Moody bitch, in flight.

I used to love a good fight. I could present a fantastic argument; even when I was young, my parents used to say I should be a lawyer. (Yes, I know, it's never too late.) After college when I was in my twenties in Chicago, I would strike up a conversation with a complete stranger at a bar just to debate, oh, the atrocity of the Exxon Valdez oil spill. (Seriously, once a guy told me he worked for Exxon, and I spent an hour enumerating the reasons he would rot in hell for working for the man.) Back in those days, O.J. Simpson provided a lot of fodder for heated discussion, as well. And, of course, protecting the environment, which wasn't nearly as popular then as it is now. When I think about it, I didn't love to argue as much as I loved to be right. (In your twenties, you know everything, am I right?) I just couldn't fathom that people had different opinions, and I felt I was doing them a favor by setting them straight. Yes, I was great fun to be around then, particularly since quite a bit of drinking was usually involved.

I bring this up today because I don't feel like I have any fight left in me. Being an unemployed, divorced, forty-two year old mother of my own moody b—, er brat, what the hell do I know? I realized in my thirties that I didn't know shit, and I struggled mightily in my quest for knowledge. I hoped my forties would bring acceptance around this issue, and to some extent it has. But rather than get my dander up when challenged, I now sigh with resignation. We've all heard about the "fight or flight" instinct; I've swung to the other end of the spectrum. I hunker down, run away, avoid conflict and, if possible, take a nap. I hate arguing.

To say that I'm moody is putting it mildly, however, and I happen to be in a relationship with someone who is equally moody but hasn't yet had his spirit broken. When we disagree, my natural response is to think, "Well, this clearly isn't going to work out." And then I fantasize about a future with just me and Grace ("You and me against the world, sometimes I think it's you and me against the world..."), which is hilarious because she's the one who caused all this in the first place, with all that perspective crap. Is Grace happy, healthy and safe? Okay then. Is Grace behaving like Drew Barrymore in "The Firestarter?" THAT'S where I need to focus my energy, not on whether there is a discrepancy in the odometer reading of my new (old) car. Combine that with almost constant physical pain, and I'm having trouble picking my battles, and waging them with a modicum of maturity.

There has to be a happy medium, and I keep turning to the serenity poem. (I'm agnostic.) But it turns out that this tidbit of wisdom has very little to offer when it comes to relationships. It does not address, for example, what one should do when confronted with a close friend who is driving you crazy with criticism, judgement, abandonment or just a bad attitude. So I withdraw. It seems the safest option, when there are battles being fought on so many fronts right now. (Oh, and I blog, which is a thinly veiled cry for validation and support from complete strangers. Hmmmm.) But too much withdrawal will most certainly leave me in a worse place: alone.

I'm seeing a woman next Friday who is a "Personal Development Coach, Clinical/Medical Hynotherapist & Trauma Specialist." I was referred to her by my awesome chiropractor (see ad at left), and can I tell you how much I would not want to be this poor woman? The visual I have is me sitting across from her and explaining the last year of my life, and having her furrow her brow, shake her head and write down the name and number of someone who may be more able to handle my situation.

Disclaimer: I know there are millions of people worse off than I am. I cry for them almost every day and try to remain grateful that I have food, housing, friends, family and, of course, beer.

Coastal fauna

Here's the kind of thing Grace gets to see when we visit my parents' beach house. It makes it worth the now somewhat terrifying three-hour drive.


This buck was just kickin' it by the side of the road.


There were two fledgling seagulls on the deck.


One of the parents was usually close by.


To everyone else, this is just a seagull. To Grace, it's so cool.

Starting over again. And again. And again.

I have been itching to blog for weeks, but have allowed a few things to get in the way: the heat in my office, the pain that sitting at my desk causes my poor back, the guilt about blogging instead of doing something productive and the overwhelming nature of the feelings and thoughts bouncing around inside of me. No more excuses: it's cooled off; I've just come, freshly adjusted, from the chiropractor; I've been quite productive and am waiting for others to do their part; and my head will likely explode if I don't vent a bit. Where to begin?

I suppose the best place to begin is with all the new beginnings. For a decent part of the last few weeks I've been chasing my tail, searching for the title to my old car before discovering I never had it because the lender didn't notify us, or the DMV, once the loan was paid. Since the lender was Capital One (yes, that esteemed financial institution), I gave up talking to a human being, without being disconnected, after half a dozen calls and turned to my insurance adjuster for help. She made some magic happen and within half an hour I was assured the necessary paperwork was being sent out pronto, so that I could finally be reimbursed for my car. (I have yet to receive it, but don't get me started.) The point of all of this is that the frantic search for the title forced me to go through practically every piece of paper in my possession, which took me down a very well-documented and organized memory lane. I have a hard time admitting it, but a few times I ended up sitting on the floor of my office, crying and wailing, "I want my old life back."

That's not true, of course. My old life wasn't working, but there were so many fresh starts, so many optimistic new beginnings that didn't turn out as we'd hoped. I think one of the ways John and I dealt with unhappiness was with change, and that change usually came about with a move. Not long after we got married in Chicago we moved into a new condo. To get out of a rut, we took a six-month sabbatical in Central America. When life back in the states got old, we moved to Portland. After Grace was born we moved to a townhouse by the Columbia, and when that neighborhood turned into a nightmare we moved to the new house in Concordia. Even after we split up, the changes kept coming, and we remain in limbo almost a year later. I got a roommate who didn't work out. Michael entered the picture. John and I sold the house and Michael, Grace and I moved into a cute rental and set about making it a home, but the sale fell through, leaving us paying two rents and a mortgage. Finally, Grace and I moved back into the old (new) house for a number of reasons, and here we are, still trying to resolve the legal issues with our dumbass neighbor and wondering where we'll end up next. Honestly? I have no idea, and I've almost stopped trying to figure it out.

In each city and in each house, there were happy times, times when I felt that we'd made good decisions and our lives were on the right path. Life has been more of a rollercoaster since Grace was born; the highs that mark certain milestones are etched in my memory. The stakes had been raised, though, so the lows seemed that much scarier; I tend to put away those memories unless I'm forced to confront them. So all this "I want my old life back" nonsense had to do with the easily recalled happy times when I felt safe and secure, and I knew Grace felt the same way.

I'd like to be settled, for Grace's sake and my own. I want a normal family life that doesn't involve regular contact with lawyers and insurance adjusters and people who ask if I've applied for a job at WalMart. I don't want fleeting moments of happiness; I want genuine contentment. I don't need to be rich or take lavish vacations or live life free of worries, but I'd like to be financially comfortable, and travel from time to time, and know that the difficult times will pass without the specter of financial ruin.

What's up with the fridge? Funny you should ask. I took this picture the other day because I hadn't been grocery shopping since I moved (again), and I had forgotten how disruptive a move can be in little ways. Afterwards, I remembered this post, which was right after John and I made our final new beginning together in this house. I was excited then, certain that we'd finally found the right formula for true happiness. Same fridge, shiny and new, and I was clearly pleased with myself. What the old picture doesn't show is that the fridge was empty.

Letting go.

My last post reflects perfectly my state of mind at the time: muddled. In an attempt to gain some clarity, I took my first road trip since my accident; Grace and I drove to the coast to visit my parents. I was white-knuckled and tense the entire three-hour drive, and when we finally got there my muscles creaked when I climbed out of the car. (Grace was totally chill.)

I was hoping the fog might lift enough for me to connect with my mom and dad, but both my brain fog and the coastal fog were uncooperative, leaving us cooped up in the house most of the week, and a bit cranky. I was also supposed to do a book signing that didn't transpire, and my frustration about that didn't help my mood. I decided to come home earlier than planned, and that afternoon the clouds finally lifted and we saw the sun as we hit the road at dusk.

Something inside me lifted during the drive home, as well. I've been thinking about the illusion of control that generally gets me through the day, the idea that if I do things properly, I will be rewarded with success and happiness. That illusion was pretty well shattered last month, and I've been sort of unnerved ever since. I can drive safely and still get into an accident; I can parent to the best of my ability and still let Grace down; I can find a fantastic job and work hard but still get fired; I can take care of myself and still get sick; I can write a book and promote it like crazy but not sell it; I can try to reason with my psychotic neighbor regarding the land dispute and still wind up in a legal quagmire; I can love my friends and family but hurt them unintentionally. I could go on, but you get the point.

My personal injury lawyer, of all people, mentioned the serenity prayer during our first meeting. I'm not into organized religion, but I believe I'm a spiritual person. Regardless, the idea of accepting things I cannot change is somewhat foreign to me, and lately I've been too wiped to summon much courage for the things I need to change. I have two things working against me: I have some itty bitty control issues, and I struggle with chronic depression. So I tend to spin my wheels when crises arise. Rather than distinguish between what I should work on and what I should let go, I do exactly the opposite. I stew over things beyond my control and neglect my responsibilities. Pretty clever, right?

On my drive home, this tendency suddenly became clear to me, again, and left me feeling unusually peaceful. I'm not sure why I have so much trouble remembering to focus my energy on what is truly important; I suppose that whole pesky wisdom part still eludes me. But I'll be glancing at this prayer (originally a poem, by the way) often from now on, hoping to break old habits and find order in chaos, or just let go and enjoy.

Woman on the verge.

I've been crying a lot lately. People who know me well will probably think, "What the...?" I don't cry often; it gives me a headache and makes me feel weak. But lately, every time I drive by a car accident, or see a puddle of broken glass in the street, or hear the wail of a siren, I well up and wonder what the hell is going on. Today, as part of my post-accident rehab, I had a chiropractic adjustment and a massage, and the release of both physical and emotional tension had me blubbering all the way home, where I took some Advil and sank into a two-hour coma. My hands hurt; they feel as though I've been clinging to something all day, when all I've been grasping, white-knuckled, is the steering wheel of my car.

I want to write about how great and lucky I feel to be alive, but my heart and body just aren't up to speed with my mind, so I continue to chip away at unpacking. Oh yeah, I moved, again. Grace and I are back in the old (new) house, for myriad reasons, not the least of which to make the neighbors' lives hell. So far, so good. (I think I need a sub-woofer.)

It's a strange time in our lives; not just me but countless families, and so in that way I feel sad but connected. It's as though I landed in the gutter, literally and figuratively, and I'm trying to find my way back to where I was headed. I know I'm lucky to be alive, that a combination of timing, reflexes, good luck and my sturdy Subaru are what gave me this chance to be thankful for what I have and reevaluate what's important. That's not something that happens every day, and I intend to take full advantage of this opportunity. Starting tomorrow. Wish me luck.

Miserable day.

When I moved to Portland from Chicago, I swore I would never complain about two things: the weather or the traffic. I lied. But I'm doing what I can to entertain the little nipper, despite her obvious discomfort. Poor noodle; limp as can be and CRANKY today when she wasn't eating leftover birthday cake or in the pool.


Thanks for reminding me to capture this moment digitally, Ella. Every time I see it I'll have the urge to hose down both child and house.


Gigi takes after her father; she loves the water.


Yup, she's doing push-ups.


Hard to tell if she's having fun.


Huh? Time to GET OUT?

Comic relief.

My parents sent this to me when I was in college, and I've kept it this long because it always makes me laugh. (Click to enlarge.)

Good bread, good meat.

Since Grace was with her father on her birthday, Michael made an extra special dinner to cheer me up. (Apologies to my vegetarian and vegan friends.) I will say this: that man knows how to grill meat to perfection.

Also, the yummy sourdough bread and mushrooms, along with a bottle of wine (so gone!), were a last minute gift from a woman in the neighborhood who Michael helped get back into her house earlier this week in the wee hours. That night, while he tinkered with the lock, I commiserated about the whole locking out bit, with which I am painfully familiar. (And tonight, I took the opportunity to plug my book and hand her a business card, since Annie Bloom's has chosen to remove my one remaining book from their shelves.)

I digress. Happy birthday, Gigi; I miss you. And thanks to Michael and Ivy for a delicious meal! I'm full, and my faith in the goodness of (most) neighbors has been reinforced.

Happy birthday, Gracie!

You're four. How did that happen so quickly when the first weeks seemed like months?


Yay, water!


Does this seem like a good choice? Or maybe a really bad choice?

Zen masters.

I'd give anything to be in the moment like these two.

Makeshift doghouse.

Michael dashed into my office one afternoon, grabbed the camera and said, "Promise you won't be mad," before disappearing back outside. Yup, this is my pinhead of a dog, perfectly content to make her bed and lie in it.


She blends. My dog is the color of dirt.


We've decided to let her keep it. Think how handy it will be if we decide to plant something.

Third one's a charm.

My personal injury lawyer is only 34. But he went to Harvard, is very cool, and I suspect he kicks butt. Also, he works on contingency, which most do, but I worried about having to pay another person to fight my battles for me, when I'm such a scrappy little fighter myself. ...Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Grace's spaces.

Grace would prefer to be outside almost all of the time now, and I can't say I blame her. I've actually had to chase her around the yard to get her to come inside, usually with one or both of us in various stages of undress. Brady's the same way, even if it means putting up with the shrieking human child stroking her back with a stick.


Gigi totally digs the fountain.


Yes, she got quite wet right after I snapped this shot.


Tending to her flower bed. It's starting to bloom now.


Brady skulking around the perimeter of the compound making sure every square inch has her scent.


This looks like some sort of apology, if I recall correctly. Brady doesn't look too impressed.

And then there were three.

Three lawyers, that is. A divorce lawyer, a real estate lawyer and a personal injury lawyer, if he takes my case tomorrow. This is two weeks after the accident, and my face is healing like a superhero's, but the rest of my body and spirit are struggling in a way I never expected. I'm waiting to bounce back, but I hurt, I'm exhausted, my brain is mush.

In the midst of all this, I've noticed that I'm frequently feeling an emotion that used to be quite foreign to me: envy. When I see pictures of people enjoying their summers, unencumbered by financial and physical distress, living normal lives and even thriving, the green feeling I have is acute — and extremely unpleasant. I hear about someone who's gotten a six-figure book deal or has a NYT bestseller, and I have to suppress the urge to scream, "What about me?" I see couples building new houses, adding another child to their already happy family, making plans for the future without fear, and I try to remember what that carefree life felt like. In many cases, they are people who have gone through hell and back before they found their way, and I don't at all begrudge them their happiness. But I want it for myself. I want the hard decisions I've made in the last year to end up being the right decisions. I want things to turn around for me and my family, and for all the other families I know who are going through difficult times. It's not just money; I could win the lottery tomorrow and still be just as lost as I am today (albeit lost while looking at real estate on Alameda Ridge).

What I really miss are those old feelings of success and self-sufficiency, perhaps more so because I haven't often experienced failure. There is a down side to having things come easily to you early in life, and I'm getting cozy with that uncomfortable suspicion that maybe I didn't really earn all the things I used to value; even worse, what if they weren't all that valuable? Now I have to figure out what I really want; what would make me truly happy; what I honestly value and want to share with Grace. Then I have to work my ass off, risking failure on each new front. Hello, real world. My name is Laurel.

Quick update

Before I left my parents' house, I left a message for the off-duty paramedic, David Gurnee, who made my accident so much less frightening than it might have been. I wanted to see him, and give him a giant hug for everything he did for me that day, but he wasn't available. Then, this afternoon, my phone rang and it was him; he'd been on vacation and just gotten my message. I couldn't help but burst out, "Ohmigod thank you for calling me!" We talked for a while, and I hope I adequately expressed my gratitude. He seemed like a genuinely cool dude with an appreciation for Subarus and some good advice for dealing with all that follows when one totals a car and has to deal with insurance companies. He also confirmed my recollection of the accident, that the airbags deployed while my car was airborne, rather than when it hit the ditch. I don't know why this was important to me, but it explains why my face was such a mess; airbags are designed to inflate and then deflate quickly, which means that when my car landed, my airbag had already done its thing. The state trooper was adamant that the airbags couldn't have inflated right away; sometimes I just like to be right.

Anyway, there's nothing quite like talking to someone who was there with you during a horrible experience. And like I said before, HE WAS THERE. I actually laughed about the whole thing for the first time since it happened, which I wouldn't have noticed but Michael did. David seemed like someone I could hang out with and have a beer, and talking with him gave me some closure. Also, his wife is an English teacher, which made me want to drive (!) up the peninsula and talk about books.

There are wonderful people out there. How lucky am I to be able to thank one of them who helped me?

Before and after.

I'm not really springing back into action post-accident. In fact, I am not at all myself, and my normal self isn't exactly an energetic little ray of sunshine to begin with. According to the Portland ER doc who saw me when I woke up disoriented, dizzy and unable to string a sentence together, this is common with head injuries, but as far as I'm concerned, it just sucks. On days when I take care of Grace, I struggle to find the energy to keep up with her, physically and mentally. She knows something's wrong. Brady knows something's wrong. Even the guy who gave me the rental car must have figured something was wrong, because it took him a full ten minutes to convince me that I wouldn't have to pay anything. I just couldn't comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, because I knew as soon as we stopped talking, I would have to climb behind the wheel of a car (an ivory PT Cruiser!) and drive home. I was actually shaking, and not with gleeful anticipation.

My life seems like a series of befores and afters. Before and after John and I split up; before and after last summer's health issues; before and after losing my job; before and after meeting Michael; before and after the ongoing legal issues with the house; before and after Grace was potty trained (yay, Grace!); before and after Max died; before and after the accident.

Could be the concussion, could be the chemical imbalance in my brain prevailing over my meds, could be that this last year has just been unusually stressful, but I'm having a really difficult time regaining my sense of who I am and what I should be doing. Taking care of Grace is draining, but I know what's expected of me; when she's not here, I'm adrift. Normally, I would write. In fact, I'm dying to get back to my novel. The hurdle? My laptop died, and when I sit down at my desktop computer to write, I feel like I'm working, and I don't want to feel that way about the one thing I love to do. I have nothing against working (my lack of employment notwithstanding); I just want to continue to experience writing as something that brings me joy and fulfillment and keeps me in the moment, endlessly. That may sound spoiled, but I'm funny that way. So tomorrow I will focus on one step at a time: get up, shower, bring desktop computer to The Mac Store, trade in for a laptop. The most challenging leg of this adventure will be the part where I have to shower. It still hurts, and I have to confront my cuts and bruises in the mirror.

On a positive note, think of all the water I'm saving by showering every other day. Also, I'm stationary quite a bit more since I've lost my mojo, which Brady loves. This dog wants nothing more than a warm body to lie on, and the occasional decomposing animal to eat. What would I do without my little family?

Max: 1994 - 2009

I made an unplanned visit to my parents' last weekend to say a final goodbye to their dog, Max. (Read his story here.) He was a magnificent dog, but fifteen years is a long life for a shepherd/husky mix. His mind and soul were still there, but his body was tired and every time he fell, a little bit of his dignity chipped away. He still walked every day to the end of the driveway with my dad to get the mail, but it could take a while and he could no longer carry anything back, which must have been awful for him.


A trip to the beach in Ocean Shores last March.

The day before he died, we lifted him into the car and drove to the beach, where he meandered forever and resisted going back to the car. He ate an ice cream cone on the drive home (an old treat from his agility training days), and enjoyed a cheeseburger back at the house (an old treat from his therapy dog days). Later, my mom fried a steak for a bedtime snack, and we all had a few bites. It was a good day.


Tuckered out.

He happily finished that steak the next day while we waited for the vet. The weather was perfect and we put him in the shade so he could be outside, which he loved. He went peacefully, with the hands of the three people who loved him most stroking his body. After they took him, we cried and sat around trying to convince ourselves it was the right thing for Max. It was.


His credentials.

My dad and I used to joke about starting a Church of Max, because he was all about love — pure, unconditional, joyful love. There wasn't a malicious bone in his body (except for that one unfortunate squirrel incident), and I swear he had a better sense of humor than most people I know. He was so smart, he learned what "walk on the beach" sounded like when spelled out. And he smelled yummy, behind his ears where his fur was all velvety.


Last week, in the garden.

We're heartbroken now, but so grateful he came into our lives. I don't at all like the idea of a world without his unique energy, especially for my parents. But I like to think some of his love for life rubbed off on all of us and will stay forever. Stay, Max.

Really, REALLY bad timing.

Here's my car after I was cut out of it July 1st. (News story here.) I like little old ladies as much as the next person, but I don't necessarily think they should be driving unless they can stay in their own lane. She didn't drift into my lane; she turned so quickly, it was like she was aiming for me. I was able to swerve just enough to avoid a head-on collision — which means she nailed me right in the driver's side door. I remember that awful crunching noise, glass, smoke, spinning as if the car was airborne, and airbags. I actually tried to get out of the car when it stopped, because I watch enough movies to know that cars explode when they crash. But I couldn't really manage anything other than dialing 911 on my cell, then handing it to the guy who appeared in my window. Turns out he was an off-duty paramedic, David Gurnee, and while I couldn't pick him out of a lineup, I will be grateful to him for the rest of my life. He started an IV, gave me gauze to hold on my face, had another guy climb in back to hold my head still, called my parents and talked to everyone else who called after that. Most important, HE WAS THERE. I was completely in shock, shaking uncontrollably and not at all comfortable with the amount of blood soaking my clothes. It took the emergency crew what seemed like FOREVER to arrive, and I simply cannot imagine being alone that whole time, or even being with just regular good samaritans (who also stopped). He was my guardian angel that day.

I thought I could blog about this with some sense of perspective, that it might even be cathartic. I was glib about the accident on facebook, probably because of the painkillers. But now that I'm home with Grace and I realize how close I came to never being home with Grace, I don't think I have enough distance from the experience just yet. So I will say this: thank God I was alone in the car and that the old couple wasn't hurt. My face is a mess and my body is sore, but I'll heal; I'm lucky to be alive. I'm not sure when I'll get behind the wheel again. I suppose when I get a car and need to go somewhere.

Not surprising, but extremely disturbing.

A facebook friend shared this, and I thought I'd pass it along so you could feel as furious about it as I do. I'm a giver.

Time flies.

Sometimes I look at Grace and I can't believe how grown up she is. Makes me want to stop time, or at least slow it down so I can catch my breath.


How did she go from this...


...to this?

Unreal.

You may have already seen this. If not, it will either inspire you or make you want to curl up in the fetal position. I'm on the fence.

A love story.

When Michael first met Brady, I believe he said something to the effect of, "I can't stand it when people spoil their dogs. I don't feed them scraps and I won't put up with any crap." Guess who now pours chicken broth over her dry kibble, feeds her leftovers, lets her outside twenty times a day and buys fancy dog biscuits? She L-O-V-E-S him (duh), but she also obeys his every command — in German.


When Michael sits, so does Brady. On him.


She's a shameless tart.


They just want to be alone.


It's just embarrassing, isn't it?

Yup, sure enough — divorce sucks.

In my last post (depressing!), I believe I promised a rant about divorce. I haven't delivered, because my heart isn't in it. In my experience, there just hasn't been enough drama to perpetuate my self-pity party. There have been logistical hurdles in our lives, sure, but most of those have been a product of the economy. Trying to sell a house and find a job in a recession isn't supposed to be easy, and it's not terribly imaginative to complain about what so many others are experiencing. I could have lived without the legal complications surrounding the sale of our house (ongoing, by the way), but the anger and frustration I felt earlier on sort of sucked the joy out of settling into a new home, and discovering what positive changes this different path might bring.

Divorce, at its worst, is a failure, a broken promise that hurts everyone involved. At its best, it's two people who have worked like crazy to live peacefully together but have decided it's best to move on. At no point have I experienced some huge wave of relief, or thought, "Woo hoo, I'm FREE!" At the other end of the spectrum, I haven't regretted our decision or felt the stigma I anticipated at being divorced. Yes, it's a painful process, and I'm aware that I made a lot of mistakes over the last eighteen years, but I'm doing what I can now to stop the pain, and to right some of the wrongs.

Then there's Grace. Would she be better off living with both of us in a happy marriage? Of course she would. She was always happiest when all three of us were together; she doesn't have that anymore and she clearly struggles with it. But people told us, "If you're going to do it, do it now," because even very young children pick up on tension between their parents, but they will likely adjust more easily to new living arrangements than older kids will. And while older kids may not give a rip whether Mommy and Daddy are happy, they can't help but react to a stressful home environment, and that reaction is generally one of fear. I think we chose the lesser of two evils, because that first idyllic scenario wasn't going to happen. I hope I haven't made a mess of my life's most important undertaking, parenting. Unhappy couples who choose to stay together for the sake of their children have a difficult time ahead of them, and I wish them luck. Me? I think we're going to be okay. I'm going to try to stop second-guessing the decision we made. At least for the next hour or so.

Wild ride.

I'm back on that wackadoo emotional rollercoaster, where one minute I'm feeling connected and in the moment, and the next thing I know I've fallen into a funk and can't get up. I thought I had become fairly adept at rolling with the punches, focusing on the positive and trying to believe that everything is happening for a reason. Perhaps I was premature with my smug self-congratulations.

Grace still keeps me on my toes, but she seems to have turned a corner where expressing her frustrations is concerned. This is great, because now I know what's bothering her, and if it's that Brady is in her spot on the sofa, I can deal. But if it's that she's sad because she misses Daddy when she's here and misses Mommy when she's there, well, that's heartbreaking. And another post entirely. (Next up: my thoughts on divorce. In a word? Shitty.)

Back to good things. I got a sweet review on mamalit.com, which gave me a much needed boost (but has done diddly for sales). I also got a lovely email from a woman who read Soft Landing and took the time to sit down and tell me why. THAT made my day, mostly because of the act of kindness, but also because she came to read Soft Landing in exactly the way I imagined. She read a comment I left on another blog, which prompted her to check out my blog, which resulted in her ordering my book. If that happened a hundred times a day, I'd be set!

I've also finished the first three chapters of my next book, and I can't express the feeling I get when I'm writing and I'm in a groove and I know the words are coming together beautifully. It's a high, and sometimes I get going and before I know it the day is gone. Other times, I can't even open my laptop, because I'm afraid I won't find any words at all. I don't like to write when I feel uninspired; but, just as momentum can keep me going for hours when I'm loving it, inertia can paralyze me for days if I don't force myself to sit down and WRITE ANYTHING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST WRITE.

Back and forth, back and forth. I'll spend time with a friend and feel so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life, and the next day I'll pick up the phone to call someone but I can't imagine a single person will want to talk to me. I spent all day today working in the yard, happy as a clam and full of optimism about the time we'll spend here. Then I came in, showered, ate dinner and totally hit a wall. (Blood sugar could have been the culprit there.) So here I am, babbling away and not really feeling anything but sore at the moment. Bedtime, and, I hope, happy dreams.

Discovery.

We've spent a lot of time outside lately, enjoying the weather and exploring our new yard. We've tried to be patient, rather than tearing out anything that looks like a weed or that we can't identify, and we've been rewarded with surprises that just keep coming. (We've added touches of our own.) It's such fun to see the beauty unfold through Grace's eyes.


I'm not a big rhody fan, but these were pretty spectacular (made more so by Michael deadheading them, which is a pain).


We have two bushes, one on either side of the front gate, and we had no idea they would bloom so beautifully!


Potential. You should see them now.


It's hard to resist blossoms like these; I wish they lasted longer.


Our hummingbird magnet, right outside the kitchen window.


This is one of my favorite plants, golden euonymous, and I will plant it wherever I live, for it's burst of color and indestructibility.


We thought the violas were goners, but they're thriving.


We waited too long to get the alyssum in the ground, and it's still touch and go. They, and the lobelia, would stand a much better chance if Brady would quit stomping all over them.

Shake 'n bake toddler.

I'm not a fan of sandboxes, for many reasons that I will not go into. Grace loves them, of course, and when I went to pick her up at school yesterday, I could not believe my eyes. Head to toe, covered in sand. No joke.


Slather a kid with sunscreen, give them some time in the "sensory tub" filled with water and then cut 'em loose in a big 'ol sandbox and you know what you get? A child who is literally breaded with sand. As if the sand stuck to her body wasn't bad enough, I watched as a little boy scooped a shovelful and poured it over her head. (She didn't notice.) I don't care so much about my car, but on the way home all I could think about was how to get her from the front door directly into the tub. To make matters worse, I had made the mistake of uttering the "b" word at school, whereupon she began wailing, "I don't WANT to take a BATH!" and didn't stop until she was in the bath. Then there was the drama of washing her hair (she has A LOT of hair), which must have the neighbors wondering what that blonde lady does to cause that sweet little girl to scream as though she were being professionally tortured. I wish I had taken a picture of Grace before and after, or at least gotten a shot of the sand at the bottom of the tub, but I was pretty goal-oriented. So instead, here are the toys required to keep her distracted enough that I could actually wash her, which was apparently excruciatingly painful.

I'm off to pick up the little kiddo right now. I'm afraid.

Doggie down.

Brady broke a nail. I noticed her incessantly licking a paw, so I kept yelling at her to knock it off, until it finally occurred to me that something might be stuck in there that needed to be addressed. (I maintain this state of denial as long as possible, because if I do find something amiss on the little angel's body, there is no way in hell she will let me examine it properly or do anything to remedy the situation. Michael doubted me on this the other night when I mentioned she could use a grooming; he suggested we trim her ourselves and I burst out laughing. To prove my point, I got up and retrieved a pair of scissors from the kitchen, and as soon as I entered Brady's line of sight, she poured herself off the couch and slunk into the farthest recesses of the house.)

Anyway, the nail was at a right angle to the toe and had been bleeding, so I called the vet thinking they could do a quick nail trim for twenty, thirty, maybe fifty dollars, tops. And then the adventure began. Unlike my previous dog, Dutchie, Brady LOVES going to the vet. She jumps on the scale and sits patiently; she makes herself comfortable on the couch that wraps around the room (for which I'm pretty sure Dutchie's ongoing care paid); she wags ecstatically at everyone who pays her the slightest attention; she trots happily to the exam room and greets the vet with enthusiasm; she politely accepts a treat and enjoys a quick scratch behind the ears. The trouble starts when her canine intuition tells her that she is no longer being petted, but examined. Then all bets are off, and they whisk her to the back room where she must be muzzled and restrained by numerous vet techs. It's a real hoot.

Apparently a broken nail that exposes a good deal of quick is rife for infection, so they treated it as though she'd had some sort of organ transplant. The bandage seemed excessive; the antibiotics made sense; the painkillers — well, who am I to pass judgement when it comes to painkillers? I do love that pinhead of a dog, as evidenced by previous veterinary emergencies. But if she's going to continue straining the budget, she's going to need to start bringing something to the table, financially speaking. The total bill: $224. The look of outrage on Grace's face when she saw Brady's fancy bandaid? Priceless.