My Sweet Ginger

Yesterday morning I went to the chicken coop to let the girls out to play and check for eggs. Lemondrop, Clove, and Cinnamon were running around but Ginger was no where to be seen. I opened the nesting area of their house, and my sweetest, friendliest, silliest chicken was slumped over with her eyes closed. My little baby girl was dead.

The day before she died she was slow to come out of her coop and stood around kind of out of it. I didn't pay much attention because I had to get to work and I figured she was just having an off day. Mack said she was standing around shell shocked, but he didn't notice anything in particular when he picked her up. I should've paid more attention. I wish I would've known her funk was something serious. I wish I didn't cry every time I think of her sweet body in my arms, her darling eyes closed, her little neck all floppy, and those perfect yellow feet all stiff. I wish losing her didn't hurt this bad. A couple months ago she had some terrible diarrhea. I was syringe force feeding her probiotic drinks and water every few hours and she seemed to get better. Right after that she started to molt. Her comb never got back to its floppy bologna state, but her new feathers came in and she was so beautifully soft and shiny. The day after Christmas she was downing a leftover relish tray like the Ginger the Binger she is. And now she is gone. Oh, Ginger.

Ginger was my most loving chicken. She'd let me carry her anywhere and would sometimes fall asleep on my lap. She was tolerant of the kids' cuddles. She invited herself to everything I was doing outside, whether it was laundry or cutting wood with a jigsaw. She invited herself inside, too. She didn't care one bit about the chicken hierarchy, eating what she pleased when she wanted and even stealing worms right out of the other girls' mouths and then running away. She was my tiniest puff, and grew up to be my skinniest girl. She ate like a French woman and didn't get fat, which is why she was also called Jean Jae sometimes. She was probably the best Rhode Island Red that ever graced the planet.

 

I am so grateful for the laughs, joy, and love she brought to my dusty old dried up lifeless back yard, and I miss her so much. Sleep good, my sweet Gingie.

Dulywed: Dirty Dozen

Mottinson,

It took 12 years but at long last, we have settled into a fearless crazy disregard for what another human being thinks of us and this is what life looks like now. Typical.

Our days start with a thing you've dubbed the Three C's: coffee, chickens, and computers. I, being the lucky one, enjoy a fourth C in the morning: cleaning. While the coffee brews, I harvest dishes from your various drop off spots and try to keep people from knowing we're slobs. You sometimes flavor the day with such hits as Ra Ra RasPutin and Age of Aquarius played at an excruciating volume for someone who hasn't had coffee. Every now and then you'll come up with an inspired jingle, like that one day when I was having a surge of love for you and rather than return the affection you offered a chorus of "Surgin', surgin'... A Surgency!" At some point (hopefully before noon), we release the chickens into the yard, take a seat at the table you didn't know we needed, and sip coffee while scrolling our screens. Sometimes we go to work, sometimes we go for walks, sometimes we have a cocktail with lunch. In the evening, we eat dinner sent to us by Blue Apron because we've become both lazy and fancy. Then you strap yourself into a device that hangs you by your ankles in an attempt to fix your back while I burrito myself up in a blanket and watch Water Wives, a show the rest of the world knows as Below Deck. At about 11pm, we yell at the Xbox to put it on HLN so we can watch Forensic Files and fall asleep on the couch for an hour.

So, I ask you, how does retirement feel? Pleasantly boring or oppressively empty... I still can't tell.

In between all these typical moments, we've had some pretty extraordinary ones this year. We became international real estate moguls. Your parents moved in next door, which means we get Laila on demand. Bubba, Lee, and Mateo have been next door since they moved in too. Having that scrawny boy run into my arms yelling TITA! and saying Woooowwww when he saw the new bathroom floor tile and giving me a thumbs up for the Thanksgiving food I cooked have been some of the best compliments I've ever gotten. Speaking of Thanksgiving, you should come sometime. Work took you away from that and a bunch of other wonderful stuff this year and DIDN'T YOU GET THE MEMO ABOUT RETIREMENT? You started a private practice and then grew that practice, all while working another full time job. The bathroom was renovated and the floors were refinished. We road tripped through ghost towns and around alpine lakes and to wild hot springs. Then you sold the Miata. Then you sold the boat.

That boat, that sweet Kenutu. Letting go of that boat was heart wrenching. As much as she was a pain in the ass, I loved her more than I even realized. We had some of our worst moments and our best moments on her. She taught me that sometimes it's better to just shut up and do what you're told. She taught you to say you're sorry when you're nasty as a response to being worried. We endured fiberglass torture and neurotoxic fumes in a spirit of can-do that our relationship never knew before. She gave us gratitude for able bodies that can bend in strange ways. She gave us challenges that required us to work together to overcome. She was a gift to our character development and I think she is to be credited with testing our relationship in a really significant way. When Kenutu left our lives she took a piece of us with her, not just a piece of me or a piece of you, but a piece of us. She was something we did together and now what do we have left?

The Files.

I left a little mark on our girl before we let her go.

At this point in our story of togetherness and devotion, the space between us is quietly strained with something. Like white noise, something that's there all the time but you have to tune your ear into it to know it's there. Love persists, I know that, and I trust it will keep us coming back to the same bed every night. But there is also a tinge of disdain, a subtle longing for some greener grass, a curiosity about what we would be as people if we were not caught up in this union. I often feel like a servant and am accused of being dead weight or a slug. You often feel tied down or dismissed and see me as the person clipping your wings so you can't go anywhere.

The reality though, at least as I see it after all these years, is that while we are blaming each other for the absence of imaginary outcomes, we should be appreciating each other for being a constant that allowed us to flourish into the reality we live in now. We've got it good. So incredibly good. Twelfth anniversary silk and linen luxury items good. I want you to know, even though you'll never read this, that my love for you does not require your containment. If you need to do something that puts us on different paths, I will be sad but okay. I will be there when you return or meet you wherever you end up, and I will be happy for and supportive of you along the way. I will miss you, I will feel bewildered and lonely, but I will be okay. I love you, more completely than I've ever loved anyone, by choice. That choice is not always a product of my heart and head being in alignment, but it is the choice I make every time I ask myself if this marriage is worth it. The choice I make is the same one I made a dozen years ago: you.

I came across part of a TED Talk by Esther Perel about desire and monogamy a few years ago while listening to the radio and I instantly loved her perspective on long-term relationships. In the few years since then, I've kept up with some of her stuff, listening to her podcast and reading articles she's in, mostly because she takes these very conflicting and ambivalent feelings I have about "wifing" and simplifies them in the most amazing way. The last, best thing I read was in The New Yorker's "Love is not a permanent state of enthusiasm":

Do you have a working definition of love? 

It’s a verb. That’s the first thing. It’s an active engagement with all kinds of feelings—positive ones and primitive ones and loathsome ones. But it’s a very active verb. And it’s often surprising how it can kind of ebb and flow. It’s like the moon. We think it’s disappeared, and suddenly it shows up again. It’s not a permanent state of enthusiasm...

I think that definition today of love—“you are my everything”—where you really see it, this complete exaltation, is in wedding vows. Have you ever noticed? I mean, it’s, “I will wipe every tear that streams down your face before you even notice it’s going down.” I think a realistic vow is “I will fuck up on a regular basis, and, on occasion, I’ll admit it.”

So Mack, I will fuck up on a regular basis, as I have done for the past 12 years. And, on occasion, I'll admit it. You try the same. We keep doing that, and someday, we may just get to happily ever after.

Spoooooky

Brace yourself. Epic reveal coming.

I love Halloween.

I ended up skipping the party planning this year since I spent all my money in Mexico with Heather, but I couldn't help getting in the spirit. I busted out the jig saw and reimagined some old fence boards that had been lingering in the garage for a year and, behold, the Coronado Cemetery.

Mateo has been staying next door and his regular visits to look at the scary stuff at Tita Amber's house is almost as good as that time he gave me a thumbs up for the pasta I made. He's starting to talk a lot more and, I gotta say, the fact that "Trick or Treat" and "pumpkin" are already in his vocabulary makes me really proud. He also associates knocking on the door with saying Trick or Treat, so his little face peeking in my front door knocking and yelling "Trick or Treat!" on a regular Tuesday is like pure sunshine.

He likes to play baseball with the leg bones.

And collect all the skulls around the house to play with them.

All he needs is a seasonal addiction to Caramel Apple suckers and my legacy will live on in this one.

Galownias Go West

In what is going down as the Best Summer Ever, California got a visit from the Galownias! No easy undertaking loading up three kids and going across two time zones and coordinating a work schedule so that Brother Dave could join in, but Leiah made it happen.

It took two cars to get these people and their things transported from the airport to my mom's house. Luckily Betsy has been in Cali for a long stay and was able to play chauffeur with me while Mom worked. Once we got the transport done, the delightful chaos took over. Chunks played in the sink, Ben ate all the red raspberries, and all was as it should be.

It didn't take too many trips to the roof to look at the ocean before the kids were ready to go swim. We headed down to the beach with about an hour of sunlight left and enjoyed the magic.

Since mom's house is a touch far from mine, I conned Leiah into meeting me for lunch in a town in the middle one day. We went for Ramen, noodles Leiah's children call Momma Noodles. Because it's what Momma cooks them a lot. California's Ramen is a touch different than Momma Noodles, but they didn't seem to mind.

Getting them cultured.

Once David made it to town, we decided to do some tourist things that Leiah, Ben and I had done during a visit 10 years ago. He was about the size of Chunks then, and one of his favorite things was riding bikes on the beach in Venice. We had waaayyy more people than we did then, but we hopped on bikes and dodged scooters and bikes and raced each other to the Santa Monica Pier.

The kids faces tell exactly how much fun they were having. 

We stopped in Santa Monica and the kids ate some food while the adults had some libations. The ride back was much more chill somehow, and Lilly and I kicked everyone's asses!

We also wandered Venice Beach for a bit, strolling the canals and taking in the public art. Lilly stopped at Muscle Beach and put the boys to shame. David climbed a street sign, which was crazy and totally normal at the same time. 

Touring LA with three kids in two cars ain't easy, so we spent the next day at my house in Long Beach. Chunks got to play in a kiddie pool and meet her "Chicken Cousins" as Leiah named them. She was so cute with them. We'd say, "Touch em!" and she'd stretch her hand out really far without moving her bottom half any closer and groan like she was trying so hard to touch them. That kid is something else.

Ben showing Chunks around Mack's piano, something he's been playing with since he was her age.

We also walked up the street to get some legit donuts, one of which was called a margarita donut and had actual tequila in it. It took about 8 hours but nearly every morsel was eventually eaten.

Somehow we managed to squeeze in a trip downtown. We grabbed a bite at Grand Central Market, which was about 1000 degrees inside. Afterward, Mom took the kids to explore and we met Cousin Shannon for a cocktail at Perch, a cool rooftop bar that Betsy discovered with Isaac. 

One thing I really wanted to do was take them to this awesome spot I camped at last month called La Jolla Indian Reservation Campground. The logistics of camping -- tents, air mattresses, transporting all of us and kids -- became a bit much so Leiah and I decided to make a day trip of it instead. Ben was feeling sick and Betsy had to cancel, so we left them at home and took the car-sick prone caravan on some windy roads to the woods. I showed Lilly how to tube the little river there, which was pretty low but still fun to wade in and explore, and Leiah taught her how to slide down rocks. We roasted hot dogs and S'mores before deflating our tubes and heading for home. I really wished we were camping there after we got there, so Leiah and I put it on the list of things to do next time.

Leiah had really wanted to go sailing, but it's not all that relaxing with kids on board. Betsy said she'd stay with them for a couple hours so Mack could take us out, and it was such a treat. The kids got to craft with their aunt Bebe, Leiah was a riot finding her sea legs, and she and David were something out of a book about lovers with their little poses. 

After the sail, we relieved Betsy of the hot house (we desperately needed an air conditioner this summer) and took the kids to the boardwalk to play games. Lilly won enough tickets for a ring. Ben won enough to go to college. Chunks learned how to use her small stature to assist so we didn't have to use tokens to play the basketball game.

After a busy couple days of adventuring, Ben taught Chunks how to relax, just like Uncle Mack taught him a decade ago. Chunks got the hang of it real quick.

Since Mom's house is closer to the airport than mine, the Galownia finished up their westward voyage back on the beach. Betsy and I took the kids down early, and they did all the awesome things kids do. They buried each other in sand. They gave up on the boogie board and called it dumb until their awesome Auntie Am showed them how it works. They ate popsicles from the beach vendor in the sloppiest way possible. They somehow elevated the beauty of a place beyond comprehension with their very presence.

I love these things so much. And it's not even about all the wonderful things we did together. It just about the being together. All this joy happens on accident, without planning, often when we're just doing the stupidest waste of time things. Like Snapchat. Lilly was Snapchatting her cousins or friend or something and we did a face swap. For two hours we all face swapped, which caused us to laugh our faces right off. This is why when they leave me, my heart starts to drain. Thank god I've already got my next trip home planned.