The winter months can be challenging in a cold climate, but it's now two down (December, January) and one to go (February), and I'm feeling like we're going to make it. (March is still a pretty wintery month, but we won't think about that. Nor about the likelihood of snow in April. And then there's snow in May. But it's SPRING snow, which is different.) Now that it's February we're about to get our first measurable snow since December. Monday it's supposed to hit, up to 10 inches. I'll have to stop wearing my MBT sandals. I took a walk down by the creek today, just to get in one more before I can't for a while.
Today was Imbolc, Candlemas, Groundhog Day. We celebrated tonight by lighting candles at the dinner table and eating pancakes (round, grain-based). I just realized I don't know whether the groundhog saw his shadow officially -- but he certainly would have seen it if he'd been in Boulder, it having been 73 degrees and sunny, so that's six more weeks of winter for us. Starting tomorrow! It's been so incredibly dry that I'm actually fine with more snow. I think. Just wish I had a better pair of winter boots. But seriously, look at this lawn, the last of the Thanksgiving snow dump finally gone. And think of the poor thirsty trees. We need some moisture.
Because of the coming storm, we needed to cover the broken skylight with a tarp, so snow won't get all over the patio -- it will anyway, because it will blow onto it, but at least a tarp will prevent the snow from falling right down onto everything. I also needed to measure the broken skylight, in preparation for buying a replacement (which Rocket Boy is going to do when he comes to visit in two weeks, I've decided). What all this meant, of course, is that the
kids needed to do these things, because I am too fat to climb onto the patio roof (I can go up this high on the ladder, but that's it). Kid B is quite sick with a cold, so while he ate a late breakfast, Kid A climbed up on the roof. First he measured the skylight (34" x 58") and then he spread the tarp over it. Finally he placed four bricks at the corners -- and then straightened it all out as I nagged him. "OCD, Mom," he snarked, but he did as I asked. I am unfortunately quite familiar with tarps on roofs -- in fact, I think this particular tarp is the very one we used to have on the main roof, before we could afford to have the roof replaced five years ago.
I paid Kid A $2 for this job -- it seemed above and beyond normal household chores (not that he does many of those). He's currently not getting an allowance because he owes Kid B $12, so I'm giving Kid B both allowances until the debt is paid off. I gave Kid A the choice of $2 or putting the money toward his debt and he chose the money. Of course. And then he jumped on his bike and rode off to the library to play video games in the teen lounge.
In last week's blog I said something about how the lack of disasters that week had left me with a surplus of serenity for this week. Something like that. It turned out that it (the serenity) wasn't enough, and I struggled with depression. But I'm OK. A few dicey days there, but I'm still chugging along.
When I get depressed, I tell myself, fiercely, "Don't do this! You have to keep going! You're the only parent the twins have in the state of Colorado! You're responsible for everything! You're going to ruin their lives if you act depressed! Get your act together!" etc., etc.
As you can imagine, this approach has its pros and cons. Sometimes I do get my act together, because I realize that I need to. Other times I get more depressed, because yelling at myself makes me feel even more inadequate than I already did when I started to get depressed.
A somewhat more successful approach is to be kind to myself, reframe the situation, maybe go for some humor. Also some love -- pick up a cat and say, "Oh, so fluffy!" or run a hand through a twin's crewcut and say, "Oh, so fuzzy!"
Yesterday I needed to go to the Costco pharmacy because Pie Bear was almost out of insulin. In addition to being almost out of insulin, Pie Bear is almost out of
life, being 14 going on 15, diabetic for many years, and with a horrible tumor in his mouth. I talked to the front office staff at the veterinary clinic about this recently, asked how to set up a euthanasia appointment and all that. They explained it clearly and I called Rocket Boy and told him about it. "Oh," he said, sounding sad. I asked him if he wanted to get Pie's ashes back (it's $150; group cremation with no ashes back is $50). "I would like them," he said, almost apologetically. "I know," I said. "Me too. It's fine, we'll get the ashes back. But don't worry, I'm not going to have him put to sleep right away or anything." Secretly I plotted and planned to have Pie put to sleep before Rocket Boy's next visit, which is in two weeks.
But Pie was almost out of insulin (one tiny bottle lasts him about 8 months). Should I have him put to sleep when the insulin runs out? Should I stop giving him insulin when the insulin runs out, wait until he goes into a diabetic crisis, and then have him put to sleep? Or should I maybe, just maybe, get more insulin? Insulin is really expensive.
Of course, I got more insulin. Pie Bear is a funny old cat, nearing the end of his life, but he's not quite there yet. He's still eating lustily, going outside on warm days (he spent hours outside today), sleeping by my feet at night. We can afford $321 to keep him going another month or two or three, or whatever turns out to be the right number.
I had thought I would get food at Costco, but I just wasn't in the mood for the enormous packages of things. I would look at something, imagine myself eating it, feel sick, and turn away. I couldn't convince myself that the twins would eat some or that I didn't have to eat it all at once.
Finally I left with just the insulin and went back to Boulder, to our local King Soopers grocery store where I could buy a single onion, among other things. While studying the sweet potatoes I heard someone say hello to me. It was the father of a girl from the kids' elementary school, someone I like a lot (both the man and his daughter, actually, and I also like the mom). I hadn't seen him since graduation, last May. We talked, and he was eager to tell me how well his daughter is doing (she goes to a charter school which is very focused on homework and grades). She's a smart, competitive person and it sounded like she's hitting middle school out of the park (sorry if that's a weird image). Someday she's going to set the world on fire (in a good way, I mean). I thought of my boys and their poor first-semester grades, their current lack of interest in anything other than stupid video games, and their amazing ability to fit the f-word into almost every sentence. And of course that led me to think about what a bad mother I am.
My boys were actually in daycare with this man's daughter, when they were babies. Then we left and moved to Ridgecrest, but she stayed in the daycare until she started kindergarten. Her dad mentioned that practically everyone who had been in her daycare is also in the charter middle school. Except my boys, I thought to myself. My low-achieving boys, who are that way because of their Bad Mom.
I said goodbye to the proud dad and continued through the store, selecting ONE can of diced tomatoes, and ONE tiny package of couscous. I had noticed at Costco a box with 36 cans of Pringles potato chips in it -- how Kid A would have loved that. Instead, I bought him ONE bag of tortilla chips and a SMALL jar of salsa. Bad mom, I thought, should be at home making my own tortilla chips and my own salsa out of fresh vegetables, also should not be buying CANNED diced tomatoes. Should can my OWN tomatoes, after dicing them myself, bad mom. Bad mom. I was starting to feel really low.
And then suddenly a thought popped into my head. What about love? I thought of the staff at the veterinary clinic, who are so nice to all the animals (and their guardians). And I thought about Pie Bear, and about how I'd just spent $321 on insulin for him. A high-achieving person would undoubtedly have put Pie Bear to sleep a long time ago. A high-achieving person would have a designer cat, carefully selected to be the perfect size and shape and personality for boasting to acquaintances about in the grocery store.
I'm not a bad mom, I thought. I'm someone who spends $321 on insulin for a silly old cat. And I'm married to someone who wants to pay $100 to be able to get that cat's ashes, just because he loves that silly old cat. And we have two goofy kids who I hope we somehow manage to raise. I smiled a lot. And life felt better.
But then I came across a mention of Georges. Dumas' grandmother on his father's side was a Black slave in the French colony that became Haiti. While people with African ancestry were treated better in France than in the United States in the 1800s, Dumas still had to deal with a fair amount of discrimination. Georges is apparently his only novel that addresses that issue. The novel is about a young "mulatto" man, Georges Munier, born on Ile de France (aka Mauritius, which switches from a French to a British colony early in the novel) who leaves the island to be educated in Europe and returns to avenge himself on the men who insulted him when he was a boy and who insult his father (nevertheless a successful plantation owner). He falls in love with Sara, a young white woman, leads a rebellion of the slaves on the island, and it all turns out well in the end (sorry about the spoiler, but since this is a romance/adventure story, how could it end otherwise?).
