The Birthday Lookie-Loo

I do this every year. I ponder the reality of getting older, and try to figure out if I'm heading in the right direction. Oh, and what direction did I want to go, anyway?

Today I turn 46. Not a huge number, compared to some (hi, Papa!) But older than I've ever been.

So, where am I at? I have a wonderful husband. Truly, Miles is a gem of love and support, an excellent father and an all-around funny guy. Most people don't know how funny he is, but I'm here to tell ya; dude is a crack-up! Also, he's a stellar BBQer, and easily the most patient man I have ever known. He makes me a fabulous husband.

I have great kids. Kayla is about to launch into the world. And the world better be prepared, 'cause she'll be running this planet in 20 years or so. Cameron turns 13 tomorrow. He's a sweet kid, and his little sisters adore him. He's also developing quite a subtle and snarky sense of humor. Plus, he's got great hair. I anticipate this is the year the girls start to circle like hungry sharks. Also, this is probably the year he gets taller than me.

Then, there are my daughters, Claire and Aeron. The girls turn 6 on Friday. What can I say to convey the whirlwind produced by the Wee Lassies? They have such boundless energy; imagine Kayla squared! They are endlessly inquisitive; it has been said small children ask 200 questions a day. Which makes approximately 400 inquiries launched at me every, single day. We do have a rule, though. No questions until Mama has had her coffee. But they also laugh. They laugh with such joy! They are so loving. They have known nothing but love, so they give only love. They fling their arms around everyone, with very sincere affection. When Daddy comes home, he is greeted like a rock star, each and every time. Claire and Aeron are at a stage where they are figuring out who is "in our family".  Luckily, we have a large family for them to love. Susan, Ron and Brandi DeCarli, Chris and Caitlin Neumann, Super Gra-Maw and Papa, Uncle Trevor, Great Papa, Cousin Karen, Uncle Brett, Uncle Clay-doh; and those are just the folks we see often! Few people can resist their charm.


I have a comfortable home in a beautiful area of the Central Coast. I live where people like to vacation.  I could wish to have a larger decorating budget, and I really would like to get baseboards in the downstairs bath, but that's a very minor thing. Our fruit trees are producing, we have folks next door who will feed the cat or from whom we can borrow an egg. The kids play all over the neighborhood. Our family  is happy here.

There are areas that need improvement in my 46 year-old life.

I've suffered enough with the pinched nerve. It will have been 6 years on Saturday. Time to get that shit fixed. Once I have the neurosurgery to repair that little problem, I will no longer have the excuse to not exercise. And I need to exercise! Because of ....

...perimenopause! My already slow metabolism has slowed to a crawl. Also known as the "Kurth Curse". We tend towards plumpness. Well, actually, we tend to be fat. I'd been doing fairly well, fighting the Curse, but lately have been losing the battle. I don't wanna go there!

I need to get out more. I'm a social creature, yet I love to stay at home. I need to find a social outlet.

I need to use my brain more. Use it or lose it, so the saying goes.

I need to stop being "Sweatpants Woman". I should make the effort to foof up from time to time. Despite hearing my man say, "you look fine without makeup".  (I'm pretty sure that in the Married Man's Manual, that's a required statement)

As I add up the pluses and minuses, I realize how very good my life is. Guess 46 will be a great year.

Fourth of July

 Happy Independence Day, all!

This is definately one for the rehersal dinner

It's a beautiful spring here in Mayberry. Flowers are bloomin', birds are singin', new life is burgeoning everywhere. And the kindergarteners are learning about babies. Frog babies, chicken and duck babies, bunny babies.

(You parents in the room can see where this is going, right?)

Yep. Now they are curious about people babies. 

Aeron asks me, solemnly, "Mama? How do people babies get into their mama's tummy?" 

Oh, lord. I'm so not ready for this. "It's very complicated, sweetie. We'll talk about it later." I'm thinking, like, in 5 years or so. 

"Later, like in 10 minutes?" she asks. 

"No, some other day. When you are older." 

"I know how." pipes up Claire. "The mama keeps eating and eating and then the baby shows up."

I am a whiny, candyass wimp

I picked up "The Dirty Life" last Saturday, while Miles and I were on a anniversary getaway. It's a memoir, as the subtitle says, of farming, food and love. I finished it Sunday night, because I just couldn't put it down. Kristen Kimball writes of her life as she leaves a career as a travel writer, NYC (and her rent-controlled apartment!) to start a CSA in upstate New York with a farmer so idealistic, he doesn't believe in building a house using nails. Now, that's one hell of a leap of faith. 

Kimball describes, in picturesque, gory detail, the realities of running a farm. Yeah, it looks all bucolic driving past on the road, but running a farm means daily dealings with numerous varieties of animal shit, being at the mercy of the weather and the needs of those animals and the inescapable nature of death. Often, death you dealt with your own hands. 

Oh, and the work. Intense, physical, hard, astonishingly dirty work. Milking cows by hand as they do their best to kick you. Hauling buckets, harnessing draft horses, planting acres of potatoes in the dark, slinging bales of hay around, weeding 40 different kinds of vegetables with a hoe. Kimball reports incidents of being run over by a steer and knocked over and swarmed by hungry, biting pigs.

What could possibly be the compensation for such drudgery and grossness, I hear you ask? I can tell you in one word: food. Delicious, organic, I-grew-it-myself food. Kimball, a vegetarian for 13 years, tried her future husband's homemade pork sausage, had two helpings, and that was the end to any restrictions to her diet. She wallows in root vegetables that could make a grown man swoon, drinks maple sap straight for the bucket, glories in fresh milk and cream from a sloe-eyed Jersey cow named Delia.*

Now, comparing oneself to others seems to be a persistent trait in the human animal. We just can't help it. "Am I prettier than her?" or "Does he make more money than me?" or "Am I the worst dancer here?" It's a pretty useless hobby, when you think about it. What damn difference does it make if she is prettier than you? 

All that said, as I read this book, I still couldn't help but think that I am an absolutely useless, whiny human being who would die after one normal day of Kimball's life. I moan about how hard it is to keep a suburban house tidy, or how tired I am after a day of wrangling a couple of kindergarteners. Puh-leeze! This woman works herself to exhaustion every single day, and loves it. Really. Kimball swears she loves the dirt and the chores and working herself 'til she drops. The mud, and blood and sweat and gore seems to make her feel alive. The physicality of the sore muscles, the intense gratification of flavorful foods you produced yourself, are their own rewards. 

Something to envy.

*She loves the man who doesn't believe in nails, too.

Spring in Mayberry

My rose garden is poised to burst forth into glorious bloom. "Our Lady of Guadalupe" and "Angel Face" are always the first to bloom.

We were able to have dinner outside for the first time this year. This is the view from our front deck dining room.

Field trip to the goat farm!

Aeron snuggling a kid.

Claire feeding a dairy goat a cracker.

Frustrations

It's the little things, ya know?

Today, I attempted to open a new bottle of moisturizer. (with SPF 15!) One of those pump bottles where the pump is locked down and you are supposed to turn it counter-clockwise to pop it up.

I can't get it open. And this isn't an isolated incident, either. I cannot seem to open any pump bottle. Lotion, ketchup, sunscreen; I can't do it. Inevitably, after wrestling with the damn thing for 10 minutes or so, I will hand it to my husband to open it for me. Makes me feel like a useless, wimpy girl.

Another thing I can't do; keep a clean house.

This one drives me to despair. I can mop the floor and 5 minutes later, someone will walk through with muddy shoes or pour milk all over the place. I will pick up the myriad of papers my twin daughters bring home from school, turn my back for just a moment, and those selfsame papers are all over Kingdom Come again. Makes me wanna pick up a rock and bash myself with it.

I know, I know...."First World" problem. But there's gotta be a way, right? There must be some way to keep the house from looking like a tornado hit. There should be some technique I can learn to prevent my twins from tearing up the house. Right?!?