Gumbo's home!

Clean bill of health from the vet. Sweet, sweet, sweet boy. Gives hugs. So timid, he's actually scared of Coleman. Doesn't like baths, but doesn't hold it against us. Still haven't heard him bark yet. Not complaining!

Don't worry.

Don't worry too much about me. Battling anxiety and depression is going to be a lifelong issue for me. That's just the way it is. There are good days and bad days. There are days when I'm just mad that I have to deal with this. Carter says I should try to appreciate that I'm a complicated person. I do like that. Who wants to be simple? Not me. But it still makes me mad sometimes. The rest of the time, I'm happy--and I'm always aware of what a good life, wonderful family, and special friends I have. I have high expectations for life and who I am to the people I share that life with. I have always set the bar very high for my relationships. They are my measuring stick--not my career (and for those of you who went to college with me, you know, not my grades.) I treasure the people in my life. I'm thankful for each of you. Carter thinks I'm making you all worry too much though. He has the benefit of seeing me snap out of it. You don't get that. I'm good. Don't y'all worry. (And don't rag on my dog. He's awesome!)

Gumbo gets a home.

We've adopted a dog. He's a two-year-old bluetick hound mix named Gumbo. Well, his name now is Noah, but when he comes home, he'll be Noah Gumbo Hay. He has heartworms, so he has to spend several days at the vet being treated. We set out to adopt a dog that others might be unlikely to adopt. No puppies. No chocolate labs. We found Noah Gumbo. He's sweet and timid. He likes the kids, and doesn't like tennis balls. I think he'll made a nice addition to our family. Though I'm insisting on regular baths.

Tidy raccoons!

I love that we live around so much wildlife, but r-e-a-l-l-y. We just chased a raccoon out of our laundry room and another off the deck. They were huge, and cute, and could have kicked our kitties' asses. As we were chasing them away--which took a while because they weren't as afraid of us as one would expect them to be--Coleman started meowing for us to save him. Poor guy. Or maybe he was just fussing because they were eating all his food. So the cats are in, the dog door is closed, and the raccoons are hanging out in the trees just waiting for us to go to sleep. We were just talking about getting a coon hound mix that's been at the city shelter for a while, but I think those raccoons might be bigger than him too!

Here's a mystery for you.

This morning I walked in the kitchen to respond to Mama's meows for food (and to tell her and Hawthorne to keep it down so we could sleep longer). Coleman has been packing on the pounds, but I knew there was no way he could have eaten all the food I had just given them last night. So I looked in the laundry room at their food bowls--and they were licked clean. I decided to check on the heavyweight, and when I looked outside for him, I saw the new bag of (previously unopened) cat food ripped open and sitting on the deck. Huh? No cat of mine is capable, or motivated enough, to pull a seven pound bag of food through the dog door. The gates are both closed, so it couldn't have been a dog--or our local fox. The place isn't a mess, so it doesn't seem like raccoons were our little bandits. So what the hell? Hawthorne was worried it was a bear (they've been spotted around here a lot lately) until I reminded him that a bear couldn't fit through the dog door. So... what do you think? (Did you think I was going to solve the mystery?) Houdini fox? Tidy raccoons?

Here we go again.

This is way more information about me than I should be sharing with most of you. I need to get it out though, and this is my forum. I'm tired of battling depression and anxiety. No one panic, I'm not going anywhere. I'm just saying I'm tired of it. It's scary and lonely. It never goes away completely. It's just managed, and I don't really like how unmanaged it is a lot of the time, but I don't see any other options. I try to talk myself out of it, which, as my doctor has reminded me on more than one occasion, is not possible. She said that the next step is mood altering drugs. I think that's what she said. That sounds scary. I'm not sure what's scarier though--sort of managed mental illness or changing medications. And what even caused this mess to begin with. I know it started with my last pregnancy, but why is it even possible?! What's weird is that I'm happy, but I'm not. I love my life and the people in it, there's just this undercurrent that's a general pain in the ass. I hate the words mentally ill. I hate it. It makes me someone I don't think I am. It takes me away from me, and that just pisses me off!

Happy Mother's Day to me.

My family is awesome. The kids gave me lots of neat homemade gifts that are now hanging in my office. Plus, I have a new charm for my mommy bracelet and a gift certificate to Banana Republic. They have someone very sweet helping them shop!

Taking it easy.

We spent last weekend in Sandestin. It was a little chilly in the mornings (we hit the beach before the sun was up to look for dolphins), but the ocean was beautiful and the heated salt water pool next to our condo was a little piece of heaven. We ate lots of yummy food and celebrated Carter's 37th birthday. This is a beautiful time of year here. Everything is super green and there's a nice breeze to cool off the spring afternoons. We've been eating dinner on the deck and enjoying relaxing under the fan out there. I keep wondering, given the peace here, why I'm not sleeping well.

Words are not enough.

The tragedies of Burma and China invaded my dreams last night. I didn't dream of fragile earth, water, and wind, but the fear, sorrow, frustration, and anger seeped in to every story. The tragedy those people are living through, the burden of loss and the weight of anger that has engulfed them, the fragility of life--both gone and still struggling--is crushing. I woke up sad, feeling lost and afraid, but I woke up.
These emotions are an everyday presence in the lives of people all over the world. I find myself hating their governments for being so dishonest and cruel. But what do we do--as individuals and as a country? How do we help? Aren't we guilty of some of the same neglect and waste and lies. Finding the balance in life--between putting hardwood floors in and providing for others. It seems like such a ridicules and embarrassing question to ask myself. There are children here in Tallahassee whose lives could be changed with that kind of money. What is reasonable? What actually helps? Because I want to help. I want to give children a chance to rise above their circumstances, to realize that they are capable of doing so. And I want to wrap my arms around those parents who have lost their children or are watching them struggle for life and must feel as if their own hearts have been ripped out of their chests. That they are struggling to breath and to survive that which doesn't seem possible to overcome. I feel only a fraction of their sadness and I wonder how they are not flattened by its mass.

I love my gander.

Tallahassee is home to lots of Canadian geese. We routinely hear their honks as they fly over our house while stretching their wings. They live in the three/four lakes in our neighborhood, and they're fun to watch. I especially like that they pair bond. They live in groups, but they walk and nest as couples. In the parking lot of our Research Center there is a green strip of grass between two levels of the lot. In that strip, a goose and gander have set up a nest. The goose sits on their nest, warming the eggs, and resting quietly. The gander takes care of her. He brings her treats, flies up to the top of the building and honks--out of pride or protection, I'm not sure--and flaps his wings, honks, and chases anyone who dares park or walk too close to the nest. It's sweet. Makes me think of my own gander who takes such good care of me. I often wonder how I managed such great fortune. He's one in a gazillion. Last night I told him I wanted to buy a piece of art for our bedroom wall that has a peacock on it because when I saw it, it made me think of him. Peacocks are so proud and beautiful. And though he is beautiful, maybe he's more like a gander--caregiver, loyal partner, protector. I'm one lucky goose.

Just so you know.

I'm working on eliminating plastic bags from our house for the sake of the environment, but what I'm really concerned about are the plastics that can affect the kids' reproductive health, cause cancer, affect memory, and disrupt endocrine function. Plastic marked with #7 is the bad stuff. Don't use it. Canada is working to ban it from baby bottles and formula containers (the lining of the cans) by next year. Our government is also trying to outlaw bisphenol A, or BPA, the hormone-like ingredient in #7 plastics. It's also used as the lining in many aluminum cans and food cans (so put down that Coke can and don't eat acidic things, such as tomatoes, packaged in cans). Also, don't reuse water bottles (or anything marked with #1) because they begin leaking carcinogens after the first use. I don't like the idea of big government any more than the next guy, but I want someone doing a better job of protecting us!

The baby is 4.

Little Lu turned 4 at the end of April. I can't believe my baby is 4. She's a cool kid. A handful. Pure FABby at home. I think it's fairly easy for me to take her personality in stride, to find the difficulties endearing, because she's such the obvious amalgam of me and Carter. At this moment she's singing a song to herself in the mirror (when she's supposed to be brushing her teeth.)
"I am very happy. And I know he is my friend. And even when I get mad at him, he is still my friend. And sometimes I am happy. And sometimes I am sad. But then I get happy again. I just clap my hands and turn around, but I don't know why. And I think I should. I know that I could."
Now Carter is trying to get Hawthorne to go get the camera so he can take a picture of Ainsley, but Ainsley has stopped the performance. And to Carter's request to sing some more so he can take a picture, she says, "But Daddy, I've already done it twelve million times. Well, OK, I'll do it again."

Details. Details.

I'm not fatalistic. I don't believe that things happen for a reason, that there's some grand plan or someone pulling the strings. My life would be much easier if I did believe these things. My conviction otherwise leads me to "sweat the small stuff, "or more accurately, get a little sweaty when I realize I've actually been neglecting the details. My mind is always racing about the big picture—if my family feels loved, if I'm fully present in my children's presence... So much so, that I often find myself scrambling to take care of the "little things." Like, say, uh feeding my children. Not that that should be classified as small, now that I think about it.

Just the other day, I made Hawthorne's lunch, packed his snack, made sure his red folder with signed forms and a donation to the music program were in his backpack. I zipped the kids' jackets and gave them big hugs before they left. Then, Ainsley asked about her lunch box. Oh, yeah. So, I sent her off without it and promised to drop it off on my way to work. Carter called to remind me that not only had I forgotten her lunch box, I had also forgotten her blanket and sleepy toy for nap time. Jeez. So I packed it all up and put it with my work stuff so I wouldn't forget it again. But you know how this story goes, don't you? I pulled into my office, reached over for my bag, and with a defeated sigh, said, "Oh, shit" to Ainsley's pile of things still sitting in the passenger's seat.

I just don't seem to have the brain power for it all. My nephew, whose birthday is a month before Ainsley's, is going to get his present several days from now. I signed up to take breakfast to Ainsley's school for teacher appreciation this week. I took danish and juice on Monday and then noticed yesterday, that I actually signed up to take breakfast today, so I had to do it all again this morning. And yesterday, Carter had to drive all the way back to the house from campus to bring me my keys that I left in his car. It's not a pretty picture for a 36 year old. This morning, a friend with older children told me that I better get it together because it only gets more complicated the more involved they get in other activities. Oh boy.

Simplifying really is helping though. I'm happier. I like the perception of order, even if the real order isn't quite there yet. I bought new lamps for the bedroom. OK, that has nothing to do with simplifying, but it makes the room brighter and looks pretty, and that's always a step in the right direction. Now I'm on a quest to finish decorating the bedroom, furnish the deck, and find the perfect pair of pewter/bronze sandals. Oh, I also got rid of all the bad plastic, so that's a load off. And I can feel a real routine coming just around the corner. An actual schedule that I stick to. I'm determined. Really, I am.