We drive past a horse farm very often, though. She loves horses. So one day before the holidays I made a phone call, and then I took her out there to watch a lesson as a surprise. I asked her if she wanted to learn. She said yes.

This might be the best idea I’ve ever had in my life.

I’m forty, and until last week I had sat on a horse exactly once. I was ten. It didn’t go well, I never rode, and as I’ve aged I’ve become more leery of heights and aggravating existing aches and pains. The first day I took my kids out there, though, we met an 1100 pound horse named Ginger. My kids had no fear. I thought she was fabulous, and I also thought she was enormous.

Ginger ended up remembering me, but we’ll get to that later.

The instructors at this farm teach the Parelli Method. Essentially what they do is to modify herd behavior for humans (simplifying here totally), and they teach riders to follow the horses’ cues rather than be overly forceful. Not to say that the rider isn’t taking the lead. Not at all. But what they seem to teach is that the rider shows the horse that he or she is someone to be pleased, and only after making sure the horse is totally cool with that idea.

So you have these 1100 pound animals, and you have my, oh, 40 pound daughter. And my daughter doesn’t listen to a dang thing I tell her, because I’m mom and I’m a moron. And now, after five weeks, she climbs out of the car. Her instructor (who is a completely wonderful human being) says to her, “Livvie, I want you to go get Honey and lead her to the hitching post.”

And my tiny girl walks over, takes the lead rope, and tells honey to, “walk on,” and Honey follows her.

My heart has been known to explode in certain situations, but watching my daughter not over-think a damn thing, just do the job without second-guessing herself, I could have died on the spot. The confidence my kid has when she’s out with those horses is something I have never had in any situation. Ever. Not once have I been so sure of myself that I could just walk into a situation without running a thousand scenarios around in my head.

And see, horses know that.

Last week I got back on the horse. Livvie’s instructor gave me Ginger. She asked me to unhitch Ginger and lead her to graze while Livvie had her lesson. I unhitched her. I attempted to lead her.

Ginger basically looked at me like I was a moron and stayed where she was.

I talked to her, and I know she called me an idiot. I could see it. I had the, “carrot stick” in my hand, and I lifted it to show her it was time to move. She ignored me. I gently poked her on the behind with it, and finally she sighed at me and followed me to the grass. I swear this horse had turned down food just to show me how ridiculous I am.

When the time came for my lesson, and I finally had a chance to learn, Ginger decided I was okay and deigned to follow my instructions. When I finally mounted up she behaved like an angel. I already know that the next time I see her I’ll be able to give her what she needs so she feels comfortable following my lead.

And I’m forty.

My daughter is five. Today she rode at a trot for the first time, on a horse named Belle, and the joy I saw on her face was something I will never, ever forget. I’ll also remember how proud she was of scooping horse dooky and dumping it in the muck bucket for the first time. What will shine brightest, though, is the image of those giant mares walking along behind her with no argument. Because she’s got this.

“This” is confidence.

Today I stood next to her, and we groomed Belle together. We chatted about her, about her coloring, about the weather, and there was an easy, relaxed vibe between the two of us as we brushed. She’d curry, and I’d hard brush. Then we went over her with the soft brush until she shone.

I think, now, I know how to connect with her over the years.

He’s part Cherokee. Livvie has it from both of her parents- more from her father. In fact, that Cherokee lineage is how my husband and I are apparently related. Looking over the family tree we got a bit of a shock. Luckily it was well over 100 years ago.

Features are one thing. Features and expressions together are kind of crazy at times. It’s kind of cool, really, to be dark, throw a dark daughter, and then toss out a son who is described as, “white,” by his own sister before she even knows from white, brown, tan…

My son is white. Luckily he’s my mom’s variety, meaning he doesn’t sunburn. I was surprised he did anything this past fall, but lo and behold he’s still got a “tan” neck from the sun he got.

When my son was born, and for awhile, he resembled my daughter. In some ways. People said he looked like me. Maybe. Not quite. As he got older I saw my grandfather and my uncle. Mostly my grandfather. It’s in his expressions, sure, but it’s also in his features. My grandfather is where the Irish comes into the family. It didn’t really ping my brain a bit, until Jonas found his favorite book.

Awhile back my beloved friend sent me a jewel of a book called, Ireland, A Sacred Journey. Turns out it costs like, $80 in hardcover on Amazon now. Too bad my son destroyed it for resale, right?

Not even.

I don’t dump many books anyway. This was a no before he got hold of it. The thing is, he’s been carrying this book around for over a year now. He tore the fly leaf, and he tore a page in the center before he figured out how to turn pages. I removed the dust jacket and stashed it away for him. He flips and turns. Takes the book around the house.

And then sometime, maybe two months ago, he started leaving the book open on a specific page. Pages. 144-145. Part Four: Connacht. A photo of White Horse Hill in Clarinbridge and a photo of The South Cross in Clonmacnoise. If I shut the book he flips until he finds those pages. They stay. He’ll come back and flip, but again he returns to those photos.

He did it again tonight. I’d hidden the book for a week.

Ordinarily I’d just assume he likes the book. Makes sense. But tonight my daughter watched a movie she hasn’t requested in awhile. Tinkerbell and the Lost Treasure. During the credits a song by Méav Ní Mhaolchatha plays. Sometime in November my son started sobbing whenever that song ended. He’d be inconsolable. I finally downloaded it on iTunes so he could listen whenever. One night the week before Christmas I ended up asleep on the floor of his room with that song playing on repeat on my laptop until he fell back asleep.

Tonight he didn’t sob, but he whined when it ended. So I played it for him again. Sat down with him and sang it while we listened together. My voice caught while singing, because, I’m sorry, It’s beautiful, and he was sniffling, and I was sniffling. Song ended, repeat. Sang again. I’m an alto. She’s a soprano. I can sometimes manage it. He didn’t care. He moved his hands in the air, and when it stopped, finally, he motored on into the living room and went back to the book on Ireland.

Correlation, etc.

One of my strongest memories was a desire to see Ireland. I don’t resemble my grandpop a bit. I was still drawn. Hard. I don’t know why. I don’t care. Call it land memory, call it what you will. I only know I NEEDED to go. I also know I need to go back. I think my son needs to go, too.

I’ll take him. I know from experience it never goes away.

I mean, I knew the Internet was full of vitriol on the best day, but really? During a week when some asshat cruise ship captain pretty much yelled, “Everyone for themself!” and the US government was about to finagle a loophole to destroy free speech online and various other horrible things happened on this planet-

Via Foodnetwork.com

Some of the biggest nasty I saw online was directed at a Southern woman who has a cooking show about Southern food.

Really?

Now, I’ve scanned through Paula Deen’s recipes on The Food Network site. Oh sure. A lot of them are rich. Yes, the butter thing.

Has that woman EVER once said that people should be eating those recipes every day?

Let me explain something, if you’re just having a knee-jerk reaction to this story:

The recipes she makes on her show are occasion food. They’re for entertaining. They’re for brunches with friends and family, Sunday dinners, parties. There’s no difference between the stuff she tosses out there and what that Barefoot Contessa person cooks other than region of the country.

Ms. Deen, in my past viewing, has never once told anyone they should eat like this every day. Every meal.

I’ve seen arguments that she should change her dietary habits rather than shill a pharmaceutical, “fix.”

Ever known a diabetic? Or three? Count on your hands. I’ll wait.

I’ve known many a diabetic who’s not been helped by diet and lifestyle alone. I’ve known diabetics who’ve been so careful over every last damn bit of sugar or calorie, and they needed insulin to survive. NEEDED it to survive. Know what?

At least two of them were skinny as hell.

The last I saw online- people were bitching about fake foods. Fake sugar. Fake fats. Chemicals created in labs that do terrible things to the body, as we’ve learned over years of ingesting them.

Ms. Deen cooks real food. Sure, a lot of it is really heavy, but not all of it is.

I never once saw a show of hers that recommended anything manufactured by science over anything manufactured by nature. I’d also be willing to bet that the adoring bite she’d take for the benefit of the cameras was as far as she went for most shows. This woman has given up Sweet Tea, and laugh if you will- but people down here- this is what they drink. When the spewage started the other day I wondered if everyone would be so hard on Anthony Bourdain when he’s finally diagnosed with lung cancer or emphysema. Shilling drugs for COPD.

I’d bet not.

I’d also be willing to bet, whether conscious or not, that if Paula Deen were not a full-figured, Southern woman the pissyness wouldn’t be nearly as rampant.

The Internet, very often, is like a river full of piranha waiting for the next unlucky animal to fall in. Here’s a paraphrased quote from comments on CNN-

“She needs to learn to speak English. I heard her pronounce ‘BREAD’ with at least three syllables.’”

Here’s an actual quote- not edited-

“I never like her, she looks and talks like a trailer thrush.”

Another-

“Is anyone really surprised? I mean, I heard her next episode was on how to deep fry your diabeetus supplies from Liberty Medical into a delicous butter rich paste.”

Really?

I know I said that before, but, really?

Is it because she’s a woman, because she’s an older woman, or because she’s Southern? Because I really don’t think the shit would be hitting the fan so hard if Gordon Ramsay revealed that he’s got an endocrine disorder. Would it?

Know what really burns my butt? The people castigating this woman are always on the search for some novel way to incorporate bacon into something new. The bacon meme. Everyone loves bacon. Put bacon on some tits, and call it good.

Here’s a woman whose shtick is Southern Occasion Food. Didn’t reveal her disease to the gossip-slavering American public for three years.

Because it was really none of our goddamn business.

Look at how fit and trim her sons are. Even though they likely grew up with her televised food, “on occasion.”

Then go see your doctor and have YOUR CBC and endocrine levels checked, and get back to me.

I’m going to keep cooking with real fats and real sugar. Food-food. Sunday breakfasts. Richer foods for special occasions.

And if the shit hits the fan for me, and clean living doesn’t make a damn bit of difference, you can bet your ass I’ll hope science helps me.

And I’ll let everyone know it did.

January 5, 1936- January 15, 1983

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

Man. You wouldn’t even believe what’s what with 2012.

Two things-

1)The Shuttle Program ended this past year. Thank you for waking me up in the middle of the night to watch the first ones go up.

2)I still won’t eat octopus.

Thanks for helping to make me who I am, even in the short time I had you.

Thanks so much.

You’ve stated that only procreative sex is acceptable- within a marriage of course. While I do know that The Church is anti- artificial birth control, some couples actually do have the luxury of regular cycles and using the rhythm method to boink like mad without popping out kids every eleven months. Some of us, though, we don’t. And some of us had difficult pregnancies, health issues, or were so old and feeble that our eggs would probably be cracked in half before a sperm even hit them. Some of us love our partners and are happy without children, for many reasons. Yes, even married people. While I do understand that The Catholic Church views no marriage as valid unless it takes place within The Church, it’s not up to you to make that judgment.

Says so in The Bible.

I was confirmed when I was 13. I’m 40. Twenty-seven years? Yeah, I had to Google the specifics, but-

The Catechism of The Catholic Church states-

III. THE LOVE OF HUSBAND AND WIFE

2360 Sexuality is ordered to the conjugal love of man and woman. In marriage the physical intimacy of the spouses becomes a sign and pledge of spiritual communion. Marriage bonds between baptized persons are sanctified by the sacrament.

2361 ”Sexuality, by means of which man and woman give themselves to one another through the acts which are proper and exclusive to spouses, is not something simply biological, but concerns the innermost being of the human person as such. It is realized in a truly human way only if it is an integral part of the love by which a man and woman commit themselves totally to one another until death.”¹⁴³

 

Tobias got out of bed and said to Sarah, “Sister, get up, and let us pray and implore our Lord that he grant us mercy and safety.” So she got up, and they began to pray and implore that they might be kept safe. Tobias began by saying, “Blessed are you, O God of our fathers. . . . You made Adam, and for him you made his wife Eve as a helper and support. From the two of them the race of mankind has sprung. You said, ‘It is not good that the man should be alone; let us make a helper for him like himself.’ I now am taking this kinswoman of mine, not because of lust, but with sincerity. Grant that she and I may find mercy and that we may grow old together.” And they both said, “Amen, Amen.” Then they went to sleep for the night.¹⁴⁴

2362 ”The acts in marriage by which the intimate and chaste union of the spouses takes place are noble and honorable; the truly human performance of these acts fosters the self-giving they signify and enriches the spouses in joy and gratitude.”¹⁴⁵ Sexuality is a source of joy and pleasure:

 

The Creator himself . . . established that in the [generative] function, spouses should experience pleasure and enjoyment of body and spirit. Therefore, the spouses do nothing evil in seeking this pleasure and enjoyment. They accept what the Creator has intended for them. At the same time, spouses should know how to keep themselves within the limits of just moderation.¹⁴⁶

2363 The spouses’ union achieves the twofold end of marriage: the good of the spouses themselves and the transmission of life. These two meanings or values of marriage cannot be separated without altering the couple’s spiritual life and compromising the goods of marriage and the future of the family.

The conjugal love of man and woman thus stands under the twofold obligation of fidelity and fecundity.

Just a reminder. In case you’ve forgotten. You’re older than I am. Yes, The Church does want everyone to be populating like crazy, but maybe, just MAYBE, this Just God you kneel to is more concerned with the health and happiness of those that are already here?

Maybe.

Having been on the Internet, what there was of it, since the beginning of the 90s, I’m pretty sure there are folks out there today bitching about the cost of the pyrotechnic celebrations in Sydney and all over the world.

I, myself, was watching them and thought, “Holy shit. That cost a fortune.”

Like, yeah, feed a bunch of starving people fortune.

Know what, though? People need these celebrations. Me? I stayed at home with my family, we ate junk food, we set off poppers out back, danced in our pajamas, and sang songs. But I made sure to get on the Internet and show our daughter the way the world sends the old year out with a bang and welcomes the new with an even bigger bang.

It was beautiful. It’s like watching a billion explosive hopes and wishes flashing in the skies. The time zones click forward, and nation after nation takes a foot and steps into the next with moments of joy and glee and big see ya laters to the old. Whether or not the new is better isn’t important right as that clock hits zero. Because it CAN be.

2011 was pretty shitty in a lot of ways- for me and mine- for the world…

So this is what I leave you with as the calendar flips-

See that path? It wasn’t there when we moved in. Over 2011 my kids wore that path into the yard by running and walking from the front yard to the back yard, over and over, on each day it was nice enough to play outdoors. When I was small parents would get ticked at kids doing that type of thing, and I’m sure some still do. But when I look at that path right now I have memories of this past year outdoors. Little moments that trump every damn-big-horrible when you add them together.

My wish for 2012 that I’m sending up with the fireworks is for everyone to have enough little goods to at least balance out the big bads, if not punt them aside.

Have a very Happy New Year.

And go wear yourself a path.

This is probably our last year for this. Your mind is getting ever more analytical, and I just don’t think it’s going to last.

That’s why instead of getting ticked off that you’re not going to sleep tonight I’m remembering every time I come into your room to see you lying there, awake, eyes wide and hands clenched. Waiting. Waiting for Santa.

I didn’t have this. By the time I was your age I’d read in my mother’s PARENTS magazine that Santa was not real. The Christmas Eve that I was five I went to bed sad. It was over. It was over before I was ready for the magic to end.

The magazine cover said, “How I Told My Child There is no Santa Claus.” I could read. I could read a lot. I read it all. My mother came home from work to find me thrusting that magazine at her face and sobbing, “Is this TRUE??!”

She canceled her subscription.

With a nasty letter.

That year, and for several more, my presents had tags that said, “To- Julie Love- Mommy-Santa.”

I am your Santa. So is your dad. We weave this world around you in so many ways right now. We shut off the news when shit gets rough, we halt conversations that you won’t understand yet…

It took so long for you to talk and for you to even get the idea of Santa- the magic, the wonder, the reindeer who can fly- that we’re not ready yet. So this year- this year that you lie in bed, and I walk into your room and tell you Santa won’t come until you’re asleep-

THIS Santa. St. Nick. The Holly King. Keep him as long as you can, but if this is the last-

Santa is not a lie. Santa is in Mommy and Daddy.

My Mommy-Santa is 81 now.

The magic is still there. Because I grabbed it.

Tonight I handed her a library book, one of her favorite books, and told her to look through it as she fell asleep. I told her that reading in bed helps me fall asleep sometimes, and I told her that when she felt sleepy she could either lay the book next to her or put it on the floor next to the bed.

I left the room, and she was asleep within minutes.

I just went in to move the book, and I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t on her bed. It wasn’t on the floor anywhere. Not even under her bed. I stood up and glanced to my left, and I saw it.

My daughter got out of bed, placed the favorite library book carefully on her bookcase, got back in bed, and zonked out.

Print cannot die. Not totally. That’s really all I have to say about that.

Llama Llama Holiday Drama is available at Amazon or in any fine bookstore. A copy you can hold. Maybe even snuggle with.

Go get one.

“Happy,” and, “Content.”

When a person isn’t in a state of being happy, you see, others have a tendency to assume that means they aren’t content.

Trust me, there’s a difference in the two.

Most dictionaries seem to define, “content,” as a feeling of satisfaction. Most seem to define, “happy,” as a feeling akin to joy.

Satisfaction is quiet, you see. Joy is usually, well, loud?

People accuse me of being an unhappy person. At times, sure, I am. I get angry. I get disappointed with situations. I get aggravated by things. I get scared, and I get sad when things aren’t going well for people, including my family.

No matter what, though, when you pare away the emotions of the moment, at my core I have that sense of contentment. Could things be easier? Sure. Could I be happier with more sleep and less stress? Absolutely. Could I do without one damn thing after another befalling the people I care about? Yes.

Thing is- as I get older I’ve learned that most emotions are a flash in the pan- WOOOOO GOLD!!!! if you’re talking about being happy. Anger? Flash in the pan. Sadness can last longer, depending on the cause. Grief, for sure, can last awhile. But…

I wake up in the morning. I have some coffee. I catalog my aches and pains. I have some annoyance at the fact that my back still hurts after years. I take stock of what’s around me. In my case it’s two headstrong, obnoxious, yet fabulous kids. I have a husband. He’s stressed. He’s in pain. He has a job he hates, and it’s probably killing him if he keeps it, but we have food, we have a warm house. He’s great with the kids, and despite the fact that he’ll drop dirty clothes on the floor next to the hamper, he’s great with me. I still have my mother. She’ll be 81 in December. I got to eat excellent stir-fry that I made the other day. My dog loves me. There’s a ring of the phone, and it’s someone I love, and not a, “courtesy call.”

The kids fight. I get angry. I still love them and wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Rich has a bad day and is short with me. Having been that person being short over a bad day many a time, I’m learning to let it go. Even though I’m upset at first.

The dog stole food from the table, but her poop is still normal. The birdseed poop is a different story for a different time.

If being a “happy” person means not acknowledging that some shit actually sucks, well, I prefer to be content.

As the poster says, “Shit Happens.” Good shit, bad shit…

I’ll keep rolling the waves of emotions in the deep sea of contentment. Today I found it in a bright blue sky and deep orange leaves. A smile here. A correctly-pronounced word there. The stubble on my husband’s face.

I am very For*tu*nate. I am very Lucky. I am very Grate*ful.

And I’m very, very content.

We’ll have to see how it goes.

Livvie hasn’t been sleeping well, and with no kids around other than those she sees at the library or on play dates, she’s lonely.

Tonight she told us she needs to sleep, “with people.” She begged to sleep on the sofa. She asked to sleep with me in the guest room. The thing is, when I’ve crashed with her in the guest room or living room she’s just chatted. For HOURS.

She’s exhausted, and she needs sleep. Chatting isn’t going to work.

I put her to bed tonight. She was sad. Verge of tears sad. So as I walked through the house my ( yes, MY) dog was at my heels, and I thought, “Wait.”

My dog is a Catahoula Leopard Dog. They have one owner. They live in a family, and love the family, but they bond to one person most of all, and that person is me. I brought her home from the shelter. I’ve been the human who was always around and upright. I give The Food. No matter where I end up sleeping due to circumstance- be it living room, Jonas’ room, guest room- she sleeps with me. She’s on the floor next to me no matter what. When I walk, she walks. She’s my shadow.

So before her dinner tonight I took her into Livvie’s room, and I told her to stay. She thought it was play time and raced around Livvie’s room. Livvie hadn’t expected me back in. I told her I was going to feed the dog and then bring her back. Which I did.

When I brought her back I also brought a handful of busted up biscuits. I rested them on the coverlet and told Livvie to give them to Ginny. Then I looked at Ginny, and I said-

“Livvie needs you. Tonight she really needs you. I’ll be back later so you can go out, but you need to stay with Livvie for awhile tonight. Can you do that for me without freaking out? She has cookies.”

When I left the room Ginny was gently taking biscuit pieces from my daughter while she lay in bed.

I haven’t heard a single peep.

I’m not stupid enough to think the dog will suddenly transfer her loyalty. That isn’t the point.

The point is-

My daughter needs companionship. Not from me or an annoying little brother. She’s now on her way toward getting that from, well,

The Best Freaking Dog Ever.

Regardless of whether or not she steals food from the table.

Ginny is lying in there on the small rug next to the bed. I’ll let them rest awhile before I take her out to pee. Livvie won’t even wake up. It doesn’t matter. Ginny stayed with her on her way to Dream Town.

And when we come back inside the dog is getting like, five baby carrots.