Hamster Drama

We had crawled into bed a little later than normal. It was almost 9:30, and I had given up making sure the kids were tucked in. I figured they would find their way to slumberland eventually. No sooner had I pulled the blanket over my legs when I heard a knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in." This late at night, I try to make it sound as unwelcoming as possible, but that strategy never works.

The door opened, and there stood Joe in obvious distress. "I think Tiger Eye is dead."

Chris and I were immediately out of bed, following Joe upstairs.

There was Tiger Eye, half-sprawled across the floor of his critter tank, still as a rock. Chris leaned in a little closer. "He's not dead yet," he said and picked up the hamster. Tiger Eyes whiskers moved ever so slightly. Several pieces of poop clung to the hair around his butt. Chris put him back down.

Tears welled in Joe's eyes while we discussed the possible causes of Tiger Eye's pending demise. Had he been getting enough to eat? Joe had been feeding him. Finley had given him some apple last night. Maybe he was just old. Smokey, chugging water in his nearby critter tank, was older. Diabetes? Some other random hamster illness?

I glanced at the container that held Tiger Eye's food. Only a pinch of millet seeds were left. Looking down into the tank, my eyes searched the shavings. Normally, a well-fed hamster will have a stash of food somewhere, but I saw nothing. My stomach turned at the thought that Joe may have inadvertently been starving Tiger Eye to death. Finley just cleaned the cage a few days ago, maybe that was why there wasn't any food...

Joe picked Tiger Eye up and stroked his fur. TE's eye were mere slits and his ears laid back. He wore a pathetically tired expression. So cute and sad.

I can't just let him die, I thought to myself. He needs easy food. Something to perk him up. Electrolytes.

"Joe, go to the shop and grab a bottle of Gatorade."

While Joe ran to the shop, I searched the medicine cabinet for a syringe.

Back upstairs, I sucked some Gatorade into the syringe, and while Joe held TE up, I ever-so-carefully squeezed a drop into the hamster's mouth. He swallowed. Another drop, and he swallowed again. A third drop pooled in TE's mouth, then slid down his chin, threatening to drop to the floor. My heart sank a little.

Maybe the smell of some food will perk him up.

I ran down to the fridge and yanked off two small pieces of broccoli. Back upstairs, I shoved it in front of TE's nose, but it was obvious TE was too weak to do anything about it. We tried some more Gatorade, and I couldn't tell if he swallowed any or not. Joe set TE down on his leg, and we watched as TE's nose twitched a bit. I needed to find something easy for him to eat. Yogurt? I wasn't sure how good that would be for a dying hamster. I went through the cupboards in my mind, and landed on the perfect thing: peanut butter.

Downstairs again, I grabbed the peanut butter and a toothpick, then ran back up. With TE back in Joe's hand, I waved a tiny glob in front of TE, then tried to push it into his mouth. Half of the glob caught in the hair around his mouth while TE seemed uninterested in opening his mouth. I wasn't about to give up. Gently, I shoved the peanut butter between his lips, and waited. Finally, Tiger Eye seemed to come to and work the peanut butter down his throat. More Gatorade, then a little more peanut butter.

Ever so slowly and slightly, Tiger Eye seemed to perk up. The next time I offered the Gatorade, he reached out and grabbed the nozzle with his paw, eyes still mostly closed. We set him down with a glob of peanut butter in front of his nose, but he was too wobbly to hold himself up. Joe held him again while I spooned a tiny bit more to his mouth. TE nibbled it off the toothpick. After another drop of Gatorade, we took a break to observe the poor little hamster. He was doing a tiny bit better.

Back at the fridge, I found the container of spaghetti noodles Finley had cooked the night before. That would be a nice, easy thing for a sick hamster to eat. Upstairs, I put a few bits in front of Tiger Eye, which he managed to either eat or stuff in his cheek- I wasn't sure which. Then we offered him some of Finley's hamster food, which he stuffed in his cheeks.

It was getting late. We piled more spaghetti, the broccoli, and some shelled sunflower seeds in TE's tank, then after a quick little prayer, Joe set him gently inside. Tiger eye sniffed at the food, then tried to stand up on his four paws. Wobbling and shaking, he turned away from the food, and carefully scooted some shavings aside and curled up into a ball.

The rest of us retreated to our rooms, Joe with red eyes.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I wondered was if Tiger Eye was dead or alive. I dreaded going upstairs to see. Chris had already been up and informed me TE was still alive. In what state, he wasn't sure. I woke Joe up and we went to check on him together.

Sure enough, he was alive, and with most- if not all- of his strength back.

One hamster: saved from the brink of death.

The Van

I've been driving our Chevy Venture van for ten years.

Ten years.

I cannot remember the last time the check engine light wasn't lit. The ABS light came on about 5 or 6 years ago. Last year, the power-sliding door decided to become temperamental, and sometimes refuse to open with button-pushes, so the kids would have to yank on the handle with all their might while the other cars in the pick-up line had to wait. A few weeks back, the door got even more touchy, and after pretending to close all the way, would pop back out just a little with the DOOR AJAR warning lighting up another space on the dash. And then the red airbag warning light came on. It's hard to focus on the road with all the amber glow.

I'm not the sort of person that wants a brand-new vehicle with all the bells and whistles. In fact I still daydream about my old Toyota pick-ups, and am sure that if I they hadn't been totaled in one accident or another, I'd still be driving them. And while I kind of hope that the van can make it another 14,000 miles to 400k, I was about to throw in the towel Monday morning.

As we loaded up to head to school, I warned Z to stay off the door. Although she was buckled in, and the door was mostly shut, I didn't want there to encourage any freak accidents. I dropped Finley off, then Z, the door almost shutting between schools. And then, as the door started to close behind Joe, it freaked.

Like a little kid that was having a melt-down trying to decide between chocolate and fudge, it bounced back and forth on the rails, refusing to fully open or close. I put the van in park, hoping that would help the door make up its mind. But no. So I drove down the road with the door doing its dance until I found a safer place to park.

Turns out, some trim piece had slid out of place and was in the way. I ripped it off (who needs trim?), and sure enough, the door closed. All the way.

I can't decide if I'm mad I don't have a good excuse to buy a newer vehicle right now, or excited I still might be able to coax this piece of [steel] to 400k.

The Gag Reflex

It was evident early in life that my gag reflex was exceptional. I spent hours sitting at the table trying to choke down bits of liver because the slightest taste would trigger responses of rejection from my body. I remember reclining in the dentist's chair with the fluoridated-goo-filled tray in my mouth. My stomach muscles heaved as it felt like that foul tray and taste was threatening to lodge itself in my throat and choke me senseless. 

It isn't just the typical gross-food tastes like liver and Brussels sprouts that activate the reflex. Even food as seemingly innocuous yogurt can make gag. I can happily be eating my favorite flavor of the creamy substance, when all at once, the texture will feel wrong, and my throat will shut down and refuse to let any more pass.

And odors. It is a small major miracle that I never threw up on any of my kids while changing their diapers. This is not to say that I didn't hold my breath or cover my nose up with my shirt whenever possible. I was dry-heaving quite a lot when things were extra-messy. And the only time I actually threw up was when Finley had the runs and removed her diaper during nap-time. So I figure there mast have been a special anti-gag hormone my body created along with the baby. That, coupled with a steeling of the mind, quieted my gag reflex to the point I thought I was largely done with gagging as long as I didn't overwhelm my senses with something utterly disgusting.

About the same time we bought the calves this year, I came down with a bad cold. The dehydration that came with taking decongestants and that nastiness of having thick snot caught in that junction between nasal passage and throat just made me feel sick. On top of that, I was going out twice a day to feed the calves who can't seem to help but sit in their own poo. I would lug the bottles out to the stinky calves and have to watch as the they slurped down their milk, thick ropes of milk-spit froth forming at the corners of their mouths. It was rough. 

I thought I would be done with the gagging when the cold cleared up, but it's only gotten worse. Now that the calves are older and bolder, they slorp and smack their bottles empty. The sound alone can make me gag. Once finished, they nose and suck their way onto another calf's bottle who hasn't finished yet, all the while, slinging their meringue-thick slobber everywhere, leaving me a slimy mess to wash. (I'm gagging as I type.)

I'm hoping I can get things back under control by August. We are going to be grandparents, and I really don't want to be gagging or throwing up around (or on) the kid.

The Woods

Not feeling particularly sane today, I shirked all responsibility for half an hour and headed out back and into the trees, camera in hand.

Little, bitty flowers are sprinkling additional color to the green-brown-gray landscape.

This mighty oak is beginning again.

 While other trees are slower to push out their leaves.

Busy, Busy

It's official. Bluebird is a state-licensed low-voltage contractor. After several months of headache and confusion and paperwork and money thrown here and there, we are eligible to put bids in on major projects and pull permits for whatever jobs we win.

I also got our business cards in the mail, and they look awesome. The website needs help, but whatever. One thing at a time.

In the meantime, there has been plenty of work to keep us busy, and it's all I can do to keep everyone fed and clothed and make sure the kids won't flunk out of school. (I am being a little over-dramatic, but it sure feels as stressful as I'm making it sound some days.)

We have been trying to plan a yard sale for months, but it keeps getting pushed back due to weather. Tomorrow looks promising, so Chris is planning to slap it together come hell or high water.

Things on the farm remain. Daisy got so worked up a few days ago when the neighbor's cows and donkeys wandered back into the pasture next to her that she flat-out jumped the fence. I retrieved her some time later after the pack of animals wandered (or was chased) back to their pond. Tired from all the excitement, she plopped down in the shade of a tree and let the livestock graze in peace. She (thankfully) hasn't jumped the fence since, but I expect she will again.

We had one Granny Smith apple grow on our trees this year, and Finley and I ate it today. The skin was covered in black stuff, but the insides were good.

I am sure there is more to write about, but duty calls... Until next time, whenever that will be.

Tearin' Down the Trailer

There are few things in life that give a person as much satisfaction as tearing something apart.

Chris got a bee under his bonnet and with minor help from me, emptied the trailer of the last of the junk we accumulated in the 4+ years we lived in it. (Side note- leather molds faster than other materials.)

So this week, we started pulling out the fixtures, letting the kids knock a few holes in the walls, and gutting the place.

I must say, while were living in the trailer, not once did I see a brown recluse. There were other spiders that were smaller, wispy, ghost-like versions of daddy-long-legs that were forever building invisible webs in the corners. Those I didn't mind. But since we've moved out, the brown recluses must have sensed the abandonment and are EVERYWHERE. Most of them are small enough for me to squish with my fingers, but when I pulled down a light fixture to find this big, juicy one (the photo doesn't do it justice), I nearly pooped my pants. 

 I mustered up some courage, managed to knock it onto the floor with a screw drivers, then stomped it flat.

Still have a ways to go, but I'm hoping by the time cold weather sets in, we'll have a new, prettier view out our living room windows.

A (Sort of) Quiet Afternoon

I got a phone call a little after 9:30 this morning from the school. "Joe isn't running a fever, but he says he feels like he's going to throw up," the voice on the other end of the line said. He had been complaining before school that he wasn't feeling well, but after eating some breakfast and using the rest room, I thought he would be okay. I was wrong. I walked through the front door of the school seconds after he had spewed a watery mess all over their new, clean floor. "Good timing," the lady behind the desk told me. How true. I walked out with a pale, miserable Joe, thankful that the custodian at the school was dealing with his vomit instead of me. And now Joe is nestled on the couch, trash can close at hand, watching Stampy play video games. ( I will never understand....)

In other kid news, Joe tried out for Melody Makers, the singing group at school, and made it. Finley is learning to play the flute and is excited to march in the homecoming parade tomorrow.

 Zivah has learned to tie her shoes. To have your youngest master this last skill of basic self-sufficiency feels epic.

Out on the farm, Daisy has miraculously stayed in her yard for the past three days. After discovering that she could climb a section of fence last weel, I tried for days to alter the fence so that she couldn't climb out. The fence had been pushed over by years of livestock, and the angle was just enough that she could scale the corner. First, I tried to string barbed-wire over the corner, but she wiggled through, ignoring the scratches to her belly. Next, I used the tractor to pull the t-post upright, but somehow, she still was able to climb the wrinkled fence. Finally, I straightened things up a bit more and cut out a sapling that was growing in the fence. I don't know if the sapling was some sort of psychological support for Daisy, but she gave up climbing and has redirected her energies to digging holes.

 I cleaned the coop out today. Chris's decision to lay laminate flooring in there was a stroke of genius. After using the manure fork to get the big bits, the rest is easily cleaned up with a square point shovel. The chickens will thank me tonight when they breathe in that clean, fresh-hay air.

 The fifteen chicks one hen hatched out early last month are gone. We suspect a hawk and a weasel teamed up to annihilate them all, and in a matter of three or four day, they all disappeared. Well, all except for the three I found in various stages of manglement in the little coop.

At least Isadora still lives on. Though her head-feathers could use a good shampooing.

Kitchen Failure

I didn't think it was possible to ruin homemade pizza, but I managed to do it the other day. I had been busy all week with Stuff, and I hadn't been feeding my family very well. Granted, the day I bought the rotisserie chicken from the grocery store wasn't bad. We actually had vegetables and a good protein, though the pearled couscous I accidentally bought was not a hit.

So when I thought about making pizza two days later, I was rather proud of myself. Chris and the girls love my pizza. Joe? He will just have to deal with it. In between the phone calls and my mind being elsewhere, I whipped up some dough and left it to rise. Two hours later, when I rolled out the dough and started topping the pizzas, I realized I didn't have as much pizza cheese as I thought I had. No matter. A bit of cheddar will do. No black olives were in the pantry, though. How is it that on the days I'm not wanting them, there are five cans of olives instead of beans or corn, but today there are none?

A half hour later, and the pizzas came out of the oven. I sat down to eat, mentally patting myself on the back. And then I took a bite.

Who knew a little missing salt and olive oil could totally ruin a meal?

A Hike at Henry Horton State Park

We all have been getting too much screen time lately, so this morning I decided it was time we went for a little hike. The kids had gone to Junior Ranger Camp at the park last month, and were excited to tell me the history of the area they had learned. As soon as we got out of the van, Joe ran ahead, pointing out the different remains of Wilhoite Mill and an old cabin.

The trail started off along the river, then turned along an adjoining creek. My pictures, taken with my lousy little iPhone camera, don't do the place justice.

"Look! A pig nose!" - Z

And to think this is only four miles from our house.

May-O-Naze

I don't know how she did it, but for at least 97% of my elementary school days, my mother packed my lunch. (I figured by the time my kids hit 2nd grade, they could fix their own dadgum lunch. This must be why my older two eat cafeteria food 97% of the time. My mother was/is much nicer than I am.) Anyway, sometimes she would make me PB&Js. Sometimes she made mayo and cheese, except I didn't realize at that age that the mayonnaise wasn't really mayonnaise. It was Miracle Whip.

That is probably why I never really thought much about "mayonnaise". It was only something used to moisten the bread and cheese. It was certainly nothing that would add a nice flavor to food. I think I must have been a full-blown adult, living on my own, before I even tasted "real" mayonnaise. I remember being taken aback by the rich flavor of a packet of Hellman's and wondering why anyone would ever choose to use Miracle Whip as a substitute.

A few months back, I was staring at the label on my jar of Hellman's, wondering if Joe was sensitive to any of the ingredients. Thankfully, he isn't scary-allergic to anything that we know of, but he's always hated peanut butter, and any time it has gotten in his mouth, he complains about it making his mouth itch. We also recently discovered that lentils are on the 'no for Joe' list. Several spoonfuls of soup, and his mouth and stomach were in turmoil. He spent the next day at home with the squirts. That got me wondering. If Joe is allergic to at least two different legumes, could he be allergic to soybean products? Tuna melts are a quick easy meal I like to force on the family, but Joe complains about his mouth when we eat them. Either Joe is making it up to try to get out of eating them, or something- maybe the mayonnaise- really is causing him to react.

I did a quick internet search, and everything I found said that highly refined soybean oil is typically safe for those with soy allergies, since it doesn't contain the proteins that cause reactions. Just in case, I thought I'd try to pick up a jar of mayo that used something other than soybean oil, but every single jar in our local Kroger used soybean oil. Even the jars boasting use of the healthier olive oil used a significant amount of soybean oil. "Fine," I thought, frustrated that there are no health food stores near us. "I'll make my own mayonnaise."

So I did.

I should have known to expect yellow. After all, I did use a fresh egg from one of our free-ranging chickens. Our chicken's egg yolks are such a deep orange, marigolds are jealous. And so my REAL mayonnaise was a beautiful, sunny yellow. And I can't get over it.

To be perfectly honest, this homemade mayonnaise has such a zip and zing to it, I'm not sure I'd like it for everyday use, and I really don't know if the kids will like it. I may have to figure out how to tone it down a little. (Less vinegar/lemon juice?) And to be even more honest... I love the convenience of Hellman's, even though the ingredients are less than ideal. We'll see if this homemade mayonnaise kick lasts.

Teamwork

We've been busy around here lately. (Why do I even bother to say that out loud?) This time of year, it's hard to get to all the things on our list with the grass growing like mad. But with teamwork, all things are possible.

Since we are helping take care of part of our neighbor's property, it takes about eight total man-hours to mow everything we want and need to. (The grass on the go-kart track can not be allowed to get high.) Chris usually takes care of our property, while I handle the neighbor's with my riding mower. 

Friday, Chris decided to get a jump on the week's mowing. One half hour into it, he realized the blades has stopped turning (and cutting) the grass. Digging back into the memories of his Belmont Landscape Maintenance days, he remembered a problem they used to have with some of the mowers. The PTO switches would sometimes go bad. He pulled the part off his mower, and looked the part up online. It would cost us $30 and several days to get it fixed. Frustrated with the setback, we took a minute to daydream about selling his walk-behind mower that is too big for me to handle and buying a zero-turn I could use as well.

Wanting to make sure we wouldn't order a part we didn't need, I looked up a video on testing switches. Some shenanigans with the multi-meter revealed that the switch was still good. A few more more YouTube videos later, and we figured out we could test the mower's electric clutch by checking for electrical continuity through the clutch. Poking the probes into the wire harness sticking out of the clutch led us to believe the clutch was bad. I looked the part up online and discovered it would cost us  at least $180 and several days to get it fixed. 

At this point, it was getting late in the day, so we called it quits.

Saturday morning, Chris told me not to order the part yet. He wanted to pull the mower apart first. A few hours later, he had the clutch in hand. He wanted to test it again, just to make sure it was bad. This time, to my surprise, it looked good. We fiddled a bit with the section of wire harness that attaches the wires above the mowing deck to the clutch below and discovered a break in one of the wires. I went inside and looked the part up online. It would cost $15 and several days to get it fixed.

Instead, Chris decided we should try to fix it. He managed pulled the wire harness apart without breaking anything, reset the wire, and together we soldered it back into place, and it didn't cost us but a few hours of time. 

By the end of Saturday, the mowing was done.

And, now, because Chris doesn't want me to post a picture of him working on the mower, here is a picture of a lovely, little salamander I came across today.

Snow Day #6

All day yesterday, I kept daydreaming about taking the kids to school in the morning, then coming home to an empty house. I was going to enjoy another cup of coffee in  the quiet before I put on some music my kids would not approve of and turn it up to a loud volume. I would relish in cleaning up the kitchen, knowing that it would stay clean for at least four or five hours. Then, a trip to the grocery store (all by myself)! After groceries were put away, more loud music would accompany further housecleaning. It was going to be glorious.

Between illnesses and snow days, I have had two and a half weeks of constant interaction with other human beings. This morning, when I woke up to find that a millimeter of frozen rain caused yet another cancellation of school, my introverted self started to (inwardly) writhe and wail in disappointment and agony.

I have since taken several deep breaths, and have acknowledged that, yes, I can make it through one more day. Melodrama over.

The Closet

Somehow or other, I just spent the last ten minutes of my life contemplating the sometimes-silent 'n' in the word 'damnation' and all its derivatives. The English language both awes and irritates me.

There are other things that awe and irritate me. The quantity of my husband's clothes is one of those things. There is no good reason for a man who's standard outfit is a t-shirt and jeans with the occasional flannel to own as many clothes as he does. But we all have to put up with some of our loved-one's quirks, don't we?

When we lived in the trailer, almost all of his clothes were piled haphazardly on shelves and other random things in the cave of a walk-in closet we had. The door was kept shut, and I was able to ignore it. Because I didn't have to see it, the only thing that really bothered me was that one of my favorite shirts of his was lost in that mass of chaos. Every once in a while (maybe once a year), he would rummage through his clothes and "reorganize" them, but the navy blue t-shirt with the cool tractor printed on the back never seemed to surface.

When we moved into the house, our closets were not built out yet, so the pile moved into the corner of our bedroom where it sat and taunted me daily. Although the kitchen cabinets still lacked painted doors, I decided the pile of clothes had to be dealt with, and I began work on the closet. We finally got it finished a couple days ago. Most of his clothes have been moved to the closet, a bin of sentimental clothes was moved to storage, and I can actually vacuum the carpet in the corner of the room where the pile lived.

Design inspired by our neighbor, Terry

Now all we need are doors so that if he musses up my neat stacks, I won't go crazy.

January Is Nearly Gone

I'm not sure how it happened, but we are already at the end of January. 2015.  Was it yesterday I was telling myself that I had "plenty of time" to order some seeds before I needed to get them started for spring planting? Ha. The best laid plans... 

It has taken me 38 years to admit it, but I am not the most disciplined of people, though I have found that "proper prior planning" helps a great deal. So I've been trying to schedule out my week in my head so that I know what to do and don't feel as overwhelmed by my "to do" list. My plan has been to spend Mondays on major house cleaning, then use Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday for painting cabinet doors, writing, or other miscellany. Fridays, I balance the check book and do the shopping. Of course, this only works if the universe cooperates with my plan. Usually, it doesn't, so I haven't done a lick of painting since before Christmas.

Take, for example, Joe. He has a mild peanut allergy. Earlier in the month, I made a big pot of delicious lentil soup. At suppertime, Joe took one look at his bowl and told me it looked disgusting. But he tried it, decided he liked it, then proceeded to shovel a bunch down his throat. A minute later, his mouth was itching and his stomach hurting. The next day and a half, chunky liquids periodically came out both his ends, and any plans I'd made were thwarted.

In other disruptions to my schedule, Joe got braces. That in itself didn't throw me off so much. It was the two subsequent visits to the orthodontist to get wires trimmed that were tearing up the insides of his cheeks.

 Speaking of teeth (and completely unrelated to my rant), Zivah is about to lose a top, front tooth. This picture doesn't quite do it justice. It is currently so crooked, it is a constant temptation to reach in her mouth and yank it out. I tried this once, but the tooth is hanging on tightly for dear life.

 Last week, we finally got some snow. It was gracious enough to come on the weekend and did not disrupt the school schedule. It stuck around just long enough to let the kids roll around in it and make some snowballs.

January hasn't been wholly unproductive, though. I finally got some things hung on the wall in the kitchen.

This arrangement makes me happy, as I have a thing for birds, and most of the items remind me of people I love. The nest picture is cyanotype made by a former neighbor and artist friend of mine. The birds were embroidered by my great aunt, Lillian, and the butterfly cut-outs were a gift from another friend. 

So here's to February and momentum. May I see the end of the paint brush by Valentine's Day- or March.

It's the End of the Year (as we know it)

And I would feel fine if all this mucous would stop clogging up my sinuses and airways.

We had a great Christmas, in spite of our colds, with both sides of the family coming out to spend a part of the day in our new house. The weekend before, we had a gathering at Chris's grandmothers, and got to spend time with family we only see once or twice a year.

Speaking of the new house, we finally-FINALLY got our official certificate of occupancy. Over the weekend, Chris nibbled away at all the little things that needed to be done, such as disconnecting the trailer's sewage lines and installing a clean-out for the line from the house, putting up the railing that will keep anyone from falling into the stairwell, slapping up some ugly railings for all the steps leading into the house, and putting numbers on the house (as if anyone could see them from the street). It's nice to know we can legally live in our house now. Chris was especially happy to have accomplished this goal by year's end.

We are into week two of the kids' winter break. I had grand plans of all the things we would do, but between the snot and Christmas festivities, it was quite an accomplishment to fulfill just one of those plans: making gingerbread houses.

On a side note: it is almost impossible to get a "normal" picture of the kids these days, thanks to the influence of their father. But I guess goofball is their normal.

One day last week, Finley slipped this note to Chris after supper:

I felt bad, remembering a word I let slip when I thought the kids were out of earshot, and thought there might have been a time or two when she might have misheard my under-the-breath mumbling. I'm not one to get bent out of shape over a cuss word or two, but I really don't want my kids to think swearing is an okay habit to develop, so I went to Finley to find out exactly what she heard and to apologize. "What did you hear me say?" I asked her when I got her alone. "You said 'I SWEAR...'!"

So I have one more week of walking on eggshells until the kids go back to school and I can let the blue-streaks fly without worry.

Easing from Thanksgiving to Christmas

I have just survived Thanksgiving. For that, I am thankful.

The kids were home from school all week. Thankfully, the weather wasn't awful, so the kids got in some sunshine and fresh air. In spite of the the poo scattered through the yard and sometimes tracked into the house, I am also thankful for the chickens. The birds keep the kids occupied when other animals (like Daisy) aren't as easy to play with.

 I have to admit that I am not so fond of our big rooster. He has never shown any aggression toward me, but I just don't like the way he treats most of his ladies. I rarely see him making romantic overtures to woo the hens like one of our old roosters would. Most of the time, he just takes what he wants when he wants it. Zivah, however, probably has no thoughts of the chickens' love lives, and likes him just fine. She has been getting a kick out of catching the big roo, and I am getting a kick out seeing Mr. Macho at the mercy of my baby girl.

 We hosted Thanksgiving dinner at our house this year, and Finley helped bake some pies. We made pumpkin (from the pumpkins Finley grew this year), apple, and chocolate.

 As my in-laws gifted us with an actual tree this year, I let the kids decorate it before Thanksgiving. Three different colors of garland, multi-colored lights, and the miscellany of ornaments make it a sight to behold. The kids think it is beautiful. I am glad they like it.

 So this year, our cactus was spared from the heavy burden of all those ornaments, but it just wouldn't be Christmas if we didn't decorate the cactus. A strand of white lights, red garland, and candy canes will do.

Now I need to figure out where to hang the stockings. If there is one thing I miss about our old house in Nashville, it is the fireplace mantle. Nowhere else seems appropriate.

Indecision

Our clock has been sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of the living room for more than a week, waiting.

I need to hang it. But it's complicated.

Interior decoration is an art. And I am ridiculous enough to want my home not only to look good, but to say something, so the placement and grouping of items is important to me. It doesn't help that some of the things I'd like to hang aren't framed, or that the trim isn't up to help me know where to position things on the wall, or that I haven't built the wall shelves out of the barn wood yet. So I think and re-evaluate and put off.

And the clock still sits there, grumbling, "It's time, it's time..."

Living in the New

It happened.

Last Monday, I called in for our electrical final. Tuesday came and went, and the inspector never showed. He was slammed with work and didn't make it out to us. He was not scheduled to be in our county again until Thursday. If he failed us on Thursday, we would have to wait until the next Tuesday to have him back out for a re-inspection, which meant our hopes to move in over the weekend were looking dim. We tried not to be disappointed.

Wednesday, I picked the kids up from school, got the kids working on their homework, then wandered outside. There was a truck in the drive that wasn't ours. The inspector had come! I went out to the house where I found him poking around upstairs. He explained he had run out of work in a neighboring county and decided he might as well get a few things knocked out over in ours. Besides, he knew we had been waiting for a long time. After a few more anxious moments on my parts, he passed us.

Thursday and Friday, I worked feverishly, finishing the floor in the mud room. My mom came over and helped clean out the fridge, getting it ready for Chris to move when he got home. By Friday evening, with the help of our neighbors, we had all the major appliances cleaned up and moved over.

Seeing the table and chairs ready for us to eat breakfast in the new house the next morning made me happier than I can tell you.

Speaking of happy, instead of the used, scuffed up kitchen sink we had available, we splurged and bought a new sink and faucet to go with the countertops Terry finished and helped us install. I didn't realize how much I would enjoy this fancy, new faucet. I almost (almost) look forward to washing dishes.

 In the meantime, back in the trailer, there is a colossal mess. Nobody wants to go in there. For the past few weeks, the smell of death was added to the stink of moldy wood, so the relief we felt when we could finally move into the new house was greater than ever. I am sure when we tear the place down, we will find the bones of an animal or two tucked away in the insulation under the floor somewhere.

But every day, I have been braving the trailer, sifting through the chaos, throwing away whatever I can, setting aside things to give away or sell, then bringing over bit by bit the things we decide to keep.

The kitchen is slowly taking shape. Although none of the doors and drawer faces are painted, and there are shelves and an island I need to build, I am making do with what I have. I almost like the look of the unfinished drawers, but I doubt Chris would let me leave then this way long term.

In the evenings, we all settle into the beds in our clean, new rooms, breathe deep of the fresh air, and drift off to sleep, happy.

I Will Not Be Cranky

We got most of the flooring laid this past week, and finished up the kitchen floor on Monday.

The laundry/mud room still needs to be done, but Finley was sent home Monday with strep. Tuesday, I discovered that the van's battery had gone kaput and a had to take Finley to a doctor's appointment. (Thank goodness for the truck.) Today, after getting a 4:15 wake-up thanks to Chris's alarm clock (I will not be cranky), I wrestled the battery out of the van. With an older model vehicle, the job would have taken about 30 seconds, but the brilliant engineers at Chevy buried this battery under a bar bolted to the frame, a fuse box, and tangle of wires, so it took a bit longer. 

In the mean time, the kitchen waits for counter tops and for Chris to hook up some plumbing. Once that is done, we are hoping to at least get a temporary occupancy permit so that we can move out of the trailer...

LEtting GO

As far back as I can remember, we had a bin of Legos at our house. Most of them were from the 70s, with people heads the size of large marbles, wagon-styled wheels, and little doors that would be impossible for the big-headed people to fit through, even if I could have figured out at that young age how to build them out of the crazy random and broken pieces we owned. 

So when I was 8 or 9, a desire was born in my heart to own my own set of Legos. **Disclaimer. I am aware of the fact that the plural of LEGO is LEGO, but after 30-plus years of saying and writing "Legos," have decided a disclaimer is easier and more comfortable than correcting myself.**

As you probably know, Legos are not inexpensive.The price tag for a set of Legos was far beyond my allowance-saving potential, and the only hope I had of owning my own was to petition my Gramma to buy me a set for birthdays or Christmas. She came through. First came a police station, then a fire station, and eventually, a Technic go-kart set. Each set, I built, then left intact on a shelf in my room, ready to play with. The instructions, I kept in a safe place in case I needed them. At some point, I bought another bin of Legos in which I put all the pieces of the fire and police stations along with the instructions. The Technic set, I kept in it's original box, not wanting to mix the two kinds of Legos.

Then, along came my kids. At some point, I allowed them to play with my Legos, letting them build random things out of the pieces, and didn't bother trying to build the stations.

When Joe received his first Lego set, I was thrilled. It was a blue car that could be rebuilt several different ways. I had visions of him building it, playing with it, then carefully taking it apart and rebuilding it when he got tired of one style. I place the instructions and extra pieces together in a ziplock bag, instructing him to keep them all together so that nothing would get lost. I don't think the car remained intact for even one day. Boy that he is, he like to pretend that the car would crash... 

As the Lego sets kept coming, I told the kids (in vain) to keep the instruction booklets on a bookshelf where they would be safe and easily found. But, inevitably, after the initial build, the booklet would end up under a bed or at the back of a closet, bent up and falling apart.

A friend of mine has a son that is conscientious enough to take care of his instructions. He then started his own business, renting the booklets out to his friends at school. My kids aren't like that. It has come to the point where I have confiscated all the booklets and have them hidden in a drawer in my desk.

Joe came to me the other day wanting to build a car he had seen in the fire station instructions. I handed him the booklet with a strict warning that the booklet needed to come back to me AS SOON AS he was done with it. He came back five minutes later, complaining that he couldn't find the base to the car. He swapped that booklet out for another, but was back with that one in another five minutes. No surprise there. As the kids get into building something, they don't want to put their projects back into the Lego bin come clean-up time, so they squirrel the pieces away in random parts of their rooms. Zivah will take a liking to a certain Lego piece, and I have found stashes of pieces in several clothes drawers, backpacks, other bins, or other toys. I would be amazed if we could build ANYTHING by the book.

If the mixing of sets and disregard for instructions weren't bad enough, my kids even take apart the mini-figures! Removing an arm or a hand is unconscionable in my book. Seeing the mini-figures suffering from missing body parts about does me in. 

As much as this drives me crazy, I have decided to let go of it all and look on the bright side. The kids love building with Legos, and they are being far more creative with their builds then following instructions allows. Instead of bemoaning that the cool Star Wars ship has little chance of ever being built again, I am enjoying the Lego mess.

Above, a dwarf from a Hobbit set relaxes in a hot tub that Joe built, while Finley's mermaid man swims in his aquarium in the background. Below, Z has her own thing going.