity, as most of my life has been dedicated to forming opinions about one thing or another. Our former pastor was once informed by his son that 'God doesn't care about your opinions.' I've chewed on that for a while, and am trying harder to find what I think is the truth rather than what my opinion is. It's a fine line, and I can't always tell which is which. And when it comes to people... an opinion equals a judgement. That said, let me introduce to you Olene.


Olene is old, I think. I don't know how old, but she has/had two sons in their early forties. That doesn't really tell you much. She might look older than she is because she has battled cancer for years.


Not long after we moved into our house, Olene was admitted to the hospital after a resurgence of her cancer. Chris and I went to visit her. I have to admit that beforehand, I had visions of going to minister to a kindly woman who was suffering and we would strike up a beautiful relationship. Silly me.


While we visited, Olene talked about how Jesus was her stay in life. How he had helped her out of an abusive relationship with her first husband. How the hope and strength she derived through her sickness was all from Jesus. I could feel a warm glow.


Then she talked about our neighborhood. She talked about how she wasn't racist, but didn't trust those black folk. She talked some more, but I don't know about what. We finally were able to cut in to tell her we needed to leave. We prayed for her and left, the warm glow long gone.


Olene was released from the hospital not long after that, and for the next couple years, I have to admit, I tried to avoid her. I haven't much patience for people that talk only about themselves and never ask you any questions. And Olene could talk until you wished a Mack truck would come out of nowhere and run you over to put you out of your misery. It wasn't really hard to avoid her, though, because I don't think she ever remembered my name. She did, however, remember Chris' name and frequently called to have Chris come help with this or that, ignoring the fact that she had two capable, if lazy, sons. I learned to make sure that Chris took his cell phone so that I could call to give him an excuse to come back home.


Chris says Olene likes to complain about the neighbor in between us, Clay. Clay works a graveyard shift, cleaning at a hospital. He comes home in the morning, and only comes out to mow the yard and get the mail. He says 'hi' to us and is quiet and courteous. Apparently, he draws Olene's criticism because he doesn't own a weed-eater. But my guess is it's because he's black.


Olene is back in the hospital now, and her remaining son is just waiting for her to die. We are wondering what kind of neighbors we'll get when she's gone.

Green Grass

Chris is proud of his stripes. After mowing the lawn yesterday, he went outside to take pics of the yard.

We get lots of comments on our yard. Mostly, folks wonder how we get such a lush, weed free lawn. I'm going to tell you our secret. We learned these secrets from Mike McGrath, who has an organic gardening program on NPR called 'You Bet Your Garden.'

The first thing is... there are weeds... You just don't notice them.

Secondly, we don't use chemicals, but we do aerate and over seed once a year (though not with that crazy Bermuda grass).

But most importantly... All of you out there who hate to mow tend to cut the grass as short as possible so that you don't have to mow as frequently? Well, that works, but the trade-off is stressed-out grass and happy weeds. Set the mower to cut the grass 2.5 - 3 inches high (instead of just above dirt level), and you will leave the grass its food source. It will then be able to establish a healthier root system, which in turn creates healthier grass, all of which helps to choke those weeds out.