Here comes Peter Cottontail...

I'm not sure if you have figured it out yet but I'm not a very organized parent, and I over extend myself regularly. Most of the time I am frazzled and hurried.

This weekend I worked and my children stayed at home under the watchful eye of friends. As I was getting ready my daughter of seven years looked up and said , "Mama, if you are going to work does that mean the Easter Bunny is dead?" Interesting choice of words little one.

When Mini Chaos was born I decided not to lie to her. We never had Santa presents and every Christmas we talked about the birth of Christ and winter solstice and pagan rituals that have become our "Christian" traditions. No Easter bunny came but beautiful children's books about the redemptive love of Jesus.

When Tiny-But-Mighty came along I had lost some of my zeal. I had been hurt horribly by a pastoral experience, I was tired and I missed the magic in my life. I still won't lie to my child but I find myself indulging in some fantasy now and then. TBM is just the kid that needs a little magic in her life if that makes sense.

I was feeling a little remorseful about not realizing it was Easter and planning for it. I mentioned the whole thing to my friend, who also happens to employ me. She was so kind dear reader and I wish I could express all the emotion and gratitude I am feeling, because she gave me an Easter basket for my wild eyed little dreamer. Another friend picked my children up and took them to the family meal with the family I have adopted as my own now that I live so far away from my blood relations.

TBM smiled at me as she clutched the tiny stuffed rabbit and wind up chick from the Easter basket, her tummy full of turkey and chocolate and said,"I'm glad the Easter bunny is your friend Mama."

I'm glad too little one.  

Here Pig, Pig ,Pig

I have a potbelly pig in the house. Her name is Peaches. She is one of the sweetest most loving creatures on planet earth. There is one completely irritating thing Peaches does. She screams. When the kids are playing, when she is hungry and I walk towards the kitchen, when I sit next to her and I am not touching her but most often when I am watching a suspenseful program and it gets to the climax. Just as they start to announce the killer, or unmask the villain peaches screams as though a blood thirsty wolf has suddenly materialized inside her bed.

 I love my little thirty-five pound bundle of neurotic cuteness but those moments I start to think about bacon. I swear dear reader it has been driving me insane for months. Pause the program, wait for the pig to settle down, turn it back on only for her to become just as agitated within seconds.

I'm a fairly intelligent person but until today I couldn't figure it out. Today it finally dawned on me what the trigger is. The background music scares my pig. Picture if you will a grown woman turning the volume off and switching to closed captioning in order to get through an episode of Criminal Minds. Lucky for her I love her.

Pour me, another shot of whiskey....

Yesterday was frustrating, stressful and upsetting. I have to get the horses feet trimmed, I have mares about to foal any day, I have an annual vet visit coming on Tuesday that even though it should be fine, always causes me anxiety.

Tiny-but-mighty cowgirl is currently homeschooling so before we could go anywhere, her studies had to be done and I had to convince her to leave the cocoon of the home. Not as simple as it sounds dear reader and I was in frustrated tears more than once.

 First I had to get help to get into the place where the horses are kept because it snowed heavy thick wet snow after raining for a few days , our weather has been bizarre to say the least this year. I HATE asking people for help. I would rather pierce my skin with fish hooks, and I have an irrational fear of fish hooks . In my experience people who help you use it to stab you dead later or they get grumpy and make sure you know how inconvenient you are. Not all people by any means but I am a kenestetic (sp?) person and those are the feelings I associate with help, anger frustration, guilty and disappointment.

Fortunately yesterday I had help. Upon arriving at the pasture I called and my horses obediently trudged into the area, thank goodness. I went to go and pull the needed equipment out of the shed and realized both myself and mini Chaos had forgotten our Tackshed key... I guess the cowgirl apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I managed to find a screwdriver and remove the hasp so we could gain access to the shed.

I was relieved to be into the shed, with people waiting around to help with the work of the day. I was almost happy and encouraged as I dragged out halters, pails, and the farrier box. Others were working at catching my donkey, Daphne, who is savage to trim and has to be tranquilized, and other horses to trim in order of how much they need it done. I opened my tool box of tricks and my heart sank. No nippers. I remember seeing them before I moved, in July and I know they have been used a couple times since but I have no idea where they could be.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that was it for me. I sat ten minutes in the snow crying , thanked my friends for trying to help the hopeless and let the horses out. I posted on social media asking for prayer replaced the lock on the shed and went to town to buy new nippers.

I quit drinking a long time ago but last night as I crawled in the door exhausted and defeated I wanted to drink. I didn't drink though. I put Tiny-But-Mighty to bed, read her a story and cuddled with my pig on the couch. Good days aren't the victory dear reader, bad days are.

I'm not racist but...

There is an attitude in the air like a sticky hot summer day and you can't escape from it. No matter where I go or what I do it follows me. It wounds my heart it ways I can't define and some days it is so powerful and overwhelming I literally weep in the dark until I am spent.

The blatant ugliness of racism or racial prejudice is like murky black water that swallows me. My family is biracial and my oldest children even more so. It is strange how people assume from your skin that you are going to agree with their opinions and biases. The other day a woman ranted at length to me about not wanting to go into a local business because of the "Indians" in said establishment. I promise you dear reader that I did not act upon the feelings this conversation gave me, for the most part because I was working and I needed to maintain decorum. I did however vibrate with frustration and indignation as I thought of all the beautiful and loving Native people I know including family members and my sweet beautiful boys.

Over time I have become calloused to the statements that elderly people make about hating this nationality or that , what ever particular group is in vogue to hate and this is wrong. No one is old enough to hate with out consequence. When I hear people in their youth regurgitating this horrible poison it infuriates me beyond reason. Why do the elderly get a free hate pass? How can we stop the hate?

Hate isn't limited to any particular race, social group, class or type of person.

What if we made diversity part of education? What if we taught history from both sides of the conflict and did away the the antagonist? What if instead of heroes and villains in human history we had people who did their best with the information they had?