Backward Clothing, Inside Out As Well

A bird had flown in my upstairs plant filled room that has a door to a second floor deck - my viewing area over my gardens.  Nando and I watched it for a while, before guiding it back outside easily.

"I'm so sick of people asking me family questions," Jack, 12, groused at dinner last night.  "Like people have never heard of big numbers."

I get asked about my eating habits as much as I get asked about the number of kids.

For the millionth time I do not force my children to be vegetarians.  They can eat what they want.  I do however pitch a fit when I see one drinking a soda, as I truly believe they'd be just as well off to chug-a-lug straight gasoline from the pump.  Exxon's better'n Coca-Cola.  Oh puhleeze, I'm kidding, but not by much.

I'm not restricted as a vegan, not at all.  There's not time enough in the world to eat all I wanna eat.  Yesterday for breakfast I tossed three bananas, a quart of blueberries I'd frozen, a dash of Almond Milk and a scoop of vegan approved protein powder in a blender and had a massive smoothie that'd be equivalent to three large $5 ones in town.  It took me about an hour to finish all three servings.

When I first decided to try vegan, I told myself it was just a trial event.  Yet it has seemed so easy.  When I give something up, like I did regarding meat or sodas, so many decades ago, it just seemed better to completely turn my back on it.  I was never tempted by it anyway.  But cheese?  I dunno.  So far, so good.

Yolie safely navigated our dumb shopping trip.  I found a lacy blouse/shirt/whatever you call it in a decent color on sale.  We were in and out of the store quickly, and back in my gardens where I weeded until I felt I'd recovered from being so brutally exposed to storemagedon.  The blouse is still out in my truck.  Ooops.

I had walked into the fitting room with five shirts and came out with every single one of them hung back up, but inside out.  Doesn't everyone pull their shirt off inside out?  I know I do.  I know you'll be checking yourself next time too.  Think about it.

"Seriously, you couldn't tell me my shirt was on backwards?" I asked Yolie upon leaving the store.  I slipped back in the stupid dressing room to fix it.  Jeepers.  Yolie wisely didn't point out that most women check the mirror first, nor did she note aloud that I often do this.

I rewarded myself for not nutting up in a store with a massive lunch salad I'd picked outside, as usual it was super heavy on the bell peppers, I'd chopped up six very large ones.  I use an equally large bowl, the type that'd normally feed a family of six and I'm not kidding, I eat it all myself, topped with an avocado from the store.

Sarah'd recently learned that olive oil shouldn't be used at high temperatures, like we do for popcorn, so I warily switched to coconut oil, fearing it'd seem sweet, even though Sarah reassured me it'd be great.  And Bingo, so it was.  Lily and I devoured a large bowl before bedtime.  "This is super good," Lily told me.

I had ferried kids all over the place between school letting out and getting to Wednesday night church services, still amazed that I can safely sit through Pastor Tony's teachings without being called upstairs to tend to a raging child.  I remember one night when about six adults, including a man, and I  and were all in the Ladies bathroom with me as TOWMCE had crawled up on top of the stall dividers, screaming irrationally from her perch for over an hour that night.

TOWMCE, The One Who Must Control Everything, called me last night as I was leaving church, it was nice to talk to her, but I quickly remembered all the nights of rages, storms, fits and attacks we'd endured for ten years on a regular basis.  I'm very grateful now that we only have normal teenage rudeness and rebellion, or severely oppositional behavior.

I shudder to remember how impossible it was to keep everyone safe, and if I did succeed in doing so, then there'd be massive property damage instead, which was always preferable.

So then my PTSD kicked in and it took me awhile to calm down within, re-reading Tiffany's post helped me again comprehend the inner rage that children must feel to have been so deeply traumatized at such a very young age.

Even as a Christian, I struggle with the concept of death.  I know about Heaven.  Duh.  But when Moms leave this earth I feel that there's such an insurmountable seeming loss.  Losing Cindy Adams, one who was so capable of parenting challenging children and all their normal needs, just seemed like an extremely vicious blow to her family.  I know God is in charge, I get it on an intellectual level, but my grief clouds my feelings about it all, how much more so for all of her children that she loved so very much?

Even after all they endured before they met her, to then lose her still blows me away.