Getting Through the Day

Depression is a funny thing.  It comes and goes, the ebb and flow is mercurial and senseless.

Today it was related to being busy, busy, busy and also a kitten and also a non-standard day.  But the odd thing was that I was surrounded by lovely people, one of my best friends stopped in to visit, and the kitten was rescued.  Still that feeling of darkness, hopelessness, wanting to cry and nap, lingers.

It's related to PPD/A - post-partum depression and anxiety.  I struggle after pregnancy for a long, long time.   But it will get better.  I know this.  So I just get through the day, one day at a time, one step at a time, one task at a time.

We have a bad, terrible, awful mama cat.  She was a stray dropped off on the side of the road as a kitten.  She has had several liters and many of the kittens don't make it.  Mama Gray Cat is a terrible mama.  She has hidden liters under tractor lawn mower decks.  Just sayin.

Two days ago she gave birth to three kittens.  She managed to hide one in a very bad place - under the garage attic floor.  No one knew where she had taken the kitten though there had been numerous sightings of her carrying the kitten into the building.  But we couldn't find it.  It wasn't making any sound.

Today the kitten started mewing.

We brought the bad mama cat into the building so she could get her kitten.  It seemed normal that she would want to retrieve it.

No interest.

She's such a bad mom.

I sawed through the floor.  Yes I did.  Got a jig saw and sawed the floor.  Then my awesome oldest son who is also amazing and cool, reached far into the insulation and bug filled under-the-floor-area and rescued the kitten.

This took an hour or so.  The kitten had been in there for two days.  She was active and loud...  and I was...am...still... SO STRESSED.

I blame some of the depression on Mama Gray Cat.  She is getting fixed,  No more of these kitten capers.  I don't have time for  this.

Summer Sticker Strategy

Summer break was looking grim.  The kids were sick of school, melting down, arguing and complaining.  My biggest problem was the complaining.  I thought if I could just get that under control we could see brighter days.

So I hatched a plan.

Summer Sticker Chart!!!

Oh, yes.  It's been done before.  Many times.  We've tried a lot of variations on this theme.  Sticker charts are nothing new.  We've tried money clipped to chore cards, chore lists that have reward points written into them, sticker charts, etc.  

We've also tried nothing at all because we are Montessori parents (and school founders) and Montessori teaches parents that properly raised children don't need external rewards.  I've read the book, Punished By Rewards.  I know that stuff too.

But the simple fact is that my kids are motivated by rewards.  We all are.  And I don't think that makes us dysfunctional.  (More on that in another post).

So this is the plan for Summer Sticker 2.0:

Ingredients:  A piece of paper.  A marker.  Stickers.  Prizes.

The children get a sticker every time you ask them to do something and they don't complain.  (Complaining is verbal and non-verbal.  If they do the eye roll, no sticker.)  They don't get stickers for doing good deeds or picking you flowers.  They get grace for that.  

They get a sticker when they obey without complaining.  No matter what it is.  If you ask your daughter to get your purse and she says, "Yes mom," and brings it to you.  STICKER.  If she practices piano without complaining.  STICKER.

When they earn 30 stickers, they can choose a small prize.

Inexpensive treats: Candy, fake dog poop, tickets to see a local baseball team, pop-its, tattoos, chalk, Big League Chew

Or they can continue earning stickers and get a bigger prize when they reach 80 stickers.  Everything is from 5 Below or the Dollar Store.

Slightly more expensive treats: t-shirts, books, scented markers, bigger bags of candy

When stickers are used to buy a prize, I draw a line through them.  Stickers may not be reused or combined with another child.  

We also have bonus prizes.  When a child reaches 150 and 300 TOTAL stickers (used or unused).  He can choose a bonus prize.  Right now we only have one bonus prize for reaching 150.

Oh the hours spent drooling over this prize.  Even I want this one.

If they reach 300 they can choose a gift card for Sweet Frog (their favorite place in the world) or a giant jar of Jelly Bellies.  

Prizes are refreshed from time to time.  New ones are added in.  Old ones may be eaten or used by mom or dad. 

The reason this is working is two fold.  

1. It's very simple.  It doesn't require I have cash.  It doesn't even require me to put the stickers on.  My kids do it.  And they keep each other honest.  

2. The prizes are purchased a head of time and put on display.  It's like the Chuck E Cheese prize counter.  They can pour over the prizes any time they want.  They plan what they're going for, make contingency plans if their prize gets snapped up by someone else, check to see if anything new has been added or taken away.

The prizes are a tangible goal for them.  They KNOW I won't have to run to the bank, make change, find a time to go to the store.  When they reach 30/80/150/300, they know something will be there in the prize vault waiting for them.

We've been doing this for two weeks and I have found this system to be the most fun, the easiest to follow through with, and the most motivating.  

We plan for this to be a temporary system, just for the summer.  It's meant to encourage good habits not a life-long dependency on prizes.  So far, so good.

Our new baby girl

So the end of the pregnancy story is a good one.

We had a baby girl.  My older daughter was ELATED.  I mean, this baby sister was the answer to her seven years of non-stop prayer.  

The baby was born one day before her due date.  She came the way all the rest came.  My water broke.  Labor started.  It moves very, very quickly after that.

Baby girl is happy and healthy and so, so sweet.

We are thrilled.  I am tired.  She is a miracle.

A Meditation on Sibling Rivalry

My two oldest boys are acting just like brothers from the Bible.  Bless them.

They are like Cain and Abel  Cain.  You know Cain; he killed his brother, Abel out of jealousy.  But not just any old jealousy.  God asked Cain to sacrifice his best.  God wanted Cain to sincerely show his love.  Cain didn't feel like it so he burned some crap on a rock in sacrifice to God.  Not literal crap, but figurative.  Cain gave less than his best.  He wasn't sincere.  If the sacrifice were words, Cain didn't mean them.  And he was so jealous of Abel, who did mean it, that Cain killed him.

"I'm sorry" is thrown around here like "I love you" is thrown around on prom night.  Oh, yes, I did just go there.  It's tired and insincere and manipulative and is said only to serve a single, selfish purpose.  Saying, "I'm sorry" when you're not is a lie.  The error is compounded.  The anger is compounded.  Nothing good can come of it.  Nothing.

Pretend sorry is not allowed.  Pretend sacrifices are not allowed.  No one is allowed to burn crap on a rock in my house and get away with it.  I don't want any pretend sacrifices or shows of "love" that are just for show.  

So there's that.

Then we have Jacob and Esau.  Brothers, twins no less, who disliked each other only slightly less than Cain hated Abel.  I believe they emerged from the womb locked in mortal combat.  Thankfully, neither committed murder.  But Jacob cheated and lied and schemed his way into taking his brother's inheritance.  Esau wasn't blameless - oh no - Esau sold his inheritance for a bowl of soup.  Things that make you go hmmm.

My boys, they cheat each other.  They trick each other.   They fought over a Lunchable this morning and I have no doubt that one of them would have sold their birthright for it had that offer been on the table.  Two days ago one of them changed the pop tarts in the boxes so that the other boy, who truly hates all pop tart flavors except for Brown Sugar Cinnamon, got a surprise Strawberry.  (Some one at Pop Tart - PLEASE - for the love of all that is good and holy - LABEL the individually wrapped foil packages so this insanity stops!)   This caused things to be thrown across the kitchen, including the offensive Pop Tart.  And the boys were ultimately sold to a band of nomads who just happened to be passing through town.  

I didn't actually do that.  I'm using it as a segue to the next band of Biblical brothers.  Let's call them The Twelve Tribes.

If you're not familiar with the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors, perhaps you've heard of Donny Osmond and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat?  It's the same story.  Joseph had horrible brothers who wanted to kill him.  They hated him but they had good reason to, right?  (My boys are nodding in agreement.)  Wrong.  It's never okay to hate someone no matter how unfair life is.  

What's the story, you ask.  In modern parlance, the dad in the story always bought Joseph his favorite Lunchable but made his other sons, The Twelve Tribes, eat goat meat sandwiches.  It was so UNFAIR they just wanted to kill him.  So that's what they decided to do.

Neither of my boys is rewarded the starring role of the virtuous Joseph.  (Who, IRL, is much more sympathetic than Donny Osmond would lead us to believe.)  No, and on some days, they're not even worthy of comparison to Ruben, the brother who didn't want to kill Joseph.  He just wanted to get rid of him... or maybe teach him a lesson.  

Most days my boys are the brothers who happily, gleefully tossed their rival into a dry well to be eaten by wild goats.  (See previous post about goats gone wild.)  And then sold him to a band of nomads so they could purchase an Xbox.

In conclusion, they're both grounded for eternity.

* As a responsible blogger who has some journalistic integrity, I feel it is important to add that once in a while they get along like James and John, the Sons of Thunder, and they work together to bring down someone else who has wronged them. 

  

Life at 21 Weeks.

Life is busy, always, but in the last week I've been trying to slow down.  Thank you crazy weird contractions.  I got them with the twins early too but I thought that the contractions would come later with this singleton.

Nope.  

What's the trigger - who knows.  For the first two weeks I had all kinds of theories.  Now I think they're completely random.

I had contractions on and off Wednesday night and all day Thursday.  When I say contractions, I need to clarify.  Some were run of the mill Braxton Hicks - short, not painful, etc.  But some were not.  Some were Olympic contractions that contracted and STAYED that way for two hours.  I want to be perfectly clear that this was not a case of multiple contractions happening for two hours.  This was one single, solitary, contraction that lasted for two hours.  And the next day I had a few more lasting for between 30 minutes and 1 hour.  What the what?

Gatorade to the rescue.  (Thanks Dr. McButler!)  I'm trying to keep a stock of Gatorade in the house but it's really hard with a sugar addicted DH and a 13 year old son.  Normally I don't buy it.  It's high in sugar and most of it is loaded with artificial color - which I try to avoid especially during pregnancy.  I've been getting the "frost" kinds - the ones that don't have artificial color added.  It helps.  It really does.  Besides, water tastes so gross to me right now.  

So I'm 21+ weeks.  Besides weird, super long contractions, nothing else remarkable is going on.  I'm not showing a great deal.  I still fit into non-maternity jeans - one size larger than my normal size.  I think I'm obviously pregnant but no one else seems to.  I get a lot of:

Are you always this small?

Is the baby healthy?

Even though I'm carrying small, I've gained 12 pounds so far, which is completely normal and healthy.  Everything measures normal.  

John has felt the baby kicking.  The kids haven't had much luck yet.  It's hard for them to be patient.  They say they've felt the baby but I think they just feel me breathing or coughing.  Maybe in a few more weeks....

A Different Kind of Pregnancy

This pregnancy has been so different than my other two.  It's been quieter.  There have been fewer obsessive Internet searches and baby name lists.  DH pointed out that it's likely because every child we've ever brought into our home up until this point was a first born of some sort.  Son #1 was our literal first.  Son #2 was my first pregnancy.  The twins... well, they were our first twins.  This baby, baby number five, is what normal people experience at pregnancy number two or three.

That's his theory.  I think it's decent.

Am I happy?  Yes.  So happy.  But also busy and distracted.  The upside, one that I never experienced with any of my other pregnancies, is that I'm just not that into it.  What I mean is that, I had assumed that I would really savor this pregnancy.  I would dwell on it, drink it in, remember every detail.
But I just don't have the time or the interest to savor, drink or dwell.  Parenting four kids doesn't leave a lot of time for mom extracurriculars.

I also don't have to plan for or decide on much.  I may or may not go "natural."  I've done it both ways and - meh - whatever.  The babies turn out awesome either way.

I've worked through a lot of stuff thanks to kids 1-4.  I'm not worried about Listeria, cloth diapers, what to do about vaccines or breast feeding.  I'm not worried we'll leave the hospital with an unnamed baby.  I'm not even worried that we gave away or sold all of our baby stuff except baby clothes.

We don't have a crib or a car seat or a high chair.  Worst case, DH has to buy a car seat while I'm at the hospital.  Boom.  Done.  In my mind's eye I saw DH alone at Babies R Us buying a car seat and I didn't even furrow my brow.  It's like I'm not even me anymore!  

Had that thought crossed my mind during my last pregnancy I would have cried and then ordered three car seats from Albee Baby right away.

The sum total of my worries are - is the baby going to be born today?  Any contractions?  Nope.  Great.  Then I'm not worried.

I know that it's going to be okay "stuff wise."  I know that our baby will, eventually, be named.

I guess this is what veteran moms experience.  It's pretty cool.  I like being in chill mom mode.

Peace out, yo.

Gold Star Mom Day

I took my kids to noon mass and Confession.  Gold star mom day.  Only there was a little more to it than that.   I know this is going to read like an exaggeration but I promise that it's not.  All the events described herein really did happen to the degree in which they are described.  

This is how it went down. 

Rolled into noon mass a little late.  No biggie.  Jesus totally understood because I was busy trying to get my short story ready to submit and I lost track of time.  Fine.  We can take care of it in Confession.

Mass was normal.  Kids were good.  

After mass, heading toward the front to get in line for Confession, #2 boy child grabbed the front of his pants and started dancing.  Change in plans.  Bathroom break.   #1 boy got in line for Confession.  Boy #2 and #3 went with me ISO a bathroom.  My DD stayed in the church "to pray."  Rookie move.

Sons were warned not to leave the lobby area after finishing in the bathroom.  Of course, one of them did.  After an extensive search of the church bathroom, he was found wandering and whispering loudly praying with his twin in the church. 

I got into line, which was a sitting line or we never would have made it.  There were at least sixteen people in front of us and only one priest.  TWO HOURS later, it was my turn.  

During this time I had to hiss at one of my kids to remove his hand from his pants, break up several arguments, threaten to take away all screens for the rest of eternity and give a number of soul-chilling glares.  The twins nearly burned the church down - twice, were kindly reprimanded by an older woman (for nearly burning the church down), understood "proper church movement" to mean running in flip flops, repeatedly head-butted my stomach tried to fall asleep on me, "read" the Latin passages on the wall in loud whispers, killed my phone battery, and got into a fight with the newly sin-free #2 son while I was in the confessional.  I almost made #2 get back in line and was sorely tempted to do something that would require me to get back in line as well.  

Thankfully my grace held.  It held by a thread.

By this time I was so hungry that I was ready to eat a hymnal.  My #2 son was clutching his stomach and prophesying his own death from starvation.  My #3 boy was eyeing the candles with devious intent.  And my girl was draining the last bit of battery from my phone.  

I said my penance quickly because I knew God didn't want #2 son to die of hunger, grabbed my purse and turned to leave.  

But wait a minute.  I was missing one.

My growling, broody #1 son, the 13 year old, was still in the front pew.  His head was bowed in prayer?  I looked around.  My other three were literally running for the doors like a pack of rabid wolverines.  

But look.  I wanted to shout and point.  One of my kids was being good.  There was grace.  He's praying.  Did anyone else see that?  One of my kids was good!

He finished praying, stood, genuflected and turned.  Was that happiness radiating from his face?  

"Thanks, Mom."  

That's what he said to me as we caught up to each other.  I realized through my haze of frazzled nerves, nausea and hunger that he hadn't uttered a word of complaint during the entire ordeal.   Not only that, he was thanking me.  During the last two hours #2 brother had poked him, made quiet farting noises and whispered that he smelled stinky butt, kicked him, and did numerous inappropriate things that bored little boys do to engage older brothers.   

Plus my oldest was just as hungry as the rest of us, maybe even more so because he's been growing roughly one inch every three hours.

In spite of all this, my #1 was smiling and thanking me.

One of my kids is good.  Hooray!

HPT + - really!?! - Low HCG Success Story

I'm pregnant and it turns out that zombie body parts sometimes work.  My zombie uterus has been supporting life for 14 weeks so far.

It was touch and go for a while after the embryo adoption and transfer in May.

One day before my scheduled HCG blood test, I took an HPT.  It was negative.  I cried.  I knew, I just knew that there was no way I could be this far out from our transfer (11 days post transfer, 14 days past ovulation) and get a negative test.

The following day, I took my last HPT.  There was a ghost of a ghost of a line.  I mean, it was so light I stood in the bathroom for a very long time squinting at the stick.  Then I called my DH in.  He was skeptical and rightly so.  We both wanted this baby to live so much that it hurt.  It was easy to conclude the ghost line was more a product of an active imagination than the chemical presence of a miracle baby.

But I felt better.  A line is a line is a line.

So I went to my blood test feeling somewhat hopeful.  That would be the last hope I felt for about a month.

Later that afternoon my doctor called.  It was the doctor, not the nurse.  That's never a good sign.  He was calling to tell me my HCG result was 29.

I bit my lip and pinched the bridge of my nose to keep the tears at bay.  29 was very low.  It was ridiculously low.  I knew what it meant, even though the doctor was nothing but positive.  He said there we'd wait and see what the next numbers were.  But I knew that a 29 meant that this was probably not a viable pregnancy.

Two days later.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  I was at 62 and in agony.

I shut myself inside my bedroom and wept.  Sixty-freeking-two at 17 days post ovulation.  That's a failing pregnancy.  That's a dying baby.  Still, my doctor, who once again called me, said this baby had a 50-50 shot.

My mom and dad were visiting.  My mom went off for a walk when I told her, tears streaming down my face, that her fifth living grandchild was on its way to becoming her 12th miscarried grandchild.  We didn't tell the kids anything during this time.  We just held on and waited for the numbers to drop.  Or rather, that's what I did.

Every time I did an internet search of "low HCG" or "low HCG success stories" I got tale after sad tale of miscarriages and chemical pregnancies.  I found a total of five stories where the moms gave birth to a healthy baby.  There were tens, probably hundreds, of heartbreaking stories.  Babies lost a 4 weeks, 5 weeks, 6 weeks.  Babies lost after what seemed to be a perfect rise in HCG levels.  There was a depressing medical study quoted over and over by savvy net-moms that gave my baby a thirty percent chance of live birth.

DH, who is an eternal pessimist and is currently obsessed with Ebola, was calm and even peaceful while I was falling apart.  He said, "You're planning a funeral for a child who is alive.  You're acting like this pregnancy is already over.  Stop it.  You need to be happy for the gift we have right now.  You're pregnant."  He hugged me and a huge "proud papa" grin spread across his face.  "You're pregnant right now.  Enjoy it!"

He was so right but what a struggle it was to enjoy something I was convinced I was going to lose.  Every few days for two weeks, I went in for blood work.  The numbers slowly climbed but there was never the huge jump I had seen with my first two pregnancies. This baby, this pregnancy, was slow to rise but the rise was steady and doubling as it should.

Finally after two weeks, the doctor stopped the blood work and told me to schedule an ultrasound.  I thought I was 5 weeks and 6 days when I went in, which was just barely, barely far enough along to sometimes see a heartbeat.

It was the Feast of St. Anthony, finder of lost things.  Since he's so good at finding lost things and since me and St. Tony go way back, (for a while had quite a contentious relationship) I asked him to help us find the baby's heartbeat.

I desperately needed to see the heartbeat.

It was ridiculously early to expect that we'd see one.  And when they got the ultrasound on the baby, we realized that seeing a heartbeat was going to be even more difficult than we thought.  The baby measured 5 weeks 4 days.

Probable late implantation, smaller baby, it didn't look good.

But then it all came into focus.

The sonographer sounded awed when he said, "This is the earliest I've ever seen the heartbeat.  It's right there."  He pointed to a flicker on the screen.

DH counted the beats.  120 beats per minute.

The heart was strong.  The baby, the tiny, bitty, smaller than a sesame seed baby, was miraculously alive. A sesame seed, people!  We saw a heart beat inside a baby who was the size of a sesame seed.  God is completely amazing.  So was the guy who did the ultrasound.

Now, I'm 14 weeks.  The morning sickness is gradually getting better.  I'm still easily tired.  I have an inexplicable case of hives that come and go and get worse when my nausea is especially bad.  I crave cream cheese.  I can't tolerate sugar.  Mexican food, my usual stand-by when pregnant, makes me sick.

So yeah, I'm pregnant.  All bets are that it's a girl but we won't find out for sure for a few more weeks.

  

God's will and adopting again

I have mixed feelings about posting.  I know not many people read this blog.  I don't keep it up.  I like my privacy.  My husband likes his too.  But I want to post because I need an outlet and I think my husband's ears are worn out from the sound of my sighing.

We're adopting again.

We're adopting five years too late but we're doing it.  

Right after Dignitas Personae (DP) came out, a priest friend of ours came over to visit and asked us if we had heard the news.  He told us the way the document read, it seemed clear that the church had decided embryo adoption was not permissible.  Thousands of babies would have to exist in "an absurd state" of being frozen until they thawed and then died, forgotten like so many chicken breasts in my microwave.  

I'll never forget it.  Never, as long as I live.  I was standing in my kitchen with a baby (an adopted embryo) in a sling on my left hip and a black plastic spoon in my right hand, dripping Pasta e Fagoli soup back into the pot.  I fought so hard to hold back the tears because I am strong and I don't cry in front of people if I can help it.  

No more babies, I thought as my heart wrung out.  The baby on my hip had two more siblings we had promised to go back for.  We had intended to do it even though we "had our hands full" - until we read DP.

I was heartbroken at the thought of abandoning those babies.

I was heartbroken at the thought that my husband and I had done something that could give scandal. 

The situation was grave.  How to explain this to our children?  How to explain this to others?  How to erase the media we had done promoting embryo adoption?  (It wasn't much but still....)  Until this point I had been cautiously encouraging other Catholic couples to look into embryo adoption.  How did I undo that?

After DP was released in December 2008, my lips were sealed on the issue of embryo adoption.  I wouldn't give scandal and I was ashamed that perhaps I already had.  Three of our adoptions, three of our children, were ill gotten gain.  I was devastated.  

Months passed and comments trickled out.  Janet Smith said embryo adoption wasn't off the table.  Others began to pick up the drumbeat again.  How can those children be left to die?  How can they be consigned to an "absurd fate"?  The USCCB confirmed that DP did NOT close the debate over embryo adoption.  

So for us, the debate began anew but this time, I followed it less intently. I had decided that we were done.  Even if the debate wasn't over, the writing was on the wall.  It was clear from DP that the Church didn't take a kind view of embryo adoption.  The thought that I might do something that could possibly be a mortal sin, give scandal, put my marriage in jeopardy, no, there would be no more embryo adoptions for us.

Walking up the stairs to church three years later, I counted my children.  Four.  Where was the other one?  I looked around.  Four?  I felt like I had simultaneously slammed into a brick wall and had a lobotomy.  Duh!  I only have four children.  Four living children.  What a stupid mistake.  Who does that?  I've heard of forgetting children but not adding to the count.  

For whatever reason, I couldn't shake the feeling that we should have had more children with us that morning.   I wondered why that thought should strike me right as we walked up the stairs into mass.  Odd or maybe providential.  I don't take much stock in "God feelings" but sometimes He does speak that way to us... to me.  Not often, but sometimes.  

My hands trembled when I got home and gave serious thought to another embryo adoption.  The stress was overwhelming.  How could God possibly be calling us to embryo adoption?  But if He was, I knew I needed to listen.    Slowly, I started to test the water.  My husband and I discussed it.  He was all like, "Let's go for it!  Whoo hoo."  Which was completely uncharacteristic of him.  I was all like, "No, not yet."  

I talked to priests, good Catholics that I knew.  I talked to my mom.  I decided again, no.  The risk was too high.  I didn't want to do anything that wouldn't be in line with Church teaching.  I used to feel all high and mighty and proud that I had a Master's in theology but after DP, I was humbled.  I felt like I had gotten it wrong, that I hadn't discerned properly.  It was a stunning blow - as in, I was stunned - not so much that I made an error, I do that all the time.  But that it was so utterly nebulous and yet grave at the same time.  Maybe I was going to hell, maybe I was a hero.  How does one go about discerning something like that?!

Then, out of the blue, we received a phone call from a moral theologian who teaches at a well respected Catholic seminary.  He wanted to talk to us about embryo adoption.  I was dumbfounded.  We chatted for a while and then he casually asked us if we planned to adopt again.  My husband looked at me hopefully.  I cleared my throat and said, "No.  We don't plan to go back."

There was silence on the other end.

Then the man spoke up, his voice tinged with anger.  "It isn't because of DP is it?  Because let me tell you something...." And then he went on to explain the politics behind the document.  He explained that under no uncertain terms had the church ruled on embryo adoption.  He said that the document, as far as embryo adoption was concerned, had done the opposite of what documents are supposed to do.  Rather than clarifying the issue, it muddied it.

I know it sounds cheesy but I honestly felt like I had just talked on the phone with Jesus.  I hate myself for even writing that because it's so gaahhh, stupid sounding.  But it's true.  I felt like I had just talked to Jesus.  

When I got off the phone I wept.  I still cry to this day thinking about it (but only in private).  My babies.  My two precious babies!  It would be okay to go back for them.  I was convinced.  We would go back.  

But opposition persisted because not everyone gets to talk to experts on this issue, not everyone follows the embryo adoption debate very closely, not everyone gets phone calls from Jesus.  

For my part, I was so excited about this news, about the fact that we could go back, that I wanted to shout from the rooftops.  So, I told a few people I was getting to know in our new town.  They were experienced mothers with large families and had been a source of support since I had met them.  Both had read DP.  Both were horrified by our decision to adopt embryos.  I told my mom.  She was worried for us.  They all assumed that we were making an emotional, rebellious decision.  Nothing I could say would convince my two local friends.  My mom was only convinced after she called a priest at the National Catholic Bioethics Center and spoke to him.  

God bless them for caring.  They meant well.  I truly mean that.  But I can't tell you how much I was hurt.  Judgment, a little scorn, pushing to meet with more priests, not accepting or understanding that we now had put over six years of research into this.  And I was vulnerable to it, extremely vulnerable, because, at the corners of my mind I still doubt my ability to discern God's will.    

Time marched on and still, I dragged my heels.  The embryo adoption process is physically exhausting and the ups and downs of discerning what we should do, defending our decision to misinformed friends, had left me emotionally drained. 

Life just kept barreling forward at full speed.  At that time, I had four children, a little farm, was homeschooling and trying to start a school.  Then the school actually started and I was even busier.  And then, suddenly, at the beginning of this school year, I just collapsed under the weight of it all.  

Broken and confused and feeling every ounce of my own fallenness, I knelt for prayer one night and I gave it all to God.  "If this is your will, make it happen.  If it is not, shut it down.  I want to do what is right and only what it right."  And with that the baby steps began.

Our home study was completed.  During my physical, I had a routine mammogram.  It was abnormal.  I might have breast cancer.  My medication had to be stopped until the biopsy results.  I gave it over to God.  The results were negative for cancer.  I resumed the medication.  

When I went in to see the embryo adoption doctor, he discovered that I was post-menopausal.  Okay, maybe this would be the stopping point.  I gave it over to God.  Within two months, I was back on track.  

The mediations to prepare my body for the embryo transfer caused a severe panic attack (thanks to my friends who were on my SOS text that night - sorry for scaring you), weight loss, nausea, migraines, and general anxiety.  I nearly went off of them and quit.  But I gave it over to God and He helped me through.  (So did my husband - props to him!)  

Five years after we had planned to go back for our babies, we are now in the home stretch.  We have completed the adoption process and the babies are part of our family on paper.  Our transfer is scheduled for mid-May.  I will be pregnant one last time.  It's up to God how long that pregnancy will last, but I will get to hold them at least for a little while.  I love them already and I love them so much.

When I look into the blue eyes of their brother, prayers come quickly, for their safety, for their survival, for my own health and ability to carry them to term.  When I look into the brown eyes of their sister, I wonder if they will look like her.  Then I find myself wishing I could have fifty more of them, laughing, joking, fighting, climbing trees, stomping in puddles.   

But just as quickly, sobering thoughts come.  They have been waiting so long.  Their chances are so poor statistically.  We've already been so very, very blessed with four amazing, miraculous children.  Can I dare hope to heaven that God will save these last two?  

Yes.  I hope with all of my heart and soul and very fiber of my being. 

If you find yourself reading this, pray for my babies and the doctor and his staff.  And for me.

Dear God, your will be done.  Saints Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Mary, Joseph, Scholastica, Benedict, Ambrose, and Athanasius - Pray for us.

Little House by the Mountains

I've got 75 Freedom Ranger chickens coming in from PA in two weeks.

Yes, November is a strange time to try to raise free range chickens.... However, since we know how to butcher chickens, it seems a shame to buy them in the grocery store. Plus, even if they end up being more "feed fed" birds, they've still been raised right here on my land and I know they'll be healthy.

I found my aged copy of Little House in the Big Woods and flipped it open. Couldn't put it down. Then I checked out all the Little House books I could find at the library. I'm reading Little Town on the Prairie now. That Nellie Olsen is just as mean in the book as she is in the television show.

When I was little, maybe seven or eight, I used to make believe I was Laura at recess. The other girls were playing kissing tag. I was the solitary fat-girl in the corner nearest the tan brick church who looked like she had lost her mind. Pantomiming everything from pushing the plow, sewing the seed, detasseling (hey, I'm from the Midwest, I know how it works!), to harvesting the corn. Sometimes another strange little girl who wore her hair in a long brown braid would join me. But most of the time, I played farm alone. Most of the time, my eccentricities were ignored by my good-natured, modern classmates. But when I pulled up an invisible stool and squatted down to milk the cow, I noticed more puzzled looks than usual.

 My point is that while some kids played school or house or superheroes (which I also did from time to time) my preference was, from a very young age, to play farm. Now that I'm all grown up and have a "farmette" of my own, I feel like I'm living a dream.

 Rediscovering the Little House books has piqued my interest in how they did it back then, homesteading and living off the land. For the first time in my life, I can sort of homestead too. Now, I can't do EVERYTHING - 10 acres isn't enough land to grow feed and a garden and raise livestock. But I know I could do more with it... the question is, how to I convince my husband that he wants to be more like Almanzo?

Midlife Crisis Here

It's not a joke. I thought it was a joke. It is very unfortunately not a joke. People really have midlife crisises. I'm having one.

To manage the midlife crisis, I'm doing what everyone who has a midlife crisis does. I'm going out to achieve my long-time, never-realized goal.

Which is?

Writing a book. A chapter book.

My kids are funny. I was working on it at lunch the other day and we were talking about possible plot ideas. Will, my oldest, is sort of going along with it, sort of detached and thinking about Legos when all of a sudden I see the light go on. He leans toward my notebook searching it for meaning and says, "You mean YOU'RE writing a real book? Like Lord of the Rings!" Don't you just love the way kids can make you feel so good and yet so absolutely stupid.

As if I could write Lord of the Rings.

But I can write. So I'm off for a while to listen to Pink while I try to think of my cool story line to help cure me of my mid-life crisis. My villain is AWESOME. I've never in my whole life been able to write a villain. Woo-stinkin-hoo baby.

Legend of Cowboy Chicken and Dumplings

Yes, I was at Costco today and I fully intended to buy something pre-made to reheat. But I was feeling sick and tired and nothing I saw sounded really good. Then I saw Chicken and Dumplings and I thought, why spend the extra money? I'll just whip that up at home.

And I did.

It took about 35 minutes.

When it was done it looked UGLY. The four kids took one look at it and complaints started to roll. "I'm not hungry." "I'm not eating that." (and my favorite) "Do I like this mom?"

I served them in bowls and sat for a few minutes watching them watch their bowls of slop. Hoping for candy, my dearies?

The inspiration came, as it usually does, like a shaft of light out of the depths of frustration and necessity.

You all know the story of Chicken and Dumplings, don't you? Cowboys used to ride long days on the range. They had to eat cold lunches and worked very long hours. By twilight, their tummies were growling like a cornered mountain lion. The poor camp cook knew those men had ridden hard all day and were looking for a meal that would stick to their ribs but the cook only had one great big kettle. He didn't have an oven or even a second campfire. So he took a great big pot and hung it over a roaring blaze. He filled the heavy iron kettle with chicken, corn, carrots, peas, and a little bit of other yummy goodness.

(At this point, I had to stop and serve second helpings to my three sons and tell my daughter that yes, there were sometimes cowgirls too and they also ate Chicken and Dumplings).

After the chicken had done a little cooking, the camp cook added heaping spoonfulls of corn bread dough to the bubbling chicken mixture. (Mine looks a lot like Chicken Pot Pie filling). He did this because he knew the cowboys needed bread but he didn't have any other way to cook it. So into the pot went the dough.

When the cowboys came in from the range, they had to do their night chores like putting up saddles and watering horses. Then they washed their hands and faces. (My kids eyes bugged out of their heads - AND FACES!) The cook always checked and if there was dirt behind the ears or under the fingernails, the cowboys were sent back to wash up again. And no one wanted to get sent back because that meant you would be last in line for chow (which, I explained, means dinner).

Well, Chicken and Dumplings were so popular with the cowboys that they asked the cook to make it for them every single Wednesday.

The end

FWIW, that's not really the origin of Chicken and Dumplings. The point of the story was to get my kids to eat dinner. My three year old, who is like Mikey from the Life commercials ("He never eats anything.") ate three bowls. My other "Mikey," who is even worse, ate two helpings. My biggest boy, Will, had two large helpings and a big smile. My husband (who came late and heard the legend retold by my 5 year old) asked if there were leftovers he could take with him for lunch tomorrow.

This is my very own recipe (and legend) for Cowboy Chicken and Dumplings.
2 large chicken breasts (about 1 pound)
1/2 cup chopped onions
1/2 cup milk
1/2 shredded cheddar cheese
1 cup frozen peas and carrots
1 can sweet corn
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 teaspoon thyme (dried)
2 teaspoons arrowroot

1 box of Jiffy corn bread mix
1/3 cup milk
1 egg

Cook the chicken up in a big stock pot with a tablespoon of oil added to it so the chicken doesn't create a horrible mess for you to have to chip off the bottom of the pan later. I like to cut the chicken with my kitchen scissors as I hold it with tongs over the pan. I don't like cutting raw chicken on a cutting board.

Use a stove top if you must. There would be lots more drama and dare I say, eating, if you cook this over a campfire, which you can seriously do.

When the chicken is fully cooked (not pink on the inside) add the onions. (I like to use sweet onions because they don't make me cry). Sautee until the onions are browned around the edges (or translucent if you prefer your onions to blend in).

Add milk, chicken stock, cheese, peas n carrots, corn and thyme. Stir. When mixture is hot spoon a little of the liquid out into that measuring cup you used for the milk (why make more dirty dishes). Add 2 teaspoons of the arrowroot to the hot liquid. Stir. When the liquid is dissolved (it takes 3 seconds) pour it into the pot. Stir it all up. When the liquid begins to thicken add the corn bread topping.

In a seperate bowl mix up the corn bread mix according to the instructions on the box. Drop big ugly glops of it over the chicken mixture. Cover tightly with a lid.

The steam in the pot will cook the cornbread. Why do it this way? My dear husband and several kids don't like the texture of cornbread. It's too dry, they tell me. Steaming the bread creates a wonderfully moist texture.

I left the pot on the stove for about 20 minutes and in that time, the bread soaked up all the yummy gravy. The mixture didn't have any pot pie-type sauce/ gravy left. Again, for my gravy suspicious family, this was good but if you want a creamier Chicken and Dumplings, experiment - try more milk, try leaving the stock pot on for a shorter period of time, try cooking it in the oven (though this will increase cooking time).

Four of four stars for easy.
Four of four stars for inexpensive.
Four of four stars for eaten and enjoyed by everyone in the family.
One of four stars for looks but that's cowboy food for you.

Another New Year, Another Random Post

Several things of note as I wait for Sims 3 to load on my computer. (It's like waiting for Jumpman to load on a Commodore 64. I can go make a grill cheese, come back and the game isn't finished loading yet).

1. Regarding diets and detoxes for this year. I'm wavering between detoxing and dismissing the detox as junk science. I started to "detox" a week ago in an attempt to stop my back jiggle from getting worse. A virus derailed all progress, which, I have to say, wasn't remarkable. So I have soured on the detox mostly because I didn't like the side effects of irritability and hunger. I'll lose the weight. I always do. Probably by way of the Coffee Diet or the Wine Diet.

2. Presidential debates are producing vivid dreams wherein I attend church, receive Communion, and am harangued by Ann Coulter not to vote for "Eye of" Newt Gingrich. Dreams are probable side effect of the detox.

3. I can finally, truthfully, post the following bumper sticker on my car: "Proud parent of a child who jammed a Lego up his nose." Lego was removed thanks to a solid coaching session of nose blowing by my DH.

4. If I hear one more child ask me where Darth Vader's head is, I am going to explode. My unvoiced rant, "Look here you little destructo-bot, when I was little I didn't bite the head off of my action figures. Yes, I may have cut my Barbie's hair, ONE TIME. And yes, I drew a goatee on one with a ball point pen because my mom wouldn't let me have a Ken. But biting the head off of Darth Vader is too Ozzy. It needs to stop. Do you want people to think you're a psychopath? Do you want to choke on it? Don't roll your eyes at me. Choking hazards are very real. I almost died choking on a penny when I was four. So there you go. Keep this up and you've got less than a year to live because if I can choke, so can you. And while I'm at it, keep the friggin couch cushions on the couch. We don't live in a tent in the middle of the Arabian desert. Until then, pillows don't go on the floor."

5. Game is finally loaded. You'll have to find another diversion.

Turkey Thy Name Is Dinner

We butchered Christmas today. He was supposed to have been butchered by Christmas but we were too busy. To butcher that bird, I needed a whole day... and help.

Today, help arrived but they didn't know they were help when they arrived. Truth be told, I didn't know we would be butchering the bird today.

A word about the bird. The turkey was the last one of four. Two were killed by our dog and another was killed in the night by what we think was a fox. Christmas was our last bird standing. He lived with our chickens and was free to walk about and live and grow. And grow he did. He was massive. We guessed that he weighed forty or fifty pounds and would give us a nice, 30 pound carcass after he was plucked and cleaned.

My husband had decided to go on a hike today with some of his brothers and nephews, a dude hike. Everyone met at our house. My brother and his family also stopped in. Perfect day for a turkey kill. The dudes gamely gathered the materials - ax, machete, knives, garbage cans, a table and a cutting board.

The plan was for two able bodied men to carry the turkey to the chopping block. John and my brother went into the coop to get the bird. He (the bird) resisted. They called an audible and brought the killing equipment into the coop. The chickens went CRAZY. They flapped and jumped and squawked. The turkey wasn't happy but we moved quickly.

The first cut didn't kill the bird. In fact, he got away and had to be caught again. The second cut was the kill cut. It was messy and difficult and I think a bit shocking to all of us. Chickens are much, much easier to kill. But don't despair if you have turkeys, ours was abnormally large and I'll get to that in a minute.

After the bird was killed, one of the men attempted to pick it up. To his surprise, he discovered that it couldn't be easily lifted. Another man helped and they stumbled out of the coop with the heavy body over to a tree where they tied the bird upside down to bleed out.

The plucking started right away. It was a comedy of errors only outdone by comedy of errors involving the gutting. It took close to two hours to pluck most of the feathers - not all but most. We were losing daylight and had to keep moving.

To say "Then my brother and I gutted the turkey" would be a nice segue but it wasn't that easy. We untied his feet from the tree where he was suspended and moved him to a "bowl" made by lining a hard plastic spare tire cover with a trash bag. (By spare tire cover I mean one for a truck). Think big. That took another hour and a half because the bird was too heavy for either one of us to easily move. It's not normally like this for professionals. I have little experience and am totally paranoid about getting the gallbladder out intact. (It contains this nasty green liquid that if spilled into the cavity of the animal will ruin the taste of anything it touches.)

It took two of us to move the bird, even after it was plucked and cleaned. It barely fit into my gargantuan kitchen sink. I had no pans big enough to hold it.

We used a bathroom scale to weigh the turkey after all was said and done. Turns out the turkey was slightly bigger than our previous guess of 30 pounds after processing.

He is actually 60 pounds.

That SIX ZERO.

Imagine lifting a 60 pound bird into your cart at the store. 20 pounds is big. This one is just huge. We don't know how we're going to prepare it. It won't fit into the oven. Maybe we'll cook it in a pit or over a spit but we're still looking for options.

I'm really excited that we got it done. I'm never going to let another turkey live this long again.

FWIW the largest turkey on record (that I can find) was 86 pounds - alive. Most turkeys weigh between 12-25 pounds after they are processed. The largest wild turkey on record was 37 pounds. Our turkey weighed as much alive as a large breed dog. And this is why he was so difficult and time consuming to kill and process today.

Goats Are Not My Thing

I've given up.

I called the butcher today and put our three goats on the schedule.

When I called the butcher, a really nice, sweet lady answered. I had been expecting someone who sounded like Lothar of the Hill People.

She said, "Can I help you?"

I said sheepishly (Pun intended. Sheep are not goats but I'm using it.), "I've got three dairy goats that..."

I was at a loss. What do I say to a butcher? Do I have to tell her why I'm sending them away? Does she want the back story? Was she going to tell me that dairy goats are not worth the cost? Was she going to yell at me because I had no idea what I'm doing.

She said, "Okay. Three goats. That's not a problem for us. In fact, we specialize in butchering animals for small farms."

"Great." I say. "So look, I have no idea what I'm doing. We just moved to this property and decided to raise goats. So I got these dairy goats and I was going to milk them. But, the thing is, I just don't like them. They're such a pain in the ass that we decided we should eat them instead."

You know what she did?

She laughed.

I knew I had called the right place.

The goats are scheduled to be sausaged (I love that spell check doesn't recognize the verb form of sausage) in a few weeks. Apparently you can't get same day butchering. Plus, it's a very busy season since it's right before Thanksgiving and Christmas. I guess lots of people want goat for Christmas. Just kidding. They butcher other things like pigs and cows.

One cool thing about this place is that it's a certified humane slaughter house. They make sure all animals are healthy and are very careful about how they treat the animals. They never deprive them of water and if they have to stay overnight, they require farmers to bring feed for them. Just a little something we do to make sure we're good stewards of the things God has given to us.

That said, I have to say that the goats are so obnoxious. They stand in their food trough, most recently pulling the food trough down, along with a fence plank. They escaped, of course. Walking up to the garden, of course. In the middle of co-op, of course. When three boys and a teacher were out on a listening walk, of course. I will never have goats again. They're ridiculously high maintenance.

The last time I was in their pen, to fix the broken plank, Luke stood on his hind legs and came down with his hooves on my shoulder. They're very pushy.

In church I heard the reading of how Christ is going to separate the sheep from the goats. The sheep get to go to heaven. You know where that leaves the goats, don't you?

If goats are your thing, God bless you. You're a better farmer than I.

School

Never thought I'd say this - Home education has been an absolute joy this year. I LOVE IT.

Will and I are reading historical fiction and using it to study history, literature and religion. BAM. His Grandma is tutoring him in Math via Skype. DOUBLE BAM. He's getting grammar and handwriting practice. BAM. And he's got co-op, science, and lots and lots of time outdoors. It's A-MAY-ZING.

He's so happy.

The littles are speeding right along - all learning to read. The BOB books are super fun and I highly recommend www.starfall.com for supplimental phonics and reading time. I'm not opposed to making learning fun. In fact, I think it's good, in general, that learning be slightly more fun than cleaning one's room.

Let me say that I'm not the kind of mom who has kids who put on war paint and inact famous battle scenes in history. I know moms who do that and I have mad respect for them. I did it last year with my littles and they remember it fondly but it's super time consuming. This year we're doing more Montessori homeschooling things.

Montessori homeschooling is also A-MAY-ZING. You teach your preschoolers practical life skills like sweeping the floor. It's so awesome because then, when they decide to spit corn bread onto the floor, you just have to say, "Honey, please sweep up that corn bread." And they DO - happily. That's right, TWO miracles.

I love Maria Montessori. And I love homeschooling my kids *this year.

*Terms subject to change. Void where prohibited. Statement only valid for one year.

Preparing for Fall

I planted a Fall garden in early August. First, I've got to give myself a pat on the back for getting those seeds planted. Now, by some accounts an August planting is a little late. By others, it's fine. The spaghetti squash was growing like... a weed and we were so excited. It looked like it was going to be a bountiful squash harvest.

Then I went away for 10 days.

I came home to a squashless garden. The spaghetti squash was gone - vines rotted and brown. Fruit of the vine crushed and eaten through with bugs. Heartbroken, I pulled the vines out and considered starting over... but it's mid September. I doubt there is time.

The rest of the squash fared no better. Our pumpkins are in the final throes of death and if they could, they'd probably be coughing up blood. The mini pumpkins were crushed and bug eaten. There never were any full sized pumpkins. Our Hubbard and butternut squash never even germinated. And the patty pan squash that had been so prolific this Summer had rotted and died. It was flourishing before we left.

The only clue to this squash genocide was a cloudy, patchy growth that powered every squash plant in the garden. It spread from the spaghetti squash and over to the pumpkins at the far end of the garden. I can't tell if it spread by wind or by pollination or by me but spread it did. We had little yellow and black spotted bugs all over the place too. Not to mention a herd of grasshoppers that did a number on our awesome Dragon Tongue Bean bushes.

Organic gardening is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for the lazy or for those who like to go on vacation.

The only thing I've put up so far this year were several jars of strawberry jam - Strawberries from Costco, not our garden. Nothing from the garden.

Thank goodness we weren't counting on the harvest to get us through the winter. Did I mention that I really don't have much of a green thumb?

Flashbacks

I'm watching a rerun of Glee, the Madonna episode. It's part hysterically funny, part really, really sad and part moving. Moving because you know how it is when some music stirs up memories. When Finn and Rachel started singing "Open Your Heart" I thought immediately of youth group. "Open Your Heart" was the song they played every Wednesday night before starting. My best friend at the time was a Madonna fan, fanatic really, but what 15 year old girl wasn't back then.

It is sobering to remember the mundane things we did together, listening to music, watching "Nightmare on Elm Street," and talking about boys. It's sobering because I recently found out that she finally succeeded in committing suicide.

Life was a long road for her. I was the friend on the sidelines of her drama. She had a tumultuous family life. I can hardly wrap my head around it now, all these years later.

So many memories wrapped up in that friendship. Her name was Mary. She was beautiful and talked of being discovered. She wanted to model. She even took head shots and sent them to agencies. It never happened for her.

She dated before I did, way before I did. We did a Science fair project on statistics together in 7th grade. Her mother made the best meatloaf and mashed potatoes. We paged through volumes of YM, Teen and Bride - picking out wedding dresses, prom dresses, hair styles. Hot pink was in and so were black lace gloves without fingers. She had all the stylish clothes - like the monokini my mom said was indecent - and so did her mom. They both wore makeup. My mom and I didn't. Mary was glamorous and fun-loving. She was carefree and reckless. I was the cautious, anxious, worry-wart.

Mary's mother divorced Mary's father when Mary was a baby. Mary told me that her dad had once kidnapped her. What an incredible life. Mary's mom smoked. She worked late. She dated guys that were the kind of guys you don't necessarily want your teenage daughter around. I remember once, at the house with the pool, Mary poured marbles all over her floor and her bed before we left. She told me she did it because she had told her mom to stay out of the room with her "stupid boyfriend." She called all of her mom's boyfriends that. She said they liked to sneak up to her room to lay on her bed and look out the skylight.

It was strange. Things like that didn't happen in my world. I never had to break my mother's cigarettes and flush them down the toilet. My mom never had more than a sip of alcohol until she was 65 years old. My mom and dad are still married. I never owned designer clothes or lived in a house with a pool. I never had my own bathroom. Mary had all of that and yet, she had so little.

Mary's life was different. The first time she tried to take her life she was 15, I think. She spent time in the psych ward of the hospital. They released her and a few months later she tried again. In the midst of all of this, she would call me crying, sometimes drunk, just wanted me to listen to her and tell her that I loved her, that I cared about her.

When she got pregnant on purpose, I felt hope for her for the first time. I thought, as she did, that a baby would give her meaning and purpose in life. She was overjoyed when she called me with the news. I was sad that she had made the decision to get pregnant but I was only 15 too and I was so happy that she was happy. All of that joy was swept quietly, brutally away with a quick trip to the clinic housed, ironically, in an old school. Her mother, you see, had gotten pregnant too and her mother was too young to be a grandmother. Mary's baby, her very wanted baby, was erased.

Mary changed after that. She became sadder and quieter. We never talked about what had happened but the reality was that we really only talked a few more times. She told me she was too tired. That life was too hard. She stopped returning my calls and dropped off the face of the earth. I prayed for her every night. I prayed that she would have peace and be reconciled with her mother. One night,after praying a rosary every night for her for a year, I had a sense that my prayers were answered. It wasn't until a few years later that I saw proof in a newspaper article. There was a picture showing Mary, smiling that beautiful smile, resting her head on her mother's shoulder.

I was sad to learn recently that Mary had succeeded in taking her own life. My parents ran into her mom who shared the news with them. I have no details of when it happened, only that it did. It was a shock because I had hoped she was out of the woods. I have no idea where she is buried. I wish I did because I would like to say goodbye. I would like to place a flower by her name and tell her that I miss her and that I wish life had been better for her. I think about her every time I hear a Madonna song and I pray for her and her family.

May God have mercy on her soul.

Never Say Never

Things continue to turn on their ear this Summer. I'm writing this while watching black and white reruns of The Twilight Zone so having life turned on its ear seems... well, normal.

Our goats are out in their new pasture. They got too rambunctious to keep taking on walks with the kids and we couldn't keep them in their small pen indefinitely. Dh and Will with some help from Mr. Cubby fixed the fencing in our back pasture. There were some post fences that they goats could easily slip through and DH stapled heavy gauge wire fencing to it.

Alas, it didn't contain them. When you read that goats are difficult to contain, let me tell you, believe it. We think they were slithering under one of our gates.

The first call from our neighbor went unnoticed since DH doesn't always check his voice mail. Apparently the goats escaped on Sunday evening and went over to visit the cows in his pasture. Our neighbor led them back with a dog leash and we were none the wiser, until DH checked his voice mail two days later.

The following day, there was another call. The neighbor (again, though for us it was the first time we had heard there was a problem) said our tiny goat herd was headed for the main road.

And, yes, it was raining.

I took off running, shouting at my oldest over my shoulder, who unfortunately suffers from real occasional hearing loss. His response to me was, "WHAT??" Fortunately Mr. Cubby, second in command, heard me and repeated the instructions.

I ran as I have not ran since my first and only 5K some 12 years ago. I ran through the ten acre field next door with grass so high it brushed my shoulder in some places. The rain picked up, of course. I sloshed on through the field watching the main road though the trees on my left. No flashes of white. No bleating. No goats. The field ended abruptly at a gravel road. Still no goats.

Water dripped into my face. My shirt was heavy and clung to me but not in the way wet t-shirts hang on co-eds in Florida bars. I yelled, "Daisy,' feeling like a complete idiot. What does one normally do when one loses a goat? How does a goatherd deal with this problem. I have no staff. I have no goat whistle. No electric goat prod (but wow I should totally get one of those!)

I ran down the gravel road past our neighbors who called. I ran past more houses. Nothing. Not a goat in sight. Normally, when they're wet and feeling put upon by the weather, they complain. They bleat and bleat and you can hear them from far off. The silence made me wonder if they had become part of someone's plans for shashlik.

Then, as I jogged back toward the main road, my neighbor popped her head out of her front door. "They're in my garage."

Embarrassment.

Our goats were in our neighbor's garage. I ran down her long driveway and the automatic door slowly opened to reveal a pristine SUV and three wet goats calmly chewing their cud. They were not happy to see me. Rather impressed by their new digs, they, well, dug in. Lacking hooks, crooks, and electric goat prods, I tried to lure Luke out into the open with some goat pellets but they quickly dissolved in the rain. Even if they hadn't dissolved, I doubt he would have been tempted to leave the confines of his comfortable shelter.

So I did what any suburban mom turned farm girl would do; I grabbed Luke's head where his jawbone connects to his skull and I pulled. He planted. I pulled harder. He tried to shake me off. I held fast and pulled him forward slowly out of the garage. Luke reacted to the rain like it carried an electric current. He bucked. When that didn't work, lowered his head to butt me. But I had lucked into a superb goat wrestling hold that he could not break.

Daisy and Bo followed us curiously toward the garage opening. They eyed the gray sky and then the warm, dry garage and then their unfortunate brother, Luke. They seemed content to watch the show and showed no interest in getting involved in our little parade.

Anxiety set in. What if I could only get one goat out at a time? What if I had to lead each goat to the pasture walking backwards through a driveway, a 10 acre field and then through my own lot into the goat pen? What if my neighbor shut her garage in the meantime and I had to go back, ring her doorbell and tell her what a completely hopeless city girl I am and ask her if I could please get my other two goats?

I backed half-way down the driveway before the two ladies decided to follow us. It was slow and tedious but once the goats were all together the pace picked up. Luke continued to try to buck my hold. Finally, after we had put enough distance between us and the garage, I let him go. The herd went back to their pen.

Goats can escape through much smaller spaces than you might think. And they really don't like rain.

Speaking of small spaces and things being turned on ear, I'm homeschooling again this year. It does feel a little like I'm heading back into the Twilight Zone. We shall see.