Survival of the kindness or How to stop a Fracas

Fracas : to argue, a brawl.

This was probably not the smartest thing to name our cat.
I am a dog person. There was one notable exception in my history with cats, a calico named Celimene who would sit on my shoulder while I weeded or picked vegetables (yes, I really used to weed and pick). She was an amazing cat. She proved the nine lives theory to be true as she was always coming close to death and then making a dramatic comeback. Once, I even found her surrounded by buzzards and was told by two vets that we should put her down but the third vet knew cat-acupuncture and she was brought back from the brink, yet again! Should I now assume that I have told this story nine times and lay it to rest? O.K.

I am a dog person who likes big, mostly barkless dogs. We always had german shepards growing up so I like them a lot but then there are the many fantastic mutts, like this one we've had for seven years.

Ah. Tuki! This is her favorite post, hips on the platform of our deck, front feet on the second step, waiting for Larry, the bachelor down the street, to take his daily walk. She always keeps both his house and ours in her vision. She is getting older now and usually barks at Larry (and at us) for a minute until, having come right upon us, she realizes that we are indeed from one of her two true family loves and wags her tail in embarrassment. This just makes her more adorable.

But cats? I'm discovering, yet again, that except for Celimene (and those cats that I visit in other people's home, where they do the litter cleaning) I am not a cat person. I want to be one. I want to be the kind of generous person who can take in all the needy children and animals. Unfortunaely, I can only keep up with the few.

Over a year ago, Fracas just showed up. She looked exactly like my mother's cat (the original Fracas) and was very sweet and lived happily outside. A year later it was brought to my unobservant attention that she has no front claws and should really be an indoor cat. We bought a litter box. For several months now, I have been waking up throughout the night to the sound of the Fracas derby - lots of running, lego batting, fierce thudding of her entire side and even of her spray (she is spayed, what's with the spraying?) against the walls. In our house, there is no getting away from this sound. Ear plugs could be an option but that wouldn't solve the other issues - that she walks on my head in the night and spreads her litter, deliberately, with her paw, all over the ground.

So, as of an hour ago, I have stopped fighting Nicolas' pleas to put her outside. She lived outside, happily, for a year. She is a survivor. The theory is that with the added hours of sleep and the reduced wall and floor cleaning, my kindness will remain intact. But I am feeling seriously challenged by the guilt, and by her unbelievably cute self through the window pane.

Later: She got back into the house in the night (after getting back in and hanging out with Nicolas and I for a while before that too). I am not the cold-hearted cat hater I want to be. I will learn to cat nap.

Portraits

Our Wednesday play group met at our farm today. One of the moms is a photographer and is shooting a series of pictures of moms doing what they love to do, that is all theirs, not about their kids. So, while the kids played in the forts (and made new ones), Andrea took the moms off, one at a time, to create our portraits. I took some pictures of the kids.




I can't wait to see her pictures. It will be a while. We are all returning to the farm next week as well (we never made it to the crystal field) so she is shooting some more then.

On our way to the beaver pond, I asked Andrea if she was going to include herself in her "pretty mama" series and asked if she had ever done a self-portrait. She had not, and seemed to have never thought about it much. I was surprised.

Once home, our conversation got me thinking about doing my own self-portrait. My first impetus was that I had straightened my hair for the photo today. I never did find my small make-up stash this morning (I think I left it at a hotel in Feb.). I still have a small stye in my eye and I was tired from the day. But my hair is straight for the first time since it was cut. I felt silky and sophisticated - like the "Breck Girl" in the 70's. So I took my own picture.

Other than the arm muscle work-out (same muscles I had to use to do the straightening), it was painless. I see now why people join those self-portrait groups, where they post a self-portrait every Tuesday, each time following an assigned theme. It was very revealing, to my self, to do this. Though I almost never look in a mirror, I really saw the merit in looking at my picture. I've been told I'm not photogenic. But that's not the point. In trying to be completely open for the camera, I get to see what that actually looks like, not just how it feels. I can see different layers, and then notice when they are gone.


Here is one that Gillen took. I like the way he saw me.

Lousing up my resolution

That New Year's resolution, not to whinge? Harumpph. Be careful what you pledge. The universe tests you every time. I remember writing, "I have nothing to complain about." It was back in the beautiful January summer of Sydney, with my new niece, wee Zoe, giggling nearby.

I still can't complain about anything big. But I might have to whinge a bit about a small thing, so small that it is almost invisible to the naked eye - the persistent, ever-breeding, unspeakable, shame-producing (which is just a shame really) louse. sigh. We obliterated the beasts out of Gillen's head over two weeks ago, furiously treating the whole family and house at the same time. But then, thinking that they were out of our heads, we happily put them out of our minds. And that was the mistake. I should have continued my chimpanzee grooming much longer than a few days. Those eggs live for two weeks. A few hatched and were found on Gillen's head a few days ago. I'm probably five loads of laundry away from the end of washing everything we have touched in the last week. But I'm half way there. I'm trying to think of it as an Ingalls prairie home spring cleaning.

We are staying in three different homes next week. We do not intend to bring any univited guests. So I have taken drastic measures. I have ordered (on a good friend's advice) the terminator! This is the big daddy of nit combs and I do believe that, this time, we will indeed overcome. That hair cut I am "about" to have? I may be going with a pixie cut, very soon, which would really not be flattering with this giant stye that I have in my eye at the moment. As if you weren't disgusted enough.

That's it. No more secrets. My eye is hiding a red-hot and we are sequestered, with mayonnaise-covered heads. The pesticide-filled regular treatment(RID) doesn't work well anymore, I read, as the bugs are becoming immune. Music to this organic families' ears and unburned heads. The Mayo suffocated them and tea tree oil, as well as many other oils and concoctions (and the terminator!) will continue to keep them in some other realm.

Keeping it stylish:-

Gillen didn't care to share his shower-cap-look ;)

Jumping in the rain, Frickle, and a new hobby

Lately, there have been several storms in the afternoons. It can be beautifully sunny, no sign of anything coming, and our dog Tuki will sense the possibilities and start shaking. This is followed, suddenly, by big, southern style (I never experienced it like this in the north) thunder and lightning. But for the past few days, after the thunder and lightning, there has been a time of rain - safe, wet, slippery, pattering rain. Time for jumping on the trampoline with your brother for an hour kind of rain.

In other news, we have a new cat. The last time I loved a cat (her name was Celimene - spoken with a French accent) I loved her so hard that when she finally died, after almost dying three times and being nursed back to health, I thought I'd shut down any cat longing for good. Plus, I don't love all cats. She was special. She would sit on my shoulder while I picked flowers and vegetables.

The other cats that I really loved were a brother and sister pair that my mother owned named Frik and Frac (also known as Frickle and Fracas). They, like Celimene, were Calicos.

So yesterday, when a small calico showed up on our side porch, looking exactly like Frickle and without a collar, it took me only two minutes to agree- yes, let's care for him, as an outdoor cat. Today we bought cat food and fed him. The kids made him a cozy box home. On Mon. we'll take him to the vet. Gillen already loves him so much that right now he is crying because it is raining and Frickle (G calls him Freckle) is out there, somewhere, not coming when he calls (as he has been, surviving on his own for months before we met him). GIllen has become his Little Prince. He has fed him and cared for him, just a bit, and now this kitten could break his heart. What are we going to do about a cat when we go to Australia. : 0

Luckily, there is some distraction from this new infatuation. We are almost finished reading _Deathly Hallows_ and Gillen has brought a new hobby into our lives - embroidery. I had been wanting to do it for a while, influenced by my talented seamstress friend Helen, by soule mama and by the book Kids' Embroidery, by Kristin Nicholas. But it was a conference funshop called "clothing tattoo" that got Gillen excited about it. We discovered that you can get iron-on transfers that disappear after a wash, to enable him to do really cool "tattoos". He has made a skull and bones and a beautiful, free-form leaf. I'll be embroidering "Zoe" and pandas on tiny clothing while watching soccer games this weekend.

The first paragraph (not for those who are patiently waiting for 12am, July 21st)

From Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, by J.K. Rowling :

"The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other's chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction.

"News?" asked the taller of the two.

"The best," replied Severus Snape."

Despite the adrenaline rush I am having right now, I am not going to read any further. I so want to, just one more paragraph, just a few chapters... "Hermione", the friend who bestowed this book upon me, has already read the entire book, in two days - while taking good care of her three boys who are under the age of 7. She is a fast reader and read a lot at night and - it must be really good.

My kids are gone. They are at a skate boarding camp with their cousin and are staying at his house for five nights. I could just fall onto the couch, brace this very heavy book (759 pages) on my knees and read until the very end, the final end, the tantalizingly mysterious, unknown end. So tempting.

What's stopping me is not the list of thirty-two things that I wanted to get done during this first big span of time at home without my kids. I've checked a few things off on the list and will hopefully get to a few more - but I am a list-maker, not a list-finisher. It's not that. It's about my Harry Potter team - made up of me, Gillen and Jesse. We are up to the last chapter in book six. I am not even going to read that until I pick them up on Friday afternoon. Then, I'll read it to them in the car before we drive to the very cool bookstore, Little Shop of Stories, in Decatur. They are hosting a "Requiem for a Wizard - an evening of magic, remembrance and farewells" for which they sent us a beautiful invitation on parchment. It is only open to those who have pre-ordered the book through them. The party starts at 10pm and goes until midnight, when the book can be released.

So I'll go to the mechanic's, maybe make some tomato sauce and pesto, take some pictures, and glory in having my own thoughts (even now, they are frequently about my kids) and time, until I can rejoin my favorite two boys for another journey into the world of Harry Potter. At least, that's the plan. If I have insomnia, all bets are off.