Home schooling - What was I thinking?

So I took the plunge. I am officially a homeschooling mom (gulp). I signed up for a home school curriculum which will allow for transcripts and in my state this school functions as an accredited private school (to help avoid any messy issues when/if I choose to put my children into a school situation). I also filled out my paperwork for the state including telling them about the curriculum I planned to use and proving my status as an acceptable teacher for my children. I found the process a bit insulting since I wouldn’t be homeschooling my kids if the state school I was paying for with my tax dollars was even remotely something I wanted to send my children to (but that is an entirely different issue and not one I have any desire to depress myself with right now).

Three weeks in and my kids and I are all still alive, smiling sometimes, learning at least a little bit(I think), and split on the good and bad moments. The jury is still out on if I would call this a success or not. I have learned that positive feedback works wonders and if they can succeed they yearn for more. I’ve also learned that I can get compliance by suggesting some other less desirable activity or threats of punishment but this usually leaves me feeling pretty crummy. I’ve also found that at times I really question how smart my children are when they don't seem to be able to get some very basic stuff. This too leaves me feeling pretty crummy.

Homeschooling families keep saying how much they love it. Or at least that’s what I keep reading, but then the ones that don’t I would imagine are no longer homeschooling families. I guess that's why you just don't hear about them. At this point I can’t say I’m in the loving it camp. I’m hoping to get into a few groups for homeschoolers and maybe that will help. For now well we’re giving the experiment a try. The public school situation (Loudoun county's inability to provide a "local" elementary school that I could actually get my children to) and the really insanely high cost of private school leaves homeschooling as our best option. And so on I go...

Happy Easter!

Hope: This is not the end of the story

Fear is a powerful emotion. When I was studying for my Ph.D. in counseling one of my professors quoted another theorist saying that it is not pain that causes the damage to people’s lives but rather the actions people take to avoid feeling the pain. It is the fear of pain that causes many problems for people today.

With everything that is going on in our country I have to admit I am afraid. I see my government become increasingly involved in banking, the auto industry, health care, and student loans. I see my government grow itself, and spend money it does not have. I see my government talk about things like the fairness doctrine and I am afraid for my countries future. I am afraid for my future and mostly I am afraid for my children’s future. My fear is increased because of my family history. Before coming to the United States my family had lost almost all of their earthly possessions and in some cases their lives. In Eastern Europe my family witnessed the rise of “big government” and the loss of freedom.

My mother was born in Romania in an ethnically German farming town. When World War II began the country sided with the axis powers. When they began rounding up the Jewish residents my family helped hide a cousin, the Jewish man she was married to and the rest of his family. My grandmother took on the job of taking them food. Early in the war one of my grandfather’s cousins complained to his superiors about what was being done to the Jewish people. He was immediately transferred to the front in Russia and was dead within the month. My Grandfather decided it was time to go. He deserted the army, packed up his wife and two children and took them to Germany. He took a job in a bomb factory. My mother was just two at the time. Things in Germany were very hard. The regular bombings and the food shortage caused my Grandmother to take the children and return to her parent’s farm in Romania. Shortly after the return to Romania the country surrendered. They were hopeful to surrender to the US, but the US allowed The Soviet Union to handle the situation. The Russian army moved in and began the work of establishing the new government. The young ethnic German citizens of Romania were rounded up and shipped to Soviet labor camps. My Grandmother was one of these people. Around 65% of those sent died. My grandmother was lucky. She returned 5 years later. During her absence my mother remained on the farm with my great-grandparents and watched as all of their possessions were “collectivized”. Everything was taken, homes farms, equipment, all of it. Those with larger homes were forced to take in boarders. However, after a time ownership of homes was returned because the buildings fell into such disrepair that the government was unable to pay for the upkeep of the structures. To me this clearly demonstrated a key principal of human behavior. People take care of things that they own and do not show the same care for things that they are “given” by the government.

Growing up in Romania my mother learned many things, among them to not speak freely outside of the home, to avoid the police and if confronted fain stupidity, and to trust no one. My mother was able to leave Romania when she was eighteen. My grandfather, who had tried unsuccessfully to get his wife and children to join him in Germany, had been sponsored by a cousin to come to the United States. This cousin and her husband had provided my grandfather a job and the opportunity to gain his citizenship. When he became a citizen he was able to have his family join him. The Romanian government agreed to let them go. On the day my mother was to come to the United States her village came to see the family off. Many in the village were in tears wishing they too could leave. At the train station the upper level government official questioned why so many people were crying. At finding out that my family was going to the United States the official stated she understood their tears. It was a terrible fate to have to leave Romania for someplace as terrible as the United States. This caused everyone in the village to laugh. Another key principle this highlighted for me was that the only people who did well under big government was big government.

My Father was born in the Ukraine also in an ethnically German farming village. His family witnessed the rise of the Soviet Union. One set of my Great-grandparents starved to death during the grain famines as Stalin set about breaking the will of the Ukrainian people. My other Great-grandfather was arrested and placed in jail where he was tortured nightly. While he was in jail the government levied tax upon tax on his farm until the family had no choice but to turn it over to the government. When he was released from jail he was a broken man who was never the same again. When my father was just a baby his father was arrested and placed in jail. They day the Soviet’s supposedly shipped him off to the labor camp my Grandmother went to the prison to see him one last time. She never saw him. She did however see someone else wearing his coat get put on the train, but she maintains it was not him. Since he was over six foot five it would seem that he would be easy to pick out giving some support to my Grandmother’s assertion. Some time later she received a letter from the government saying that he died while serving his “sentence” at a labor camp. In the end what the family does know is that he was never heard from again.

My Grandmother, her three children and her mother left the Ukraine ahead of the retreating German army in World War II. They spent some time in a displaced persons camp in Austria before making it to the American section of Germany following the War. My Grandmother got a job cleaning a church. While she was there an American priest and Lutheran minister came on a humanitarian mission. My grandmother was the only one at the church when they arrived. She arraigned accommodations for them, offering to put one of them up in her apartment. It was this Lutheran minister who helped bring my Grandmother and her children to the United States. My father was eleven years old when they sailed to the United States. In the US my father’s family had a one bedroom apartment. My father and his brother slept on a box spring, while my great-grandmother slept on the mattress. My Grandmother slept on the floor. She worked cleaning houses to support her family.

From those troubled beginnings my parents worked their way through night school. They earned advanced degrees and put their own children through college and medical school and a Ph.D. program respectively. My family is in many ways the quintessential American Success story. They achieved the success that America had promised to those willing to work hard. Today I see my government turning its back on the very things that made my families’ success possible and instead turning to the type of policies they had escaped in Romania and the Ukraine. My mother would tell the story of how her grandfather would read the “state” newspaper and shake his head saying, “I don’t know what they are writing about. This is not what I saw happening.” Since the latest presidential election I have found myself saying those same words and it has scared me.


I find myself questioning what my response to this growing fear should be. This Sunday as we celebrated Palm Sunday the priest urged the congregation to remember Holy week and the need to celebrate not just Easter Sunday but to remember the week leading up to it. He urged us to remember the death of Jesus not just his triumph over death. Listening to him talk I was drawn to think about what it must have been like to be a follower of Jesus to watch him humiliated by the soldiers, beaten, ridiculed, and then killed on a cross between two criminals. I thought about what it must have been like to be one of the apostles gathered together in a room after their Lord was killed. The fear, the confusion, the sadness they must have felt must have been almost unbearable as they sat in that room.

And yet that is not the end of the story. We know that Jesus did not leave his followers alone in that room and he provided for me some lessons that gave me a peace and a hope. Our lord has told us he will not leave us nor forsake us (Hebrews 13:5). Time and time again the Bible tells us to trust in the Lord. And so in response to my own fear I have chosen to turn to the Lord in prayer, asking for wisdom, peace and discernment. Another lesson I drew was that in the face of fear the Apostles gathered together. This drawing together helps to provide support and keep the fear from becoming overwhelming. For me, I’ve found some bloggers who share my fears for our nation and my faith and I’ve stopped reading other sources that I’ve found counter to my values and beliefs. The support and encouragement I get helps to sustain me as I wait knowing that we have a gracious God who answers prayer and that this is not the end of the story.

Independence and Dancing Feet

I am a competitive person not in a direct in your face kind of way, but in a more subtle I will keep working until I have overcome and conquered kind of way. This has always been a positive for me. It has allowed me to complete a Ph.D. program (despite a professor’s assertion that I did not belong there), it allowed me to qualify for and complete the Boston Marathon, it has allowed me to write a novel and a whole host of other things. But last week I ran into the down side of my competitive nature. You see last week the items to be accomplished were not mine but my daughters.

The first event occurred during the course of a normal run of the mill conversation with my children. We were talking about preschool and what they had done that day. During the course of the conversation my daughter mentioned that several of the boys really like another girl in their class. Now it must be said that physically I completely resemble a grown up with laugh lines that will someday be crows feet/wrinkles, some extra weight from three pregnancies, and joints that are starting to creek when I get out of bed in the morning. Despite these facts at that moment I was transported back to a school aged child who deeply cared about who liked who best and how to be “liked best”.

“Why do they like this girl* so much?” I asked trying to sound nonchalant while my hand gripped the countertop like a vice.

“Oh because she’s sooo beautiful and extra special” my twins agreed and my daughter seems completely unfazed by this revelation, while the angry voice inside me screamed, NOOOOOO, no she’s not, she’s not beautiful, she’s not special, no no no no no no no. My child is beautiful, my child is special, mine, mine, mine.

Out loud I again tried to sound nonchalant when I said, “You know I think you guys are pretty special.”

“Yup” my twins agreed and almost in unison said, “God made us special and he loves us very much.”

Not that it exactly made me feel much better, but at that point I decided to cut my losses. In retrospect, I know the girl in question and from her mothers own mouth the reason these boys like her daughter so much is because she is willing to play the game the way the boys tell her to play. In other words she is compliant. My daughter is many things but compliant is just not really one of them and while at times this makes life challenging I would not have it any other way. My daughter is not going to do what someone else tells her to do just because they tell her to do it unless she has determined it is something she wants to do. She has a mind of her own and I take comfort in knowing that my daughter will not be a “follower.” Her independence will serve her well in life. Now all I have to do is grow up enough not to feel threatened by a popular four year old. A lesson my daughter seems to have already learned.

The second event occurred later that week when I took my daughter to her second ballet lesson. She was joining an already established class and as such was a bit “out of the loop.” The first lesson in an effort to help her catch up I taped the recital dance so she could learn it on her own. However all week long she decided she had other things to do, so there I sat on lesson day watching other girls twirl effortlessly to the steps while my own daughter did half steps. As I sat I felt anger rising. She talks about wanting to dance, she wanted these lessons, she goes on and on about wanting to dance on a stage, and when she has the chance she doesn’t practice, she doesn’t even really try. And then I remembers my own father, when I was only six and doing well as a swimmer. He would watch the practices and tell me things I could do better, how I could swim better, be better and how this killed any joy I had for swimming. I quit swimming after two years and it took me almost ten years to go back to it. So I resolved to let my daughter dance and to let it be her way and if that way is badly then let it be badly. I will let her enjoy her dancing and as for my competition… maybe its time for me to go back to road races.



*who shall remain nameless mostly because it doesn’t matter what her name is, what matters is what she represents which is anyone who I have ever felt inferior to.

The New Normal

When I first got Watson there was a song that made me thing of him called “To Make You Feel My Love” and I still can’t hear that song without tearing up….

To Make You Feel My Love
Written by: Bob Dylan
________________________________________

When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love

When evening shadows and the stars appear
And there is no one to dry your tears
I could hold you for a million years
To make you fell my love

I know you haven't made your mind up yet
And I would never do you wrong
I've known it from the moment that we met
There's not doubt in my mind where you belong

I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue
I'd go crawling down the avenue
There ain't nothing that I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love

The storms are raging on a rolling sea
And on the highway of regret
The winds of change are blowing wild and free
You ain't seen nothin' like me yet

There and nothin' that I wouldn't do
Go to the ends of the earth for you
Make you happy make your dreams come true
To make you feel my love

It’s been over three weeks since Watson died and I’m trying to adjust to the new normal. I miss the way he would follow me around the house through the day and the way his tail would thump when he saw me. I miss his smile and his gentle spirit. He was such a special dog to me and he taught me some very real lessons about life and love. I think the most important lesson he taught me was the power love can have to transform, taking a skinny, fearful pup and turning him into a round, food loving, and devoted friend.

On a larger scale Watson showed me what it will take to change the world. You see I met Watson when I was volunteering at the animal shelter. I helped raise money for rescue organizations, I donated time to help socialize the animals to increase their chances of getting adopted, and I tried to do some good, but in truth I don’t know that I made that much of difference, but to Watson, the dog I adopted, the dog I took ownership of I made all the difference in the world. In doing so I learned that to make the biggest impact and truly make a difference you have to take ownership of that which you wish to change not just take something on as a “rental”. For these lesson and the years of love and joy he brought me I am very grateful to Watson my little Wo-bear.

Wo-Bear

Yesterday I lost my sweet “wo-bear” After months of battling lymphoma Watson’s rear legs went out on him and left him in pain. We tried increasing his medication and waiting to see if it would improve but with the lymph nodes increasing growth and his failure to return to good functioning after his last round of CCNU we made the painful decision to let Watson go. His passing has left me with a large void in my heart and I will miss his sweet spirit. I am grateful for the good months I was able to have with him thanks to the medications and efforts of the doctors and staff at the Hope Center, unexpected assistance from my brother in law, and the love and support from my husband.

One Bad Turn Deserves Another

This has been a tough week. I don’t mean a night out and a good friend kind of week, I mean a bottle of alcohol please just let it be over kind of week. This week has been a cocktail of illness, bad news, and bad luck. The fine Thanksgiving holiday left me with four sick kids (no sleeping through the night, clinging to me during the day, nose gushing gunky unnamed yellow stuff at the rate of Niagara falls, all to the sound track of moaning and wailing sick kids), my own soar throat and eye infection*.

Toss in the bad news about Watson (my dog with lymphoma). His blood work came back poorly and left the doctors unable to give him his next course of treatment. This meant we could only provide him with steroids and antibiotics and pray that the lymph nodes will not grow too large in the next week when he goes back in so that maybe we can give him his next CCNU medication. If not we’ll only be able to give him the steroids until they stop working.

Mix in a good dose of bad luck when I went to pick up my twins from preschool only to find out my tire was completely flat, my husband was a hour away, I could not get the jack under the fancy step rails we installed to keep the kids from falling out of the car onto their heads, the auto club would send someone right away (translation in 40 minutes), my neighbors have had the police at their home no less then three times in the last year for domestic disturbances, and no other local friends were answering their phones. This tire luck was only further enhanced by the preschool program manager who decided to berate me for being unable to pick up my children in a timely manner and for not having a better “emergency plan.” She provided such helpful advice as sending the children’s grandparents. I told her that while I’m sure they would be happy to come the FIVE hour drive from their home might not fit into the prompt pick up she was hoping for. She then suggested the twins other set of grandparents, but I had to tell her that the drive from Texas might again prove a problem. She ran through all options I had already attempted, husband (who was on the way but as stated was an hour away), neighbor (my other two children, myself, and the twins would not fit in their car and police action makes me a bit nervous about sending virtual strangers to pick up my children), and friend (who I was unable to get on the phone) leaving her to simply return to her mantra of a better “emergency plan” and teachers needing to leave on time as if I planned to have a flat tire and not pick up my children.

Today I added some good old self pity to the mix. I went to my Mops group. This should have been therapeutic except that all around me are moms with one or two children talking about their trips to the mall and the trauma of being busy shopping, sending Christmas cards and putting up their decorations during the holiday season. Don’t get me wrong, these are lovely women. They are caring, genuine people and I usually enjoy their company but this week all I could feel was jealous. I have not gone to a mall in about six months since four children ages 4, 2 and 4 months just don’t travel well. After cleaning up my millionth and one dirty diaper, wiped my zillionth dirty hand, face or snotty nose, wiping up more spills, crumbs, crayon scribbles than I care to count the last thing I can even begin to fathom are Christmas cards and decorations.

I’m hoping my cocktail for the week is complete and I can just close my eyes and have the week be over. Maybe then the sound track of moaning/wailing will be done but for now it’s in full force and I need to go try and change the volume from wailing back to moaning.



*By eye infection I mean barely able to open my eye to put the drops in, Christmas red and itchy eyes that could tolerate almost no direct light source. This made driving quite an adventure and leaves me thanking God for the divine intervention that made it possible for me to drive with out any vision and still manage to not leave us wrapped around a tree.

Please Sir I'd Like Some More!

My husband loves butter. He loves it so much he is the only person I’ve ever seen put butter not just on the top of his bread but on the sides as well. Recently I discovered that this is a genetic trait.

At dinner my four year old children faced with a plate of potatoes clambered for salt (a taste they clearly got from me). Their request was granted to be followed only seconds later by pleas for butter. My soon to be two year old joined the ruckus and being a good parent who just wanted to silence the noise I put a pat of butter on the potatoes. My four year olds clambered for the butter to be spread over their potatoes. Being a good mother who again, only wanted some peace and quite, I complied. All would have been well and harmony restored except that while this was going on my two year old, Jordy picked up the butter and popped it into his mouth. I was certain it would be spit out a moment later, but instead it was met with emphatic pleas for more! Spread it on the potatoes for him, my husband suggested….this sounded good so I tried it. Nope, he wanted the butter which he happily ate two more times before my disgusting quotient couldn’t take it any more. Maybe he’ll grow out of it?!!!!!

Killing Babies, Health Care and the State of the Union

OK, so why is it that people who think it’s ok to kill unborn babies also seem to think they are compassionate, caring people? OK maybe that’s unfair, but I’m getting a little tired of the pro-abortion group painting prolifers as uncaring because there are ethical lines of behavior that are just not ok to cross no matter what. This does not make someone uncaring in my book.

Life begins at conception. A unique human being is created at the moment of conception with its own unique genetic code. About three weeks from fertilization the heart starts beating and a week later the brain development speeds up so that by week six the first perceptible brain impulse can be found. By the 8th week 90% of adult structures can be found in the human embryo now called a fetus and by 10 weeks the unique human fingerprint can be found. It is a human being no matter how it came into being. It is a human being and as such is deserving of respect and a chance at life.

Andrew White, M.D. makes some very good points in his work, Abortion and the Ancient Practice of Child Sacrifice. He points out the parallel between the rites of child sacrifice and the practice of abortion as a way of parents killing their own offspring. He goes on to point out how “It is no secret that in American society extramarital sexual intercourse is the cause of most pregnancies that end in abortion. Pregnancy is a risk many are willing to take knowing that any undesired consequences can be eliminated by abortion. The theologian Carl Henry recognizes this fact in calling abortion "the horrendous modern immolation of millions of fetuses on the alter of sex gratification."" As suggested earlier, child sacrifice in Canaan may have been a convenient way to dispose of the consequences of the illicit sexual practice of temple prostitution associated with the cult of Molech. If so, the modern practice of men irresponsibly engaging in sexual intercourse with women to whom they do not intend to commit themselves and provide for parallels the wayward Israelite man engaging in extramarital relations with a temple prostitute. In both cases the men leave the women to bear the consequences of their aberrant sexual practices.”

So because people do not want to curtail their sexual experiences innocent lives are lost to the tune of about 1.6 million a year!!!!! This is a staggering number and these abortions are not the result of rape or incest. According to Wikipedia a study in 2000 found that cases of rape or incest accounted for 1% of abortions. Further, in 1998 another study revealed that in 1987-1988 women reported the following reasons for choosing an abortion:[27]
• 25.5% Want to postpone childbearing
• 21.3% Cannot afford a baby
• 14.1% Has relationship problem or partner does not want pregnancy
• 12.2% Too young; parent(s) or other(s) object to pregnancy
• 10.8% Having a child will disrupt education or job
• 7.9% Want no (more) children
• 3.3% Risk to fetal health
• 2.8% Risk to maternal health
• 2.1% Other
What is wrong with our society when killing a baby becomes a matter of convenience for the mother? In the face of the new health care debate and the Stupak amendment I am horrified by what I’m seeing. The Family Research Council reports that “the Stupak-Pitts language was entirely stripped from the liberal plan and replaced by the phony compromise first introduced by Rep. Lois Capps (D-Calif.) in the House. On pages 116-124, the legislation authorizes the Secretary of HHS to fund abortion in the public option, offers tax credits to private plans that cover abortion on demand, and abolishes conscience protections for health providers who refuse to perform abortions. It even goes so far as to insist that a plan to cover abortion must be available in every U.S. District.”

Is this what our county has come to? It clearly has when people vote in an administration like Obama’s and his blatant pro-abortion stance. It is enough to make me physically ill.

My Grandfather was arrested and thrown into a Russian jail for being a spy. The man was many things a teacher, farmer, husband and father, but he was not a spy. What he also became was easy cheap labor for a government that viewed its desired plan above that of human life. Because of this devaluation of human life I grew up without ever knowing my grandfather, with parents who wore the scars of these and other losses. It is from these experiences that my firm conviction that human life is not an expendable commodity grew. It saddens me that I live in a nation where babies die because adults want to experience unencumbered sexual gratification and it saddens me even more that blood relatives of my children helped vote in this administration which supports these practices.


This is a long post and a bit of a rant but I needed to get it off my chest and if my pro life stance makes me uncaring then I guess so be it.

Chaos, Laughter and a Sleeping Baby

So this morning was one of those days I wish I could ship my children off, someplace, anyplace. All parents of small children have these moments, I understand, but with 4 children ages 4 to 3 months I have a lot of these moments. Today it was my 23 month old pooping, yes I did say pooping, into his newly run bath water, the twins smashed goldfish crackers all over the floor, the unending calls of “Mom, I want ____” (fill in blank), putting on the Barbie shoes again, again and again, all to the sound track of my growth spurt queen’s dulcet tones as I try to feed this child enough to make her stop crying (a trend that began three days ago and as far as I’m concerned could have ended three days ago too).

I am in the phase of parenthood where the days are loooooonnnnnnggggg but they tell me the years are short. Sometimes I believe them, but this morning I was sure they must be parents of a different kind of child than the ones I’ve got.

But then my husband turns up over lunch to give me at least a few minutes without my four shadows, and it gave me a minute to step back and appreciate all I have before I reengaged. After a rousing game of “chase the buddy” and a few action packed rounds of I Spy Bingo, I can’t imagine any life without them. The fit of my daughters hand in mine as she asks “what can I do to help” as I get dinner ready, the shrieks of laughter as they play horse and ride on daddy, it all just feels right and Noelle must agree because finally at long last the baby in the midst of all this chaos sleeps peacefully.

Bittersweet walking sticks

On our way up to skyline drive this weekend for some hiking and a cook out my husband and I got into a talk about how there are things in this world beyond that which we can explain or see.


The hiking with the kids was a great success, the cook out not so much (but that is a story of spit up hot dogs and screaming babies for another day). On our hike we took the kids on a trail that was handicap accessible and thus a good fit for out stroller bound family. The twins were disappointed that we had forgotten their walking sticks (a recent acquisition from another trip up the mountain), but in the midst of the million other things we would need for our cook out and a potentially cold evening on the mountains they got left behind. My husband went looking for good walking sticks for them among the fallen branches and he and twins went swinging their sticks down the lane with Jordy in tow and me bringing up the rear with the stroller. We had great fun and for the twins the highlight of our walk was ….the park benches; not the deer, or the birds, or the beautiful scenery, no, not for our kids, for out kids it was the park benches. Oh well at least they had fun.

After our hike my husband and I stopped at a place that is very special to us. It is at an overlook called Timber Hollow and visits there are always bitter sweet. On March 28, 2004 I miscarried a baby. For reasons that are too long to go into we chose Timber Hollow as the site to make a small memorial for our lost baby, who we named Joshua. Our memorial was nestled into some brush at the base of a tree just above an outcropping of rocks that overlooked the beautiful valley below. When ever we come up to skyline drive we always stop and “visit” Joshua and it is always a bittersweet stop. My husband and I have talked about how we can almost see Joshua playing on the rocks and we reflect on how our family might be different if this baby had been born.

This most recent visit was no different but with a surprise. When we walked down the steps we saw a stick (just like the ones the twins had been using) tucking into the tree. I have no way of knowing how that stick got there and there could be a very logical explanation, but then again I believe there are things beyond that which we can see or explain.

blogging, divorce and the videotape

Ok, so I did something I shouldn’t have done. It was stupid, it was neurotic, it was unhealthy and yet I did it. I did it knowing it would make me feel bad, knowing it would make me feel inadequate and I did it anyway. I read my husband’s ex-wife’s blog. I don’t know if any other “second wives” share this compulsion or not, maybe it’s just me. On a more lucid moment I might think, “get over it.” After all he was married to her for what a half a minute, compared to the five plus years of marriage we’ve shared it should mean nothing. And yet it means something because I go and read, and fume.

I read about how she and her new husband adopted a dog and how much this dog loves her. This makes me fume as I scrubbing the cat vomit off my carpet left from one of the two cats she’d adopted and left behind when she left my husband. I then reflect on comments to her blog saying she is so good hearted and all that is good in the world. Reflecting on this while I spend my time cleaning the litter box of her past benevolence does little to provide peace and serenity for me.

I read about her exploits with her single child and all her outings with friends while I live like a virtual shut in with four children under the age of four. I read about her running in races, while I, a past marathon runner have become the runner that makes everyone else feel great about their ability as they pass me by. I read a blog where she jokingly refers to “divorcing” her husband and I think has this woman learned nothing? She left a wake of emotional destruction and she has the nerve to joke about doing it again!!!!

Like I said I find these reading to be less than bastions of tranquility for me. But really this obsession of mine has less to do with this woman and what she’s doing than it does with me and with my history with my husband.

I don’t know exactly when this compulsion began. I know it has its roots at the very beginnings of my relationship with my now husband. There was a line in a movie, I think it was Sweet November, about how a woman leaves her mark on a man. This woman had certainly left her mark on this man. I had started dating him a few months after the divorce had become final and about a year and a half after she had left him. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dated him, perhaps in retrospect I should have moved on and found someone who had already worked through his past relationship. But I didn’t move on. At the time I had little inkling that this relationship would lead to a tomorrow much less a marriage and a forever.

Later in our relationship, after we had become engaged and began planning our wedding, he made the mistake of providing me with the video of his first wedding (what was he thinking?). I watched him (on video) promise this woman that he would “love, and cherish her until death did they part” and hear the minister proclaim that what God has joined together let no man put asunder. And inside I scream those were my promises; those where the words that should have been mine alone and yet I had to watch him make them to someone else. This is a wound I’m not sure will ever completely heal. But, it is not this wound that causes me to read this woman’s blog. I think that reading her blog, and the indignation that it causes me provides me with my internal justification for my own selfishness. I think that internally I look at her life and I can say look, despite the hardship, I kept and cared for the cats, and I take care of four children not just one, and because I’ve done that I can’t do all these things that she can so thus I deserve ____ (fill in blank). It’s my way to justify to myself why I should have what ever it is I have decided I want.

In the end, the world is an imperfect place and in life we all have to work with the less than ideal reality we’d like. For now I’ll just be glad she did leave this man and that he and I have built a beautiful family and life together. In the end, with all of it’s imperfections it is enough, and maybe someday I will be able to accept my wants for what they are and not feel the need to justify them.

Watson & Me

Watson and my story all began with a dog I called Bean (which stood for black ears and nose). Bean was thin and with no collar she was clearly a stray. Animal control was called and they took her to the shelter. That day I went down to the shelter and spent some time with her. It appeared she did well with other dogs and it became my intention to adopt her. Shelter policy was that the owner had one week to claim a pet before any animal became eligible for adoption. Each day during that first week I went to see Bean but on the day before the week was up I found out that someone had taken Bean. I was concerned that she had gone back to the owner who had lost her in the first place, but the shelter worker confided in me that she didn’t think the people who picked up Bean had been the dog’s original owners. Bean had been picked up by a little boy and his mother. The boy was very taken with Bean and the mother wanted to insure her son got “his” dog. She confided that the dog would be well cared for and loved. It was an outcome I could live with. Bean had a good home and I thought that was the end of it.

It was during this period that I happened to attend church when the priest gave a homily asking what we did for God? The priest pointed out that we went to work to provide for our families needs and we spent time doing things we enjoyed, but what did we do specifically for God? The answer I had to admit was not much but I had no idea what I could or should do. I prayed that God would show me what it was he wanted me to do. The idea came to me a few days later. It was as if a voice in my head told me that I was to go to the animal shelter. I was to provide what comfort I could to the animals at the shelter. Maybe this was not God or an answer to my prayer, but all I can say is left to my own devices I would never have opted to go to the animal shelter. Anyone who thinks this is a good uplifting idea has never been to an animal shelter which is filled with unwanted, lost and left over animals. My gut reaction to this idea was “you have got to be kidding me,” as I remembered visiting with Bean in a large room where on a table at the other side of the room was the body of a euthanized dog waiting to be picked up. Go to the shelter? Really? But go I did. Each week armed with a bag full of dog treats I would spend about an hour petting the dogs and cats. I don’t know if I did any good and I think the workers (mostly high school aged boys) thought I was a bit of a crazy lady, but I went. It was after several months on one of my visits that I met Watson.

Watson was a full bred American Eskimo dog which is a white, midsized Nordic looking breed. My dog, Shep was an “Eskie” and I was partial to the breed, but Watson was skinny and his hair was falling out in clumps. He made a rather pitiful picture that was completed when he would stand on his back legs and hop up and down.

The shelter had a policy of only holding dogs for three weeks, one for the owner to claim them and then two for adoption. Week one passed, then two, and then three and no one adopted Watson and he tugged at my heart. On his last day at the shelter I adopted him and after a visit to the vet brought Watson home. Armed with medication to take care of his worms and some strong flee shampoo I set to introducing Watson to his new home. His past life had left their mark. He was skittish. If anyone approached him too quickly or if a male even looked in his direction he would cower, roll over and submissively pee himself. He was terrified of being left outside and he refused to go outside. He would go only if someone went with him and even then he darted inside the first chance he got.

About a week after I brought Watson home I received a package. When I opened the door to get it he darted outside and began running in what I could only call a blind panic. Grabbing my keys I went on a thirty-some minute run through the neighborhood as I chased him. He ran as though his life depended on it and I was so fearful he would be hit by a car as he ran seemingly oblivious to anything around him. He finally stopped in a grassy field. His eyes looked panicked as he looked around. His breath came in gasps. I approached him with my hand outstretched. Talking softly to him, I was fearful that he would start running again. When I was a few inches away he stopped and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. I scooped him up and carried him back to the house. This time I think he understood that it was home. He never ran away again and he became my shadow. If I was home Watson was in the room, if a door separated us he would wait for me until the door opened. He wanted nothing more than to be with me. Over time his other behaviors improved as well. His coat grew healthy and full and he learned to go outside on his own (though he never liked to stay out for long). He learned not to fear and when approached instead of cringing his tail would wag in greeting. Watson taught me more than anything else in my life about the healing power of love. It was nothing more than love that took a fearful, skinny dog and turned it into a full, healthy, happy little dog. This has been a lesson that I have been able to apply to many situations. Love and attention when they are real can have miraculous results both on people and animals.

Watson was diagnosed with lymphoma this summer. Initially he did not respond well to treatment. The side of his neck and face swelled and then a large abscess opened on his neck and began draining. Watson was taken in to the vet and several hours later the vet called, they had been monitoring Watson’s vitals and they did not think he was going to make it. The family raced to the clinic. Watson was in bad shape. The Vet gave him 50/50 odds of making through the night at the clinic. Given his history, I could not leave him to die in a cage with out his family so we took him home despite the Vet’s opinion that his chances would be diminished if I did so. I took Watson home and sat with him and said my tearful goodbyes to my sweet little dog. The next morning I fully expected to find he had passed away but Watson lifted up his head in greeting, and the morning after that he wagged his tail, and a week after that he was begging for food, and a week after that he was running in the yard.

We would have another close call a few months later. Watson fell coming up the stairs, staggered and then seemed unable to get up. He stopped eating and it seemed like we had only days or hours left. Again, I said my goodbyes, but again Watson rallied. First taking broth from a syringe, then drinking the broth himself, then eating hotdogs, then his dog food, and finally begging at the table snatching scraps from my accommodating toddler. I know that time is not on our side and that too soon I will have to say my final goodbyes to my sweet little friend but for now Watson is here at home, at my side, and he is loved.