Lazy Sunday

I am sitting outside right now, watching my husband play in the pool with the kids.

It stormed today and that messed with the rhythm of my day. I woke up with an upset stomach, something that used to happen more frequently. Now, it only strikes every once in a great while. It caught me a bit off guard.

Storms rolled in around 12:30, which dashed our plans to hang at a local splash pad with my mom's group. We ended up taking a detour to the library. Spent a little time there, then headed back home. By the time we left the library, I had the beginnings of a migraine. I have medication that I take for it, but it tends to knock me out for a couple of hours.

I was determined to hit my step count today. I've been on kind of a tear the past week and a half. Most of that is probably owing to participating in Wizards Unite, but all the same, it's become another part of my daily discipline. I went on a lengthy walk, came back and snacked on some saltines and 7UP. I'm hoping that my stomach will be back to normal by tomorrow.

In any case, I'm sitting outside. This is not normally where I choose to write, but I'm trying to harness the break in bad weather.

I'm enjoying watching my husband with our kids. We have been together for almost eighteen and a half years. We have been married for fourteen. We have four kids together. We have lived in the same house on a quiet street for eleven years.

He has been out of work for almost five months. He had previously been with the same company for almost twenty-one years. His work ethic is epic. He is dependable to the nth degree. I've discovered that it's easy to scare him. He has a lot of routines around the house. I tend to hide in our closet, with the light off, and wait for him to open the door. I know about how long it takes him to walk the perimeter downstairs. I know he has a set routine for how he places his things on the armoire.

He continues to work part-time at Walmart and has been on several promising interviews, though none has panned out to this point. It is tough to see him struggle to find work. He has taken to making self-deprecating comments and though I know they're not true, it's hard to hear him make them.

We have been staggering under the embarrassment of blessings that has come our way. It's gone a lot more smoothly over the past five months than we could have ever imagined.

That's not to say it hasn't required a lot of spiritual and emotional fortitude. The kids, especially Bekah, are old enough to want things and to ask about why we don't have things. Last night, for example, we went to Three Oaks. She really wanted to visit a pool. We had received some money from my dad after the movie on Friday night. I explained to her that we didn't have a lot of extra money, and that going to the pool could be expensive. I said she had a choice, either we go to Three Oaks, which is free, and get ice cream, or we go to a pool and get no ice cream.

She was nonplussed, but ultimately, she decided on the ice cream. (Actually, it's custard. And I'm gonna stop you right there, because you're going to say it's the same thing. It's really not. There is only one place for custard and it's Julie Ann's. There are many places in the region for custard, but Julie Ann's is the only one of consequence.)

There is a part of both Brian and I that wants to just be able to do things, without having to get out the adding machine and abacus and trying to see if it's feasible. We want to be able to say yes more. At the same time, we see how entitled our kids already act. We shake our heads about that and lament how much worse it would be if we actually were able to say yes more.

Ultimately, whatever job God decides to place Brian in, we are going to have to continue to be good stewards of those resources. It may make it easier to maneuver (we don't have credit cards, we only use cash), but ultimately we aren't going to be able to travel to Hawaii.

I am not sure where I'm going with this, except to say that I love my husband a lot, both because he's a great husband and a great father. The kids all love him tremendously and enjoy being with him. I am hopeful that this period of unemployment ends sooner rather than later. I am trying hard to keep the faith that God has a plan. I'm doing my best not to wrest the pen away from him while he's in the middle of writing it.

Lovin' Summer

We just got home from the beach. It's not the ocean, though my kids (two of whom saw the Pacific Ocean when they were quite small) think that it is.

A few years ago, our city repurposed a quarry. They dredged it, filled it with water, and erected a splash pad, park and other buildings around it. It's free to get in. Every year, we do our best to get there more than a couple of times. It gets tough because of the kids' schedules, the weather, etc.

Earlier this week, we went later in the day, around 5:30 PM. It closes at 7:30 PM, so by 5:30, the crowds have thinned considerably. The kids had an absolute blast, though I was on my own with the kids. This makes it a little overwhelming. The place isn't huge, but it can be difficult to keep eyes on everyone. A few nights ago, I met up with a mom friend and we were able to keep our collective eyes on everyone.

Today was a busy day, as most Saturdays are for us anymore. I got up early to do my normal Saturday morning thing. Then I cleaned out the Toyota. I hadn't done that in a while. We have started carpooling to dance with one of Bekah's friends. The thought of her getting in the Toyota, that was quite full of garbage, was embarrassing.

By the time I finished cleaning the car out, I had to go get her, then Bekah, and drop them off at the dance studio. I walked a dog, Tony, for 60 minutes. It ended up being a longer walk because the poor guy, a black giant schnauzer, was really overheated. It was 90 degrees by 10 AM and he and I were both fairly miserable.

After I was done with the walk, I had a few minutes to mess around on my phone and then go back, pick the girls up and take Bekah's friend home.

In an attempt to prevent my face from gracing the walls of the library, I'm trying to be a more conscientious library patron. So we headed over to the library to return a couple of books. Back home for lunch, then I took a walk to play Harry Potter.

Back home, then Brian and I tackled the garage. We are going to inherit a freezer for the garage, something I know is usually a waste for people. We have a refrigerator that is 20+ years old, so the freezer side (it's a side-by-side) is miniscule. We love to shop at Costco, but sometimes struggle to fit all the frozen items in the freezer at one time.

Once we finished that project, we made dinner and loaded up for Three Oaks.

It's one of those days where I am feeling grateful and I'm not even entirely sure why. It was glorious to have kind of a letter-perfect summer day. I didn't take a single picture at Three Oaks. I didn't feel the need to plaster Facebook with everything we did. I just kept moving the whole day. My kids kept moving the whole day.

Jeremy is already headed off to bed, which is pretty normal but also glorious. The rest will drop like rocks. I have to say, there have been years where I couldn't physically keep going to get them worn out. Lately, even though the scale hasn't been budging, I've had a decent amount of energy. I am okay with sitting still, but I don't have to take a nap every day (I used to take at least a 2-hour nap every day).

I have dinner heating up, thanks to my dad. He volunteers with Salvation Army once a week. He goes around to local businesses and rounds up all the bread (normally *just* bread) and then takes it back to the Salvation Army church. This week, Costco had given them quite a bit of meat and other things. Nothing is technically expired, it's just at the very edge of it. We had pork tenderloin buttons last night and are having ribs tonight. No muss, no fuss.

I feel silly being so grateful when it seems unwarranted. I'm going to go with it, though.

That One Time We Tried to Be Normal and Do Things

It's late and I can feel the sleepiness creeping over me already. (I will say, it's odd to consider 9:35 PM late, but here I find myself.)

My mom and dad took the kids, Brian and I to see Toy Story 4. The last time Brian and I took the kids to see a movie was Zootopia. Brooklyn was still on the inside. We were unaware that she was going to make an early appearance.

Taking kids to see a movie is one of those things that seems fun in theory. I am grateful that my dad treated us today. I am also grateful that it's such a rare occurrence.

As soon as the lights in the theater went down, Brookie fell asleep. I didn't realize this until about 10 minutes into the movie.

Meanwhile, Doug made loud proclamations during the previews. After the Frozen II trailer, he said, quite loudly, "are you freaking kidding me with this? November?" I was pretty grateful the theater was mostly dark, as it allowed me to pretend that he was a stray child who just happened to wander into our group.

There was Jeremy, who always wants to be Jerry Lewis but is mostly relegated to being Dean Martin. He gets the most laughs when he isn't trying so hard to make everyone laugh.

Bekah did her best to seem small and unassuming, though she did occasionally shush her brothers.

I smuggled my Contigo mug of coffee into the theater, because a) I love coffee and b) I like to break rules (not always, hence my full name on Facebook instead of the name most people call me). I drank most of it while we were there. I did regret taking a sip at one point after a well-timed line by Forky. (It was all I could do to keep the coffee in my mouth and not spit it out or have it come out of my nose.)

Probably about halfway through the movie, I had to use the washroom. I'm a woman who has had four kids. I love coffee and I drink a lot of water. It wreaks havoc on me. I forgot to check RunPee to see when I should make a break for the bathroom. As soon as the end credits started rolling, I made a beeline for the bathroom.

As I walked out, I heard Doug and Jeremy signal that they were ready to go. I left Brian to deal with it, so as to avoid an embarrassing public incident.

I needn't have worried, it turns out that Brookie had that taken care of. She just recently became potty-trained. We had her wear underwear to the theater, thinking of course that we would just check in on her throughout the movie. The thought occurred to me, partway through the movie, that it would be better for her to have a diaper on. Unfortunately, as I've been doing the "hallelujah-my-12-year-streak-of-buying-diapers-has-concluded" dance, I stopped carrying the diaper bag. (Honestly, a diaper bag with number four has been hit-or-miss for me. I just rifled through the bag last week and found a pair of 18-month pants and a 2T shirt. The girl's been wearing 4T for several months now.)

So, it turns out that she was asleep hard enough that she wet her pants. Brian had to deal with that situation in addition to Jeremy and Doug being ready to forcefully exit the theater. Meanwhile, Bekah and I didn't know where anyone was. We finally connected with my parents, only to discover that we had missed a post-credits scene.

Upon arriving home, Bekah got angry (thanks, tween hormones), walked into the house just ahead of me and slammed the door in my face. I told her to go to bed, but she felt compelled to be extremely emotional in close proximity to me.

I bailed and went on a walk because between that and Brookie's situation needing to be managed, I had hit my limit.

Irony of all ironies, Brooklyn had taken a very chintzy paddleball (not the normal-sized one, a smaller, plastic one) into the theater. In the melee of leaving, we left it behind. She cried when she realized she forgot it. It became an important lesson in why we don't let the kids take their toys places. It was also an important homage to Forky.

This American Life

The days of this week have whizzed by. I have been getting up early and then the next thing I know, it's time for dinner.

I started playing Harry Potter Wizards Unite (because if it wasn't clear already, I'm a nerd). I'm not obsessive, but I'm enjoying it. It's been getting me outside more, which is good. It's been helping my mood quite a bit. If you're so inclined and you want to add me, my name is NoelCharbonneau and my code is 0802 9601 2596.

I have had to shake my head this week, that this is my life.

My kids have kept me on my toes, to be sure. Jeremy has been doing coding camp at a place called Code Ninjas. I am excited for him because I feel like this could be a real thing for him. Brian has dropped him off the past couple of days. It seems like, at least in Brian's estimation, that every other kid in there is like Jeremy. He seems to be enjoying the class. He is developing an app, that's about the most information I can get from him. He's not a man for small talk, as he's so indelicately informed me on multiple occasions. I am fortunate for the small tidbits he lays out for me from time to time. Other than that, I usually get monosyllabic answers like, "fine," "nothing," "yes," "no."

He's in class from 1-4. It seems like a good amount of time, but it gets eaten up quickly.

11-1 is the time of day most in demand for dog walks. Even if a walk is only for a half an hour, with transport time to and from it can add up to an hour. (Add in side trips for Wizards Unite to recharge energy or complete challenges and it takes a wee bit longer.)

If I'm checking in on dogs, as I was for most of the week, then it becomes a whole thing. I start at 10:30 and it seems like I don't get home until 2. It's fantastic to be earning money. It also makes time go much faster than I'm used to it going.

In some ways, I focus myself more when I'm at home. I've imposed a schedule on my day. It's kind of a loose latticework. I'm trying to spend less time on my phone and more time building into the things that give me joy.

Mornings are for crochet. I've got a line of projects in front of me. I didn't get around to making end-of-the-year teacher gifts, so I'm working on them now. I mostly watch YouTube to learn new stitches. Right now, I'm toward the end of making my first shawl. I've gotten lots of compliments on it. (I will post a pic of it when I'm done with it, I'll include it in the comments section of an upcoming blog post.) But mornings are for crochet. I spend at least an hour working on my project. I'm planning on doing a couple more shawls, some dish cloths and then a blanket for a friend's daughter who's headed off to college in the fall.

Midday is dogs. It's fun, I get outside, I get exercise, I get to play Wizards Unite.

After I get home from that (and also from transporting whichever child from whichever activity), I start thinking about dinner. I normally try to be thinking about it sooner. This is the point of the day when I go into a dead panic about whether I have all the necessary ingredients. I'm realizing, as I write this, that I need to start meal planning again. We had been doing a meal delivery service, but we quit because too many of the meals weren't compliant with our personal food protocol. I need to sit down and actually write things down, make an inventory, make a shopping list. It's just that my head has been spinning so much lately, I've not been able to plan and execute things well.

Once dinner is set aside (even if I've not executed anything), then it's time for reading. I sit down for a little while (again, depending on the schedule) and try to move the bookmark a little further along.

Then, dinnertime. I try to prepare a meal while being peppered with questions in the world's most repetitive press conference. Most questions are centered on how soon dinner is going to be ready. There is also an equal smattering of dinosaur-related questions. Recently, Brookie has opened a line of questions relating to Halloween (because it's never too soon to prep for that holiday).

It's under this barrage that I attempt to create dinner. I've long abandoned trying to make nutritional meals. The kids get a rotation of chicken nuggets, frozen pepperoni pizza and hot dogs. I tend to make a separate track of food for Brian and myself, usually something big on taste, lots of veggies and protein, and plenty of healthy fats. I aim for leftovers because it makes less work for me.

Then, after I've managed to satiate my children's hunger (which, these days, seems nearly impossible), I make some decaf, have a serving of dark chocolate and write.

I don't know why the rhythm of the day is working so well, but there's something about it that has been helping tremendously. I get to the end of the night, and I can point to the things that I've accomplished. I'm still trying to work in Bible-reading time, but it's been about a week. I'm still ironing out the kinks.

But this life I'm living (I digressed from that train of thought). My kids are just amazing people. Bekah's passion for dance is extraordinary. Last week, the studio was closed. It was a well-deserved break for the instructors and staff. Bekah, however, floundered. She didn't quite know what to do with herself. Someone commented to me, after one of the shows for her recent recital, about how well Bekah had done. I thanked the person by saying, "thank you, she works so hard!" And the person responded, "oh, yeah. Everyone knows how hard Bekah works." It was that compliment (echoed by her instructors) that gave me pause.

She loves to dance and she wants to be the best, and she's willing to work as hard as she needs to. It is so much fun to watch her on stage. I cry almost every time I watch her. She is always a bundle of nerves leading up to the performance. It's a lot to manage, trying to help reassure her that we are going to be on time. She went to great lengths to help me keep the most recent round of rehearsals straight. I am a mess when it comes to scheduling, though I've been working extra hard to get everything lined up. (I actually have all the kids' activities in my Gmail calendar, imagine that!)

The other compliment that touched me is that Bekah is very kind and thoughtful with her fellow dancers. I love her work ethic, but I'm so grateful that she sets that aside to love on people. She has done an amazing job lately with Brookie. After dinner, when bedtime is looming and my patience is a thin piece of vellum dangling between me and lunacy, Bekah starts running interference. She has even, on occasion, gotten Brookie to sleep.

I don't like to take credit for Bekah because I've mostly just tried to get out of the way so God can work. It's the same with all the kids. Brookie came up to me today as I was cutting zucchini and said, "mommy, Bebba is crying. Can you come see her and hug her and tickle her?"

And maybe that's partly me, the compassion and caring. All the kids are good at cracking jokes to lighten the mood, which is maybe also me. But they are their own people. I could only dream about being as funny as Doug. He has a sense of timing that is second to none. Today, we went to the dollar store for some buckets. I told him he could pick something out. I was fairly certain it was going to be a dino, but he surprised me and got a shark. As we were walking away, he said, almost to himself, "yeah, this is perfect for my Jaws collection. It's a megalodon." (So it was dino-adjacent, I suppose.)

He also has been doing this thing lately where we will joke with him. He will laugh along, but then he will nervously ask, "you're just joking, right, mommy?" The boy calls me his best friend, which can only absolutely melt your heart. And all of it balances out the disasters he wreaks on our house, like the art on the wall and crashing the curtains off of my bedroom wall.

So this is where I'm at. I feel so grateful that I've been chosen for this. I had a conversation with a friend this morning about the times we say, "why, God?" And this morning, I was able to turn it around. "Why, God? Why didn't that happen to me? How did I get away with that? How wasn't I caught doing that?" I mean, it's really the truth. The people that have done things and been caught, I'm not better than them. I just haven't been caught. Not truly heinous things, but I mean, I've sidestepped some serious things. And I marvel that this is what God has given to me.

Things are not perfect in my life. I'm still waiting on some answers that I think I'm owed, though the reality is that they will come when it's God's perfect time.

So here I sit, watching TV, my girls snoring quietly on the couch next to me. And I'll be up again tomorrow, ready to do it all over again.

Something in the Summertime

It's late and I'm tired.

It was a glorious summer day. The weather was hot and humid, which is what you'd expect on a day in late June.

Everyone had something to do today. Bekah played with a friend from school. Jeremy went to coding camp. Doug had summer camp.

Brookie and Doug swam in the pool after Doug got home from school. After Jeremy got done, we went to Three Oaks, a manmade lake and park that's close by.

Brookie swam her little heart out, both in the pool and in the lake. She was happy as a clam.

We ran into some friends who moved away a year or so ago. It was good to catch up with them.

I met up with some mom friends. One of them helped me with Doug, who went far afield a couple of times.

I walked 17,000 steps today. I have been playing the new Harry Potter game. It's fun and it's been helping me get outside and get moving.

I took a kickboxing class on Monday night. I felt better leaving that class than I have felt for months. I am hoping to be able to start training with my friend again. I am realizing that hard physical activity is necessary for my mental well-being.

I wish I had more profound things to write about tonight. I really did have a lovely day. It was good to be outside, to see friends (new and old) and to be out and about, without heavy expectations on who I'm supposed to be.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow. It's been a long time since I was able to say I was looking forward to the day that's on the horizon. I'm gonna count that as a win.

The Good, the Bad and the Poorly Written

I have always loved reading and books. Always.

I remember in third grade (or maybe second) that I started being sent to fifth grade for reading. I enjoyed it. It helped reinforce that I was different. (I'm now realizing that was a good thing, but back then, having just transferred in to a public school from a private one, it was not wonderful.)

Anyway, in my school district they tested for the gifted program in third grade. I desperately wanted to be a part of the gifted program. However, while I tested well in most areas, I missed qualifying because my math scores weren't high enough.

I feel like I've told this story before, so I won't dwell on it.

It was in sixth and seventh grade that poems and images started appearing in my head. I wrote some of them down. In high school, I returned to them when I started taking creative writing.

Most of them were your typical tween angst fare. I remember in high school, Carol had Aaron Anstett, a friend and published poet, visit us for an assembly and reading. (He is the author of a poem, Grace, which is one of my most favorite.) He read several poems and we sat, attentive, trying to read between the lines and "figure out" the poetry. He read us one poem and we sat there, blinking. He then informed us that poetry could be funny.

This blew our minds. Up to this point, I felt like poetry had to be the product of a tortured soul, a broken heart, a tragedy.

In any case, my writing in high school matured a bit.

Carol's mantra for writing was to write what you know, which was originally penned by Mark Twain. She attributed it to Raymond Carver, one of her favorite authors.

Back then, we (those of us in the creative writing program at Elgin High School) were quite snobbish about what good writing was. We had very definite opinions on who was a good author--Margaret Atwood, Li-Young Lee, Aaron Anstett, and who was not good--Robert James Waller, Danielle Steel and, though she wasn't a thing back then, I would include E. L. James in this part of the list.

I had a very low view of fantasy writing in general. When I stumbled upon Harry Potter in 2005 (yes, I tend to arrive at trends later than most), this upended most of my thinking.

Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, Honeyduke's. These were not real places. They were not things that someone knew because they spent time in the physical locations. It seemed to nullify the "write what you know. J.K. Rowling didn't know the subject, in the traditional sense.

I have read the Harry Potter series multiple times, from book one all the way through. It usually takes me about a week and a half to get through all of the books. Every time I read it, I find more things that I either didn't remember or hadn't noticed before.

I realize, now, after reading the series and reading corresponding articles, that J.K. Rowling knew about the Potterverse. She new absolutely every intricate detail of that universe. I don't doubt that she could answer back stories to any character, however inconsequential to the overarching storyline. She immersed herself in the subject. That was her passion.

I have no desire to read George R. R. Martin, but I suspect the same would be true of him. Even though he's never encountered a dragon or seen the Night King, he knows the subject, he understands the intricacies of his own universe.

There are several others that I wouldn't consider Great American Authors, but are authors that I enjoy reading. Fundamentally, reading has to be fun. I have tried to suffer through Anna Karenina on multiple occasions and I just haven't been able to get through it. That's not to say it's not an amazing novel, but it's just not (or wasn't, at the time) something that moved me.

The four authors to whom I am incredibly devoted are John Sandford, Michael Connelly, Kathy Reichs and Jonathan Kellerman.

Kathy Reichs is, in my opinion, a top-notch author. She is, in real life, a forensic anthropologist. She helped create the show Bones that aired for twelve seasons. She is legitimately a genius when it comes to science and anthropology. As well, she does a good job of constructing a narrative. I have read all but one (or two) of her novels. Her character development is excellent. I cried when she killed off one of her characters. I don't often do that.

John Sandford and Michael Connelly are strictly authors. They write detective novels. I know there are a lot of authors who do that. I couldn't tell you specifically why I like them. They both do a good job of moving the story forward. The character development isn't on the same level as Ms. Reichs. That's not to say they don't write well, it's just that they aren't as good as Ms. Reichs.

Jonathan Kellerman writes detective novels as well, but his characters are a bit unique. His main character is a psychologist. He works with a detective to solve cases that are hard to solve or have an unusual angle to them. I mention him because it's still within the detective genre, but different enough from the others I've mentioned. I've not read him for a couple of years, more than anything because I don't make time for it. His wife, Faye Kellerman, also writes. In my opinion, she does better with character development than her husband.

I am an incredibly faithful reader of these authors. Again, they are not writing To Kill A Mockingbird, but they write novels that help me escape into another dimension.

I will also mention an author whom I stopped reading. I'm hoping this shows that although I'm loyal to authors, I am discerning.

I started reading Patricia Cornwell many years ago. She is a medical examiner who is also an author. I read her novels in order and enjoyed them. She almost lost me when she brought a character back from the dead (Carol taught me that I should not trick readers and I look down my nose at authors that do).

Then, I made a trip to the library for one of her new novels. I just looked online to see what novel it was. I believe it was Blow Fly, though I am not positive. I got home from the library, cracked it open, read the first page....and slammed it shut. It read very differently from all of her previous novels. It felt foreign to me. I didn't even give it a chance. I have never returned to her books.

Alice Hoffman is another author who lost me. Seventh Heaven and Practical Magic are two of my favorite of her novels. (The movie is a bastardization of the book. If I didn't know the book existed, I would love the movie. It's just too hard, as a lover of books, to have that attitude.) I have read several of her other novels multiple times. She writes magical realism and she does it beautifully.

Some years ago, I read one of her newer novels, The River King. It was, for lack of a better word, awful. Horrible. I read it because I felt I owed it to her, but it was not done well. I didn't fall in love with the characters, I didn't get lost in the scenery, I didn't get hooked in.

I haven't read any of Ms. Hoffman's works for a long time. I might, now that I'm reminiscing, go back and read one of her early works. For that matter, I need to read The Handmaid's Tale. As she was one of Carol's favorite author's, we were tasked with reading some of Ms. Atwood's works. I remember reading Cat's Eye and I know I read some of her poetry, but I don't believe I ever read The Handmaid's Tale. I am leery because I know how much Carol loves her (and I love Carol), but I am worried that I either won't relate or won't enjoy it. I will, however, read it because I feel like it's important.

I need to mention an opinion that I know may not be popular with my Christian friends. I do not care for Christian fiction. I feel it has a valid place in the canon of fiction, but it has never resonated with me. I find that, for the most part, the characters feel like purified versions of what Christians deem as morally and spiritually fit.

The one exception I will make to this is the Elizabeth Gail series. I remember this series fondly from childhood. The protagonist resonated with me. She had an attitude, she felt like an outsider, she struggled. That felt real to me. It wasn't a whitewashed version of things. There wasn't swearing or sex or anything (to be clear, I don't believe a novel has to feature that to be considered well-written), but it was relatable.

Aside from that, I do not read Christian fiction at all. I apologize to my brothers and sisters who write it. I know you have an audience and I know you are good writers. It's just not my bag, in the same way that though Tolkien was an amazing author, The Return of the King kept me in a semi-vegetative state while I tried to get through it.

I went far afield, but here is some of what I was trying to say.

First, I now (in large part due to Carol's encouragement) consider myself gifted. I may not understand discrete equations and calculus, my grasp on physics may be tenuous at best, but that does not negate the true talent I have.

I love to crochet and for a long time, I hesitated to share my work with people. I have acquaintances who crochet and who have been doing it for a lot longer. I was ashamed of my work because I thought it was inferior to theirs.

Here's the thing. The things I crochet have been well-received. I have improved from when I started. I now receive compliments on my work. That doesn't mean the others aren't also talented. Me crafting beautiful things, be it in the written word or in yarn, isn't negated by what someone else creates. It's not an all-or-nothing proposition.

Second, I feel very strongly that evaluating writing as good or bad is very subjective. Everyone is different and has different tastes. This is why there are so many authors. This is why there are millions of different books and genres and types of fiction.

I have been in the process of writing a novel. I stalled out a couple of years ago. I developed a lot of self-doubt. Someone asked me what genre it was. Someone else asked me another question about it. I allowed those questions, which weren't bad questions, but I allowed those questions to take all of the wind out of my sails.

This is day number eight of my current writing streak. Every day that I write, I get new confidence in my abilities and I feel myself getting more empowered. I still am not sure what genre the novel is and whether or not a traditional publisher will every be interested. I have no idea if it will make money or change the trajectory of my family. I do know, however, that every day it lies dormant, I make myself vulnerable to believe the lies I tell myself.

I need to dust off the Google doc and get on with it. Stay tuned.

Coming Attractions

I am exhausted, but I don’t want to break my streak. This will be very short and to the point. 

In an effort to widen my audience, I am going to do two things. First, I’m going to interview people that interest me. My first interview will be a friend from high school. I have my sights set on someone else for the second interview. I am not sure how this will work because these two particular people live quite far from me. I will figure that out. 

Second, I am going to feature guest authors. My aim is for moms to write something. Ideally, I’d like it to be someone who is also trying to widen their audience. 

I am not much of a details person, so I’m not sure how it’s all going to work. I will say, I am very excited about this idea and where it may take my blog. 

I wore myself out today, but thankfully tomorrow will be a little slower-paced. Not by much, but just enough. 

In between these new features, I will continue to share my semi-humorous musings. Stay tuned! 

Ramblin' Sue

I have this thing that whenever I'm trying to do something consistently, I become very dismissive. I've been writing something for now six days in a row. I was out walking a dog today, trying to wrack my brain about what to write.

I don't lead an exciting life, by any stretch. I have four crazy kids, a dog and two guinea pigs. I spend a lot of time breaking up fights, trying (fruitlessly) to keep my house clean, explaining why it isn't [insert meal] time yet, and preparing meals when it is, in fact, time to eat.

So fundamentally, I don't feel like I have a lot to share with the world. It's not like I have profound wisdom that pours from me endlessly. Today, while cleaning up dog poop at my parents' house, I stuck my finger in poop. That is my day, going from one disgusting mess to another.

The idea of writing something every day, then, becomes tricky. Why am I doing it? Am I trying to wow my readers, the dozens of faithful readers that click the link everyday?

If that's the case, then I should, after all this time, pick a focus to my blog. Am I a food blogger? Crafter? Do I photograph things? Am I an activist?

I'm a little bit of all of those things, but not enough of one of them to feel like I can sustain a following. I'm not great at promoting myself.

I'm not really doing it for others, then. I'm doing it for myself. I'm demonstrating that I can show up for myself. Consistency is a good thing for many reasons. I'm doing my best to feed my passion, to feed my creative fire.

I have this group of friends online. We live all over the country, though there is a large concentration of us that live in Texas. I have struck up friendships with many of them. We may not have met in real life, but these are women that care about me, that have prayed me through tough times, have encouraged me and have challenged me.

One woman in particular, I'll call her Chris, has a habit of posing very thought-provoking and convicting questions of the group at large. Recently, she asked what we needed to give up so we could pursue what we love.

It was a simple question, but it hit me square between the eyes.

I talked a few nights' ago about how when I get low in the pit, I bury myself in useless endeavors, games and apps on my phone. I waste time. I don't feed the part of me that, as an artist, needs to be fed. So it shrivels up and dies and honestly, I think that contributes to my low feeling, to being in a pit where I can't see the sky.

I went to the library yesterday and checked out some books. No deep thinkers. In fact, one of them is one I've read before. It's been a while since I read this particular author, so I wasn't sure where I left off in the series. I knew within a few pages that I had read it before. That's never bothered me, though, reading the same book multiple times, so I figure I'll read it just for fun.

I have a book that was gifted to me a couple of years ago. The author was my creative writing teacher in high school. I still consider her the gold standard when it comes to writing. The book is about how to ignite your creative fire. I figure, after I've filled my mind with something mindless, I will start going through that book.

All of that to say, I don't spend a lot of time worrying about how many followers I have on social media. I don't spend time curating an IG page. It's just not something that comes to me naturally. What does, however, come naturally, is recording my rambling thoughts in a mildly humorous way.

I'll stick with that for the time being.

Pleasant Valley Saturday

It was a really long day today. I woke up at 5:30 in a crazy panic. My to-do list was a mile long. I had a lot of different places to be.

I did not want to get out of bed and do *any* of the things. I wanted to stay in bed, pull the covers over my head and hang out under there until Sunday.

What I did instead, though, was take some action.

I sent out a couple of messages to trusted friends, asking them to pray for me. I tried to convey how I was feeling.

Then I started asking how I could be praying for people. I reached out to people to see how they were. I did everything I could to get out of myself.

I embarked on the day, though I was groggy and felt downtrodden.

I headed out to Palatine to pay my respects to a friend who passed this week. As I was standing in the receiving line, I chatted with a friend, remembering her. She was someone who radiated warmth everywhere she went.

She fought cancer and lost the battle. It was hard to see her family, but I knew that their faith was carrying them. I will miss her, but I am so grateful that she is no longer suffering.

I came back from Palatine and had to run errands with the kids. Bekah has her first sleepover tonight. She could be mistaken for a first-born, in that she is fastidious and driven. She has been packed for the sleepover since Tuesday.

She spent an afternoon the other day with the birthday girl, reviewing the party agenda, sleeping arrangements and timeline. She has been a nervous wreck, worried that she wasn't going to have time to get a present and worried that she would be late (this has become a common concern for her).

So we headed to Target after checking on my parents' dogs. Last year, she got her friend and herself a matching t-shirt. This year, she wanted to do the same thing. Money continues to be an issue, so I was concerned about how it was going to all work out.

I needn't have worried.

She received a Target gift card for her birthday. We had gone to Target a couple of months back. There was nothing that really spoke to her. She held onto it, though, and even accumulated some money by doing chores and odd jobs.

She knew what she wanted to get. We went to the t-shirt racks, she got a shirt for her and a shirt for her friend. She also said she wanted to get her friend a squishy. We headed back to the toy department, where she found the right one.

We went to check out and she handed the cashier the gift card. She didn't complain that she couldn't spend the money on herself. She didn't seem at all bummed.

Jeremy recently went to the zoo with NISRA. He had 78 cents leftover from the money he had taken to the zoo. He used most of it to buy presents for him and the rest of his siblings. All through Target, he kept offering his 78 cents to his sister.

By the time we got back from Target, we had an hour left before Bekah had to be at Urban Air. At 3:30, I told Brian to take her before I lost my mind. She was so excited that I swear she was levitating.

I sat for a while and crocheted, then headed back to my parents' house. I had to mow the lawn and while I did that, Jeremy helped me take care of the dogs. He had been harassing me about bathing Tucker, the Westie. I kept trying to push it off because I was tired, but once Jeremy locks onto an idea, there's no wiggling free from it.

I left there and walked Tony, the enormous giant Schnauzer, for another hour.

Over the course of the day, I found out how to pray for people and I prayed for them. I made dinner (chili).

I am still not feeling great about myself. I don't say that to be maudlin or attract attention. I say it to demonstrate that I didn't let my feelings dictate what I do or don't do. I don't do it every day. Sometimes, I stay in bed and wallow. And that's okay, too.

There's a prayer that I heard this morning. I've heard it before. I've tried to memorize it to no avail. I will have to try harder because I think it's an important one.

St. Francis Prayer
Lord, make me an instrument of they peace
Where there is hatred let me sow love
Where there is injury, pardon
Where there is doubt, faith
Where there is despair, hope
Where there is darkness, light
And where there is sadness, joy

O divine master, grant that I may
not so much seek to be consoled as to console
to be understood as to understand
to be loved as to love
For it is in giving that we receive
It is by pardoning that we are pardoned
And it's in dying that we are born into eternal life.
Amen

I do my best to live this out, even if I can't say it by memory yet.

Tomorrow promises to be a thousand times less busy than today was. I watched and episode of "When They See Us" on Netflix. Done very well, but not something my heart can take as a binge. So I'm laughing along with Ellen DeGeneres and her audience and am soon headed off to bed.

(As an aside, I checked out books from the library today. Cue the post six months from now with me complaining about how I can never return books on time.)

Short and Sweet

It has been a long day. I am beat. My stomach is full of dinner. I got to spend time with a couple of great dogs.

I was hoping to get out tonight, but I lost momentum. Dinner undid me. I had to escape to take a shower.

I started mulling over what I wanted to write today. I didn't want to dwell on the things that went wrong, or how I battled against my depression today.

I want, instead, to focus on my blessings. Summer is always rough because there is an utter lack of structure. This year, for the first time ever, we've been able to plan summer camps and activities for the kids.

Jeremy went to Brookfield Zoo today with a group of kids from NISRA. He had a blast. Dance starts up again next week. Doug has summer school. Every day, the kids have something to do. I've been pushing back against the "I'm bored" anthem.

We've made trips to the library and will make more. We have a freezer full of food (even though the eating frequency and quantity has increased exponentially since school let out.

I've been laughing hard at John Mulaney standup on Netflix. He is an amazing comedian and has brought me to tears over the past few nights.

I have an army of friends who are checking on me daily. I have a life I couldn't have imagined. I am grateful for so much today. And while I feel bad for bailing on plans, I am grateful for so much today. I am going to have a full day tomorrow, but I intend to keep the streak alive.

Watch Me Pull a Rabbit Out of My Hat

One of the reasons I struggle to be consistent with writing is that I run out of ideas. I sometimes have a sense of what I'm going to write, but mostly, I'm flying blind. I do my best to string together sentences in a slightly comical way, but overall, I typically don't have a framework.

Last night's post was draining for me. It was scary to put that much of myself out into cyberspace. It would be easy to break my streak and say, "well, I worked extra hard yesterday, I'm just going to cruise through today."

But that's the kind of thinking that keeps me stuck. It is easy to be complacent. It takes less energy. It is comfortable. It's staying at home in yoga pants because putting on adult pants (jeans, khakis, anything corduroy) suuuuucks.

It's why we get so indignant when Netflix inquires about whether or not we are still watching. "Why yes, Netflix, I've only seen this episode of Friends 800 times before. I'm three hours in and I still am not sure whether Chandler can pull off the perfect engagement!!"

To be sure, we do sometimes get stuck on being human doings (really, one of my least favorite motivational phrases). I think for me, as a stay-at-home momma, I feel like I need to justify why I stay home, especially to my friends who work full-time.

I'll be honest, if you saw my house right now, you'd sure know that regular cleaning isn't one of the things I do. But I digress.

So yes, it's easy to get wrapped up in our lists and spreadsheets and other productivity things. We want to make sure we're getting things done. As a mom, if I don't do the laundry for a couple of days, then the laundry has claimed the laundry room as its own. So I need to do something every day.

Then there's the whole battle between "small steps everyday add up to something" and "be all in for [insert anything here]." I am constantly dialoguing with myself about whether saying no to the second piece of pizza (small step) versus bringing a salad with me and not eating pizza at all.

Add in that I'm a recovering perfectionist (not many days strung together at this point, I'm sad to report) and it becomes even harder to decide which lane I'm in, how fast I should be going in said lane, and on and on it goes.

Then there's this whole mindfulness movement. Mindful running, mindful eating, mindful you name it. The idea is that we are supposed to listen to our bodies and let them tell us what we should do.

Here's the problem. My mind is very warped. I have a disease of perception. I can take offense at the slightest thing and completely misread social cues. I think awful, awful things about people (though I've gotten to the point where I keep those mostly to myself, with the exception of telling one or two people who are as warped as I).

It took me a long time to re-learn how to determine if I was hungry. Those signals were screwed up for a long time. I have had to learn how to say no. I was really good at that up until about the age of 3, but then I fell out of the habit. I've had to teach myself that saying no is acceptable. It doesn't require an explanation or an apology.

Basically, I'm a full-grown adult who missed, or skipped, or slept through some really important life lessons as I was growing up. There are a lot of things that come up and I swear, I look around to see what other adults are doing.

Internally, I'm like, "hmm, I don't know what this is. It looks like Janet seems to know what she's doing. I'm going to nod along with the person who's standing next to me while simultaneously watching to see what Janet does with this."

I also laugh at inappropriate moments and in a disproportionate way to what's going on. I just felt like that needed to be said.

So my problem becomes, how do I accurately evaluate my day? What is the true litmus test of how I did? I do my best to review the things I've done and see if I was wrong anywhere. I try to apologize and ask for forgiveness from my kids if I've gone all dragon momma on them. I ask for forgiveness from God for the things I've done wrong.

But aside from that, it's very murky for me. It becomes this imaginary floating target that I can't ever seem to hit head-on.

I try to wear life like a loose-fitting garment. Oddly enough, even when I've been very thin, I wear clothes that are a size too big, so the metaphor works well for me. I like when the clothes are a little too big because it hides things. I feel more comfortable that way.

In any case, here I sit. I've now managed to cobble together some sentences. I've kept my writing streak alive. I crocheted today. I managed to skim some of my Bible reading plan (well, I'm saying that now, but I'm actually going to do that after I post). I walked a dog for an hour. I suppose I found a balance between being and doing. I'll call that a win.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

I've been mulling over how to unpack an encounter I had a few weeks ago. I am a huge fan of Friends because, quite frankly, all the cool kids are. There is an episode entitled "The One Where Chandler Crosses the Line." In it, Ross decides to come out of retirement and grace his friends with his keyboard skills.

Before he actually starts playing, he over-explains what he's about to do. Eventually, they just demand that he start playing. The funny part is that he is an awful keyboardist and everyone recognizes this but Phoebe.

So I want to talk about what happened, but I don't know how to preface it. I want to relate the events journalistically, but I also want to give context. So I'm going to rewind a bit to give background, then try to talk about what happened more recently.

Last summer/early fall, I asked Brian if I could take a nap. It used to be a daily thing, but in the past couple of years it's become really rare. I don't remember why I was so tired, but I wanted to lie down. He needed to mow. When he's doing yard work, I'm usually point person for the kids. I run interference until he's done.

We live a block away from our grade school. The school has two playgrounds, one for the primary (K-2) grades, one for secondary (3-5). We don't have a clear line of sight to the playground, but we are close enough that if something happens, someone can run back home without any issue.

All four kids headed over to the park. Doug didn't want to go with the others the secondary playground because his classroom assistant had told him that there were dinosaur bones hidden in the dirt on the primary playground. He had taken his bulldozer and wanted to dig for bones.

(Please note that from here on out, I am telling this story secondhand. I wasn't present for what follows.)

Some time later, Jeremy came home to tell Brian that Brooklyn (our youngest) needed a diaper change. Brian grabbed a clean diaper and went with Jeremy back to the park. As he was returning home (with all four kids in tow), a police cruiser pulled up.

The female police officer started a conversation. She said that someone had called because they saw a boy playing in the park, unattended. Brian told her that we live a block away, we let them play there by themselves all the time.

She then proceeded to tell him that there was someone in Woodstock who had been approaching kids [in an attempt to kidnap them].

(Brian told me later that he felt the officer hoped this piece of info would make Brian feel bad about having let Doug play on his own. Brian has incredible instincts and so I am inclined to believe him.)

Brian immediately asked her for the source of her news.

She didn't take kindly to him pushing back against what she was saying. She told him she was going to have to report us to DCFS.

And that's where it was for about two months. As someone with anxiety and depression, it was not pleasant to have the threat of a visit from DCFS hanging over my head. I felt like crap about myself and my parenting skills.

I don't remember how much time passed, but we eventually received a letter from DCFS that they were investigating us for neglect regarding Doug. They didn't lay out what the basis was for the claim.

The investigator showed up looking tired and overworked. I forget his name (I'm tired), but he told us that he had a bunch of questions to ask us. (The toughest part of the interview was not being sarcastic with our answers. If you know me or my husband, we are telling jokes almost every moment of the day.)

He took us through the questions. When he was done, we asked him the burning question that had been on our mind--why had we been referred to DCFS.

It wasn't just that Doug was playing by himself at the park. Apparently, whoever had observed him at the park by himself watched him walk down [street name redacted] and go into a garage halfway down the block.

It all clicked. Our house is halfway down the block. Someone saw Doug walk down our block and go into our house through the open garage.

Here's the kicker. The social worker had to come from Peoria. The closest DCFS office to us is in Rockford, and they are currently understaffed. So he had to drive up from Peoria to see us. And then he had to drive up again because he had to observe all four kids for 5 minutes. That was actually the toughest thing to wrangle, with all of the kids' activities.

I will insert some commentary here and then unpack what happened a few weeks ago.

The police officer never told us what the person had observed. Had she taken a few minutes to lay out what the witness had seen, we could've explained to her that Doug is autistic and has ADHD. He is obsessed with dinos and will do anything he can to incorporate them into any type of play he engages in. The witness said Doug was muttering to himself and pacing. Yup, that's what he does when he's anxious. She could've mentioned that the witness saw him go into a house halfway down the block. "Yup," we would've said, "he was going home, probably to get more tools for digging."

Doug does not give off an air of neglect. He is chubby, has a lot of language, is bathed regularly. It absolutely kills me that someone had to come up from Peoria to investigate this baseless claim. It was a waste of money and time.

(I will pause here to insert say that recently had a tragedy in our community. A little boy was found to have been murdered by his parents. DCFS was involved with his family at different points during the boys' life. I feel the resources involved in researching the neglect claim for Doug could have been put to better use.)

This series of events was unpleasant. I didn't feel like I could talk to anyone about them. I felt a deep sense of shame that our family had been investigated by DCFS. I felt like it was a referendum on our parenting. I felt like it was a referendum on my fitness as a human being. Brian did his best to help counter these feelings, but it was as if one of my worst fears grew legs and became human.

A couple of weeks ago, Bekah asked if she could go to Indian Prairie park (meaning the playground on school property). Again, it's half a block away from us. I told her it was fine. It was a Monday night. Brian has a regular engagement on Monday night. At 7:15, around the time he was going to leave, I asked him if he could go send Bekah home. He said he could.

At this point in the evening, I had already taken my medicine. It's not sleep medication, but it does have the side effect of making me sleepy and a bit groggy. I was on the verge of going upstairs to bed when I heard a loud banging on the door.

We live in a heavily residential neighborhood. There can sometimes be a steady stream of people knocking on our door to sell goods and/or services. The knocking was more insistent than the normal knocking, so rather than ignore it (as per usual), I got off the couch and went to see who it was.

There was a police officer on my front porch. He asked if he could talk to me. I said, "sure," and went out to be on the stoop with him. Was my husband home? "No," I answered. "He is at [information withheld], at a church on the corner of Haligus and Algonquin."

"Haligus and Algonquin?" He said it with incredulity and as if he didn't believe me. This threw me into a major anxiety attack.

"Well, I'm not sure if it's Haligus, but it's the church right across from the hospital." I stammered, "I'm so sorry, I'm having a hard time coming up with the name of the church, but I know it's across from the hospital."

"Are you okay," he asked me, rather brusquely.

"Actually, I said, I'm not. I'm a little overwhelmed because you're standing here asking me questions and I don't really know what's going on."

"Does your husband drive a tan Toyota, license plate [information redacted]?"

"Yes," I answered, hesitantly.

"We had a phone call from someone that witnessed a man in a tan car approach a girl on a pink bike and then speed off in the opposite direction."

In this time, another officer arrived. The first caught him up on what had happened so far.

"Um, well, my *husband* went to tell my *daughter* to come home. She doesn't have a phone and I wanted her to come home. I didn't want to pack everyone up to go find her, so I figured he could just tell her to come home."

"Would you mind if we talked to your daughter?"

"No,"I said, "but please keep in mind that she may be nervous to talk to the two of you."

I went to retrieve Bekah. As soon as we got to our driveway, the officer said to her, "can you point to the bike you were riding?" She pointed to her bike.

"Was that your dad that talked to you?"

"Yes," Bekah said.

"Did anyone else approach you or try to talk to you at all?"

"No," she answered.

"Okay."

And that was it. Please note, at no point in the interaction did the officers introduce themselves to me. That is something I *might* be able to overlook, but they also didn't introduce themselves to Bekah, even after I explained to them that she might be nervous to talk to them.

In general, I don't feel like the officers treated me like a human. They treated me like I (and by extension, my husband) was a criminal.

I was incredibly shaken by the whole interaction. I posted something about it on FB. One of my neighbors mentioned that the officers had been knocking on doors, asking about a missing girl. It has continued to baffle us how Bekah could be considered missing if we hadn't made that report.

I had a hard time sleeping that night. It bothered me that the officer hadn't introduced himself. It bothered me that he had been condescending and dismissive when I pointed out an error in something he had said. It bothered me that they had initiated a rumor about a missing child, especially in light of recent events.

The thing I couldn't convey a couple of weeks ago was that the previous interaction (last fall) we had with police was still fresh in my mind. I had never really processed it. I was still carrying around a nagging sense that I was a crappy parent. This current interaction reiterated the negative narrative that had been playing in my head for several months.

I made a decision to go talk to someone at the station the next morning. I was nervous and almost in tears as I sat, waiting for the sergeant to emerge. I just wanted to be heard. I wanted him to look at me, to listen to what I had to say and acknowledge my feelings.

The thing that actually happened was about as far away from that as you could possibly imagine.

I prefaced things by apologizing for crying. I told him that I struggled with anxiety and depression. This didn't change his demeanor at all. He had walked in radiating arrogance and didn't soften at all, even when I grabbed a Kleenex as I started crying.

I tried to lay out for him what had happened, at least from my perspective. It was clear that he had pulled up the report from the previous evening. It was laying next to him, face down, on the table.

I laid out my concerns, that the officer had not introduced himself or explained why he was there.

His brusque response was that the officer was not obligated to introduce himself, he was investigating a crime. (As an aside, I will point out that the officer was investigating an *alleged* crime. This seems like I'm being pedantic, but the difference is huge. We live in a country where we are presumed innocent until proven otherwise. The sergeant, in dropping or omitting this word, was asserting that a crime had taken place. To review, there wasn't. It was a misunderstanding.)

I told him that the officer was condescending.

"How was he condescending?" He asked, again very brusquely.

I calmly explained myself.

"That's not condescending," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's a simple mistake."

(I am a bit hamstrung to explain the mistake the officer made. I can't name the two organizations that the officer mistook for one another because I can't publicly identify as a member of the organization. It would break my anonymity. Let's just say, it is like I said my husband was going to play Scrabble and the officer said Words with Friends. Fundamentally, they're the same, but really, it's two totally different games. The common layperson shouldn't be expected to know the difference, but I felt like a police officer should be sensitive to the difference between the two. This is magnified by the fact that the court system regularly sends DUI offenders to the one organization. Again, the sergeant dismissed it as a minor mistake--to be clear, that's condescending--but it's not a minor mistake.)

I told him that the officer had told my neighbor that they were searching for a missing child.

"Did you hear the officer actually say that to your neighbor?"

"Well, no, but this is a neighbor I trust--if she says he said it to her, then he said it to her."

"That's hearsay. He never said that. That's hearsay. That's the problem with social media."

I tried to engage the sergeant's sense of empathy, that I was home, alone, with my four kids. A man with a gun knocks on my door. He *looks* like a police officer, but how am I to know what his purpose or his motive is? Can he imagine how that might be intimidating?

Nope.

He was unmoved. He didn't concede one single point to me. I got incredibly emotional, especially as the interaction went on. He kept cutting me off, then accused *me* of not letting *him* finish talking.

In short, it was a disaster. It was like walking into a buzzsaw.

Again, here's where giving a factual account of something is difficult. I have been binge watching Forensic Files. It's a fascinating show. I love science. But one of the things I've learned is that eyewitness testimony is fundamentally flawed. It's notoriously unreliable. People don't always see what they think they are seeing.

I think the same is the case here. There are probably three versions of the story I'm trying to tell--my side, the officer/sergeant's side, and the truth. Maybe if Brian's interaction with the officer last fall had gone more positively, I wouldn't have been so affronted by the officer's behavior. I *do,* in fact, struggle with anxiety and depression. Maybe someone without a history of mental health issues would have been able to let the whole thing roll off their back.

Everything that I've recounted demonstrates my bias about things. I have not published any of the officers names on social media or in any verbal accounts I've given to friends. It's not my intention to assassinate anyone's character. I absolutely understand that everyone has bad days. Being a police officer can be a thankless job. The pay isn't what it ought to be. It's a dangerous job. There are a lot of risks.

I respect all first responders for the hard work that they do for our community. That doesn't mean, however, that I think they should be able to behave without being held accountable. I also feel that policemen and women should be held to a higher standard. The officer last fall was perpetrating a myth. It's almost statistically insignificant how many kids are kidnapped by strangers. The real danger for kids is from those who are known to them (e.g. priests, soccer coaches, Boy Scout leaders, family friends). Having this unspecified "stranger danger" fear thrown over our communities has been a disaster.

I also don't blame the neighbor who spotted the interaction, though if (s)he ever stumbles across this blog post, here's what I want her/him to know.

Police officers investigate crimes. They treat the people they encounter in the gathering of data as criminals. It is not pleasant to be treated like a criminal.

Police officers are not interested in clearing up misunderstandings. That's outside the purview of their job.

Police officers are humans and approach their job with their own biases and prejudices. They tend to react to things like missing children (again, Bekah was never missing) in a way that can be disproportional.

The weekend after this happened, I made homemade cinnamon rolls from scratch. I set up a table, poured water and waved at every car and person that drove by. I still don't know who called the cops, but I want people in my neighborhood to know who I am and who my kids are. I felt like an absolute fool, waving at everyone and offering free baked goods to passerby, but alas, my feelings are not always accurate depictions of reality. I intend to do it again next month. Bekah made a sign that helps advertise that the rolls are absolutely free (I guess it appeared to people as if I was trying to sell them--most people were incredulous that I was giving them away). I am going to have popsicles for the kids and water balloons. This month, I had one or two good friends come by to support me. I met three or four total strangers, one actual neighbor and one random passerby. I almost burst into tears at three separate instances, but was able to hold it together until I got home.

I have to choose kindness because it's all I've got right now. I am not a woman of means and I don't have a voice that broadcasts all over the world. I am a mom with a tiny blog, a pile of unfolded laundry and a wounded heart. In order to heal, I have to forgive. I may not ever be able to face the officers involved again. I may get anxiety every time a cop approaches me for a long while. But I can choose to be kind to everyone. I don't want to hold a grudge or a resentment because I'm the one who ends up getting burned by that.

I need to be able to get my kids out of the house, that's the bottom line. We moved into our house *because* of its close proximity to the school. I get overwhelmed when my kids are in my house 24 hours a day. They get overwhelmed. They are kids. They need to be outside, riding their bikes and climbing the monkey bars. I can't afford to install that in my backyard.

I have started doubting my decisions. Again, this is two small incidences. Maybe I blew them out of proportion (spoiler alert, I've done that before and I'll most likely do it again). I wish, in my heart of hearts, that the sergeant had sat there, listened to me, patted me on the arm and left. Even if he went back to the squad room (or whatever) and lamented to his officers that I'm a crazy lady, I would've walked out feeling like I'd been seen and heard. As it was, I will be reaching out to the city council and seeing how we can proceed with this. I think it's important to hold a mirror up to the department and show them where they can grow. Am I wrong about this? I could be, time will tell.

The bottom line is, I have two boys with autism. Up to this point, I've always wanted to tell them, "if you're in trouble, look for a police officer, they can help you." Based on my own interaction, I worry that the officers may not be able to demonstrate sensitivity to the way my boys communicate and interact. I am very leery of them soliciting help from police officers if they are not well-equipped to handle those kinds of scenarios with care and understanding.

Again, as I've stated, I've not named and don't intend on naming the officers involved in this encounter. I don't hate the police and I don't want the perception to be that I'm bashing the profession or specific humans. Part of me writing this was a) so that I could sort out how I'm feeling and b) so that I can help others see what's on the other end of a "suspicious activity" phone call. Plus, now I've written for three days in a row. And I worked out today. I get to wake up tomorrow and try it all over again.

Do It Anyway

I am beyond exhausted. I am in bed with Brooklyn and Doug. Brooklyn is on her tablet, Doug is watching one more episode of Team Umizoomi.

I would rather be asleep already. I have to be up early-ish tomorrow to check on my parents' dogs. I had all intentions of writing a blog post about my encounter with Crystal Lake's finest a couple of weeks ago. However, I spent a lot of time in the early evening running a taxi service.

It meant I didn't get to eat dinner until close to 8:45, which is less than ideal. After I finally finished my dinner, I wanted a chance to just sit by myself and breathe for a minute.

I had a friend send me an excerpt from a book today. It was very convicting. I am hoping to get my hands on a copy of it. (Meanwhile, I need to get cracking on the pile of unread books on my bookshelf. It's tough to crochet and read at the same time.)

The excerpt referenced the idea I tried to flesh out last night, namely that I am feeling like I'm chasing a feeling I used to have. I'm doing my best to make lists and plans and set expectations for myself. The problem is, I feel like the line is constantly moving. This means that the idea of success becomes quite elusive, like chasing a rainbow. It's always just a little beyond my reach.

It didn't help that I didn't like the number I saw on the scale this morning. Or that I can't seem to break the habit of getting on the scale every morning. I understand that the scale is just one measurement (among many) that can provide a snapshot of how I'm doing. As a wise friend pointed out a couple of weeks ago, the overall trend in my weight is still down.

I also did a lot of things today that I didn't really want to do. I took an extra dog walk. I've been quite busy watching my parents' dogs, so I've hesitated to take on any new walks. I was forced to be outside in the sun.

When I came home from that, I wanted to just sit on the couch. Instead, I did a short workout and lifted some weights.

I know that I shouldn't be measuring the success of the day by the things I've accomplished. That brings me back to this book, The Joy Project by Tony Reinke. The excerpt that my friend sent me says, "what if joy is not found at the end of a to-do list?" I see the logic there, that it creates the situation I described earlier--this philosophy that completing tasks is important to my sense of self-worth.

I think there is a middle ground, though. I mentioned last night that I'm 104 days behind in my Bible-reading plan. I felt guilty about that. Guilt isn't a tool God uses. He uses conviction, which is a nudge about a specific sin or situation. Guilt uses a much broader brush and isn't from God. So while I knew the guilt wasn't coming from God, I used it to push myself to start trying to catch up.

I was reasonable about what I did. Reading 2-3 days' worth of readings per day is a decent amount. I didn't work out for two hours, but I did cardio and some strength training. I drank more water. I made chicken to put on my salads over the next couple of days.

I am writing something. It's not what I set out to write today, but it is still something.

I am not measuring my worth by what I've accomplished, but I do feel like accomplishing something has helped my mental health today. I feel like I'm always on a razor's edge in that struggle. If I rest and take it easy, the house descends into chaos. This, in turn, stresses me out. That leads to higher anxiety. But if I am constantly going, trying to clean, trying to work out, trying to do all the things, I drive myself crazy because of my unrealistic expectations.

One thing I will say is that I have started to push harder on the kids to help out around the house. At the prompting of a friend a few months ago, I had the kids start doing and folding their own laundry. I had to resign myself to the fact that it wasn't going to be done to my exacting standards. To be fair, my exacting standards meant that, frequently, the laundry sat clean (but unfolded) in baskets for about a week. Since handing off the task, laundry gets put away much more quickly.

Today, I outsourced cleaning the bathrooms to the kids. I will probably need to go back and clean a toilet or two and mop the floor, but in all, that's work I didn't have to do. I ask Bekah to help with the dishwasher. I ask Jeremy to take things out to the garbage cans.

It has not been without bumps. I have had to speak rather sternly with all of the kids. I tried to explain to them that a messy house stresses me out. I am not a magician (honestly, this is kind of my mantra) and I can't do all the things on my own. I need their help. They are not always cheerful about helping. They frequently tell me they don't want to. I have had to tell them, firmly but kindly, that I don't always want to cook, clean, take them places and otherwise maintain the household.

I am glad I wrote something tonight. I strive to do the things that are opposite of my nature. It's a good bet that there is something that is good for me to do that I'd prefer not to do. Sometimes, when I am fighting back the depression, just doing one thing opposite of what I want to do can make a big difference.

Here We Go, Again (second verse, same as the first)

It is the middle of June. Summer break started a week and a half ago. I am already mostly ready for school to be back in session.

A lot has happened over the past couple of weeks. I am working on processing all that happened. I need to open a Google doc and start writing some of that down.

I don't even really know how to convey the things I'm feeling right now. Two and a half years ago, I embarked on a journey to lose some extra weight. It was quite a bit extra. In total, I lost 80 pounds.

I cut a lot out of my life. I stopped playing interactive games on my phone (you know, the kind where you virtually do things that you wouldn't normally do, say farming and other of those kinds of things).

I stopped doing those things. I started spending more time in the real world. I actively worked my business. I tried to be more present with my kids.

Over the months, I shed the weight. I got less hung up about what I was eating. Having boundaries with my food made my life so much easier in a lot of ways.

I think that I believed that I would lose the weight, it would stay off, and I would ride off into the sunset.

Over the past six or so months, I've gained back about 20 pounds, give or take. I started to loosen my restrictions about what I put in my body. I started to play games again, though this time, I'm building a city versus farming (which is different in exactly no appreciable way).

I have been feeling very defeated lately. My depression continues to plague me. It is that ever-present itch in the middle of my back, the one I can't quite reach, the one no one else can quite scratch in the right way. It strikes me at odd times and paralyzes me emotionally and even, on occasion, physically.

In addition, I've developed an issue with my IT band. It's making running almost impossible. I need to do more to stretch it out and try to ice it, but meanwhile, one of my cheaper forms of therapy has gone out the window.

Brian's unemployment continues on. That's an entirely declarative statement, no commentary on his effort. He has done absolutely everything in his power to make sure he's working. He's been on several promising interviews, even second interviews. No offers, though.

He has been a trooper, but it's plunged us all into an unregulated chaos. There isn't any regularity to our days. Even when he was working at home, I knew what to expect. I knew when to be gone and when to be at home. Now, time has become an amorphous blob, undefined and messy, kind of a child's abstract scribble.

About a month ago, I made a stand. I decided my weight was going to stop going up. I was going to buckle back down, make a serious go of things again. I pared down the time I was spending building my city.

Here's the thing, though. Whatever magic or voodoo or whatever that defined my previous period of success (success measured here by weight loss) has evaporated. Try as I might, all I can do is gain and lose the same five pounds.

So I added in more workouts. I intensified them. I started using weights. The problem is that I continue to lack regularity. This has something to do with having four kids, an unemployed husband, a cluttered home, a dog-walking business that is regular but irregular, depression, crushing anxiety...the list goes on.

All of that has contributed to a lack of security about myself. I don't want to post pictures of myself on social media. I'm fairly certain that everyone would see one picture of me say, "oh, she gained weight again, what a failure. That stuff she was talking about is obviously all hokum."

I share about my depression, but then I don't want to overshare. Again, I'm afraid people will think I'm a failure. I'm worried that they think I'm morose, Debbie Downer personified.

In short, I have started to pull into myself, a kind of shrinking turtle. I don't like going out because it involves small talk. As it turns out, while I excel at small talk, I also hate it. It's exhausting. The most relaxing time I've had in the past few months has been with a friend, at her house, watching Schitt's Creek and being almost 100% silent. (Well, aside from laughing our asses off--the show is legitimately the funniest I've ever seen.)

But by not going out and hanging with people, I end up feeling so lonely. I don't want to pick up the phone when people call. They text and days go by before I can muster the energy to answer them.

It feels like I'm trying to walk up a down escalator. I don't feel like I can gain any traction with anything lately. At the beginning of the year, I started a reading plan to read the Bible in a year. I am now 104 days behind.

I missed more days of Bible study this year than I could count. I am not showing up in public and lately, I'm not showing up for myself. I'm not writing, even though it's the thing I know is one of the best therapies for me. I'm not running and I'm not working on helping my knee get better. I'm not working my business. I'm not posting about my life (not in a share-every-minute kind of way, but even in a I'm-so-grateful-to-be-alive kind of way).

I hate to keep ending up in this place. I hate to fail, it makes me crazy. I hate to isolate, but the emotional energy it takes to be among other humans is exhausting. I don't know why that is right now. I'm sure it's because I've been in some form of survival mode for a long, long time.

I am hoping that writing tonight will help me sleep well, regroup, and try again tomorrow.